Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Ranessa followed after him, holding onto the horses. At least, after all these weeks together, he had finally taught her how to ride so that she wasn’t an embarrassment to him. The horses had come to tolerate her, if they didn’t much like her. She had spent the last half-hour complaining loudly and bitterly about this aimless wandering and Wolfram, already on edge, was seriously considering braining her with a tree branch, when he lost his footing and fell flat on his face in a mud puddle.

  Laughter rang out from behind him. This was the first occasion on which Wolfram had ever heard Ranessa laugh and at any other time he would have said she had agreeable laughter, deep and throaty. This time, since the laughter was at his expense, it only increased his ire. Lifting his head, he was about to wither Ranessa with a scathing comment, when he saw the entrance to the Portal right in front of him.

  No one had used it in a long while, seemingly, for the entrance was so overgrown with brush and scrub trees that if he hadn’t fallen on its doorstoop, so to speak, he might have never found it.

  Wolfram clambered to his feet, wiped mud from his face.

  “Bring the horses,” he ordered. He’d spotted a nearby stream.

  “Where now?” Ranessa demanded.

  “I’m going to have a bath. And it wouldn’t hurt you to have one either. You stink.”

  “So do the horses and you don’t make them take a bath.”

  “That’s different,” said Wolfram. “That’s a horsey smell. A good smell. You smell of…of…” He couldn’t think what she smelled like. The smell wasn’t unpleasant, not like some humans. It was unsettling. “Smoke,” he said at last. “You smell of smoke.”

  She laughed again, but now her laughter was scoffing. “Next time we build a fire we should be certain to first wash the wood.”

  “Why won’t you take a bath?” Wolfram demanded, rounding on her.

  She glowered at him, then said in a low voice, “There is an ugly mark on my body. When I was little, the others pointed at it and shamed me. They said the mark was the gods’ curse. Since then—But why do I bother? You wouldn’t understand.”

  About shame and the gods’ curse? “Oddly enough, Girl,” said Wolfram gruffly, “I think I do. Bring the horses. They could use the water.”

  “Then we will look for the Portal,” she said.

  “Oh, that,” said Wolfram nonchalantly. “I found it already. Back there.” He waved his hand.

  Ranessa stared at him, too stunned to speak.

  Wolfram was pleased with himself. He’d finally gotten in the last word.

  The journey through the Portal took some time, for it was a long one. Ranessa disliked the trip, but she kept quiet and did not complain. The magical Portals that cut through space and time are not threatening in appearance. Designed by the magi of Old Vinnengael, the Portals were built for travelers, for King Tamaros believed that knowledge of mankind was the most certain way to obtain peace. The Portal has a gray floor, with smooth gray sides and gray ceiling. The horses were not fearful, but plodded through the Portal as contently as if they were in their own pasture.

  Ranessa didn’t like it. The gray walls closed in on her. The ceiling pressed down on her. She felt squeezed. The other Portals had been short, she could see daylight at both ends and that had helped her through them. But in this one, she lost sight of daylight behind her and she could see nothing ahead but gray.

  There wasn’t enough air and she began to gasp and pant. Sweat beaded on her forehead and ran down her neck. Her stomach clenched, she thought she might be sick. She had to get out of this horrible place or it was going to collapse down around her and smother her.

  Ranessa broke into a run. Wolfram shouted after her—something about being careful at the other end, for she never knew what might be out there—but she ignored him. She would gladly face even that evil black-armored thing than stay in this Portal another second.

  Ranessa rushed out the end of the Portal and straight into darkness. It had been mid afternoon when they entered and now it was night. She looked up to see the vast dome of heaven over her, myriad stars shining brilliantly. The cool air of the waning summer eased her fever, she sucked vast quantities into her lungs. Ranessa had the impulse to fly, to lift into that star-dazzled sky and let the wind carry her up above the trees.

  So strong was this impulse that she longed with all her soul to fulfill it. The realization that she couldn’t wounded her to the heart. Devastated, she crumpled to the ground and wept out of frustration and the terrible pain of hopeless longing.

  Finally emerging from the Portal, leading the horses, Wolfram looked about and could not find her.

  “Where’s that blasted girl got to now?” he demanded.

  The horses had no answer and didn’t much care. Weary, they wanted food and water and a rub down. Muttering curses, Wolfram led them to a stream, where one of the horses shied and jumped nimbly over something on the ground.

  Looking down, Wolfram saw Ranessa. She lay huddled beneath a large tree, her body hidden by night’s heavy shadows.

  Fear compressed Wolfram’s heart. Releasing the horses, he bent swiftly over her. He let out a deep sigh when he felt her heart beating strong and sure beneath his fingers. She was not dead. She was asleep. Brushing her hair gently from her face, he could see starlight glisten on the tears that were still wet on her cheeks.

  “Girl, girl,” he said to her softly. “What a trial you are. But the Wolf take me if I haven’t come to care about you. I don’t know why.”

  Wolfram sat himself down beside her. “I never cared for anyone before. Why should I? No one ever cared for me. Then the day comes when that black fiend attacks me and you run to save me. What a sight you were, Girl. Waving your sword about. Running to save Old Wolfram. As if I was worth the saving.”

  The dwarf sighed, shook his head. “What the monks want with you or you with them is beyond me. I guess we’ll find out soon enough, for we’re almost at our journey’s end.”

  He fed and watered the horses and rubbed them down. He fed and watered himself, all the while keeping close watch on Ranessa, who slept through everything. He did not build a fire, for he was uneasy. He sat awake all night, keeping watch, waiting for the dawn.

  Ranessa awoke and at first couldn’t remember where she was. She looked around, puzzled. The sky was light. The tops of the trees were in sunlight, the trunks in shadow. Disoriented, she sat up and then she heard, close by, a rumbling snore. Wolfram had fallen asleep sitting up. Propped against a tree, he slumbered soundly with his chin on his chest.

  Ranessa grimaced. He’d have a stiff neck this morning and he’d complain about it all day long. She wondered guiltily if he’d tried to wake her in the night for her turn at watch and then decided that if he had and he couldn’t that was his fault, not hers. She was about to wake him, just for the pleasure of hearing him grouse and grumble, when a flash of light caught her eye.

  Ranessa turned to the east. The sun rose from behind a jagged peak, silhouetted against the dawn of a purple and gilt-edged sky.

  Dragon Mountain.

  The trail that led up Dragon Mountain was little more than a donkey path. Twisting and turning, the trail meandered around enormous red-rock boulders, twined along ridges and crawled around scraggly fir trees. Climbing it could take days. The Omarah, a tribe of humans who worship the monks and serve them, built small warming huts along the route for the comfort and protection of those travelers who find themselves benighted on the mountainside. The huts are simple structures, similar to those in which the Omarah live, and are always stocked with firewood.

  Wolfram was familiar with this trail; he’d climbed it many times, and the journey usually took him three days on foot. Since horses do not fare well on the steep mountain trail, an enterprising group of Vinneng-aeleans had established a small town at the base of the mountain, where they offered to board horses for those making the climb and rented out mules and donkeys. Wolfram boarded the horses with the Vinneng-aeleans (although he
considered the price they charged exorbitant), but he scorned to ride a donkey. Dwarves consider the donkey a horse-gone-wrong, use them only for hauling. Wolfram always made the climb on foot, taking his time. He had favorite huts along the route where he liked to spend the nights.

  Ranessa, of course, turned his plans upside-down. If she’d had wings, she could not have reached the top fast enough to suit her. As it was, forced to rely on feet, she started up the mountain at a speed that soon had the dwarf huffing and gasping. She glowered whenever Wolfram stopped for breath and paced about in a fume of impatience, demanding every thirty seconds to know if he was ready to go yet or if he had taken root.

  “The monastery has been there for centuries, Girl,” the dwarf protested. “It’s not going to sail off in the next high wind.”

  She refused to listen, but hustled him and badgered him so that he never knew a moment’s peace. At one point, they passed some fellow travelers—a group of scholars from Krammes returning from a meeting with the monks. There is an unofficial custom on the mountain that groups who meet on the trail always stop to exchange pleasantries and the news of the world. These humans were extremely interested to hear that Wolfram and Ranessa came from the west. Was the rumor of war in Dunkarga true?

  Wolfram would have dearly loved to have had a bit of a chat, but when he told Ranessa that he was going to visit with these fine people, she flew into a rage. Her angry shouts rebounded off the side of the mountain and her wild-eyed look caused the Krammerians to hastily change their minds and continue their journey. Wolfram regretted every kind thought he’d had toward Ranessa the night before.

  The sun was dipping into the west when they reached the first of his favorite warming huts. Wolfram announced that they would be spending the night here. Ranessa was appalled and insisted that there were many more hours of daylight left. Wolfram was firm, however, for the next hut was half-a-day’s journey farther up the mountain and he had no intention of getting caught on the slopes after dark. Exasperated, he told her she could keep climbing if she wanted. Ranessa looked for a moment as if she would, but then either she saw the wisdom of the dwarf’s decision or she was more tired than she would admit. She hurled herself into the hut and plopped down on the floor, where she sulked for the remainder of the night.

  At least when she sulked she was quiet. Wolfram considered this a blessing. Pleased with his victory, he prepared for sleep. He didn’t bother to keep watch, for the trail was guarded by the Omarah. The dwarf fell asleep at once, which was good, for Ranessa had him up twice during the night, trying to convince him that it was dawn and time to start.

  After another day traveling with Ranessa up the mountain, Wolfram decided that anything—even falling off the mountain—would be preferable to spending a single second longer with her. To her great joy, he agreed to continue their climb well past sunset. Fortunately, they happened to run into one of the Omarah, who walk the trail at all hours of the day and night. Taking the Omarah aside, Wolfram showed the woman his bracelet and said that he was on a mission of the utmost urgency and needed her help. She agreed to guide them the rest of the way.

  The tallest humans on Loerem, the Omarah average seven feet in height and some may be taller. They are a silent, impassive people, who speak only when they have something to say and then they say it in the fewest possible words. Omarah are studiously polite, but are not given to casual conversation or idle chit-chat. They answer questions with a nod or a shake of the head and if the question cannot be answered like that, they don’t answer it. No one knows much about them, for they never speak of themselves to any outsider. So far as anyone can tell, the only place that the Omarah have ever been seen is on Dragon Mountain. If they exist anywhere else in the world, no one knows of it.

  The Omarah woman walked ahead of them. She wore leather armor and a fur cape and carried a gigantic spear that doubled as a walking stick. The climb proved to be relatively easy, for the air was clear as finest crystal and the stars so numerous that the sky seemed to be crusted with them. Topping a rise, the Omarah silently pointed.

  A building, aglow with light, stood in front of them.

  “Is that it?” Ranessa asked in hushed tones.

  “That’s it,” said Wolfram, who was never more thankful to see any place in his entire life. “The monastery of the monks of the Five Dragons.”

  He thanked the Omarah, who refused to accept any payment, but turned in silence and stalked back down the path. Wolfram headed for the monastery, hot food, cold ale and a comfortable bed. He had walked a good many paces when he realized he was walking alone. Turning, astonished, he looked back to see Ranessa standing where he’d left her, staring.

  “Are you coming?” he demanded.

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “What?” Wolfram roared. “After all your hustle and hurry that half killed me on that blasted trail now you’re not coming?”

  He stumped back toward her, so furious he could barely see straight.

  “I’m afraid,” she said, her voice quivering.

  “Afraid!” He snorted.

  Grabbing hold of her, planning to drag her if necessary, he was startled to feel her hand as cold as the hand of a corpse and that she was literally shaking with fear.

  “What’s there to be afraid of?” he asked, bewildered. “You wanted to come here. You’ve talked of nothing else for all summer!”

  “I know,” Ranessa whimpered. “I want to be here and I don’t. I can’t explain it. I don’t understand. I…I think maybe I’ll go back down the mountain.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” said Wolfram. The bracelet on his wrist was warming rapidly, but he had no need for its reminder. “We’re going inside to find a bed and a meal. If you want to leave in the morning, that’s your look-out.” He glared at her. “Are you coming or must I carry you?”

  “I’ll…I’ll come,” she said meekly.

  Meek! He never thought he’d see the day. Not trusting her, he kept a firm grip on her hand and led her to the monastery. She clung to him like a frightened child. Glancing at her as they entered the light, he was alarmed to see how pale she’d grown.

  “Is it what I told you about the monks, Girl? Is that what’s scaring you? It’s possible I may have exaggerated. The monks are very kind. They wouldn’t hurt a flea. You’re a bit strange, Girl, but they’re used to strange people. They see all kinds here. They’ll make you feel welcome.”

  Ranessa paid no attention to his words of comfort. She stared at the monastery, her eyes so wide that he could see the immense granite structure with its many windows reflected in the dark pupils.

  Unable to fathom what was wrong, keeping hold of her, lest she flee into the night, Wolfram brought her to a long wide porch and climbed the stairs to the entrance.

  No guard stood at the door, for there was no door. No porter was present to answer a stranger’s knock. Those who come to the monastery are not considered strangers. The windows have no bars or panes of glass, but freely admit the sunlight and the night, the wind and the water. Entering through the archway, Wolfram led Ranessa into the huge common room. An enormous fire pit stood in the center. Every day, the Omarah carried in huge logs for the fire pit. A fire always burned, even in summer, for the air was cool on the mountaintop. The monks kept refreshments for their guests. In the center of the room was a large wooden table spread with plain but nourishing food—bread and cheese and nuts, large jars of cold ale, a cauldron of steaming mulled wine.

  Sleeping arrangements were simple. All who come to the monastery, from crowned king to rustic woodsman, were given a rush mat and a wool blanket and a space on the stone floor near the fire. In vain the important Karnuan general argued that he must have his own sleeping quarters. In vain the Vinnengaelean merchant offered silver argents for a room. Merchant and general ended up on the floor, along with everyone else. The rooms were for the monks, whose studies must not, on any account, be disturbed.

  Once they were inside the monastery, Wolfram
was relieved to see Ranessa relax. He stowed her near the fire with orders to warm herself, went to fetch her a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, fussing over her as if she were his only begotten daughter about to be married on the morrow. He ladled out a mug of the steaming wine and persuaded her to drink a sip. The wine restored some color to her cheeks. She stopped shivering, but she could not eat. Fortunately, there were no other visitors. He and Ranessa had the huge room to themselves.

  After drinking the wine, Ranessa lay down upon the mat and closed her eyes.

  Wolfram waited to make certain she was asleep, then he departed to the meeting room, there to make his report and to hand over the silver box that belonged to Lord Gustav, the Whoreson Knight.

  Although the hour was extremely late, acolytes and several monks were still awake, studying and transcribing, listening to questions, providing information. An acolyte, smiling, came to greet him. Wolfram gave his name, showed the bracelet, and was about to say that he needed to speak to one of the monks on a matter of urgency, when the acolyte interrupted him.

  “We have been awaiting you, Wolfram the Unhorsed,” he said pleasantly. “Fire left word that you were to be sent to her immediately upon your arrival.”

  “Fire!” Wolfram grunted. “Well, well.”

  Five monks head the Order of the Keepers of Time, one monk for each element and one for the Void. The Heads of the Order are known by the name of that element, not by any name of their own, presuming they ever had names.

  Each monk represents the race most identified with a particular element. Thus Fire is a dwarf, Air an elf, Earth a human, and Water an ork. No one knows to what race the monk of the Void belongs, for on those rare occasions when that monk makes an appearance in the monastery, it is hooded and cloaked in black that covers every portion of its body. Even the hands are wrapped in black cloth.

  Few visitors to the mountain ever see the five monks that are the Heads of the Order, for they keep to themselves, rarely deigning to speak to the many visitors who come in search of advice or answers to questions. Wolfram had never seen the Heads of the Order and had not expected to see them this time. He was surprised, but, after a moment’s reflection, decided that he shouldn’t be.