Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Splayed feet pounded on the stairs. Lyall heard their raucous voices and smelled their rank stench. His bodyguard suggested bolting the door, stacking furniture in front of it, but that wouldn’t stop the monsters for long. Gripping his sword, Lyall advanced to meet the enemy.

  He was a peasant. He had no honor to lose. This day, he had honor to gain.

  Terror stole Jessan’s breath away. His hands lost all feeling, went numb. Tremors shook his body, his mouth dried, his tongue felt swollen. The Vrykyl of Jessan’s nightmares walked toward him, his black-armored hand extended.

  “The Stone,” said a voice that splintered inside Jessan, sent shards of pain shooting through him. “I know you have it. I will find it if I have to sift through your living brain until you reveal it to me.”

  Jessan could have told the truth, that he didn’t have the Stone, that Bashae carried it. He would never do so. Fear gnawed his bones, but it couldn’t consume his heart. For generations, the Trevenici have watched over the pecwae, the small, gentle people who rely on the stronger humans. It was then, in that moment of terror, that Jessan’s true name came to him. He might never have the chance to speak that name aloud, nor hear others do so. No one would ever know it. No one but him. At least he would die having achieved his name.

  Defender.

  Gripping the blood knife, Jessan gave a ragged cry and lunged at his foe. He attacked in cold blood. He had no thought of defeating the evil being. A knife made of bone could not penetrate armor made of metal. He hoped to goad the Vrykyl into slaying him quickly so that he could never be made to betray those who looked to him for protection.

  Expecting the blade to shatter when it struck the Vrykyl’s breast plate, Jessan was astonished past belief to feel the blade slide through the black metal. The Vrykyl flinched beneath Jessan’s hand, as if the blade had pierced warm flesh.

  Shakur felt pain, physical pain. Two hundred years ago, Dagnarus’s hand wielding the Dagger of the Vrykyl struck Shakur in the back. He’d felt pain, tortured, searing agony that was unendurable. He’d been glad to die then, only to find that death’s sweet oblivion had been denied him. The pain of that knowledge had been greater agony than the pain of the Dagger and now he felt the same. The bone knife struck to the core of Shakur’s being. Acting as a lightning rod, the Void magic of the knife began to dissipate the Void magic that held together Shakur’s existence.

  A voice within him whispered to Shakur to let the knife drain him of the magic, to flow with it into the quiet darkness. A roar of fury drowned out the whisper. This boy, this mortal, this human insect had dared defy Shakur, had dared to try to destroy him.

  The bone knife remained embedded in Shakur’s chest. Jessan clutched the hilt, tried to drive it deeper. Shakur wrapped his hand around Jessan’s, held him fast. With an immense effort of will, Shakur managed to turn the flow of Void magic, so that it no longer drained him.

  The magic sought to drain Jessan.

  Jessan screamed and writhed. He felt his life seeping away from him and struggled frantically to let go of the knife. Shakur held him fast in a bone-crushing grip.

  Pain burned through Shakur’s arm. He had forgotten the other warriors. Glowering around, he saw another human attacking him, a Nimorean, who wielded a slender curved blade that gleamed with a burning light. Only a blade blessed by the gods can do damage to a Vrykyl and this was such a blade. The Nimorean struck again, trying to force Shakur to release his hold on the young man.

  Shakur ignored it. The pain was as a bee sting to him. Then he felt another blow, this one in his back and this time the pain was far worse. Grunting, still keeping his hold on Jessan, Shakur swung around.

  The cursed Dominion Lord. He hadn’t had time to properly finish her. He would destroy the young human, suck out his soul as a cat sucks a baby’s breath, then he would deal with the rest.

  The Dominion Lord struck him again. Shakur gasped and shuddered, but he held fast to Jessan. He was about to kill the Dominion Lord, blast her into obliteration, when a wind gust powerful as the sirocco hit Shakur, struck him with the force of a mailed fist. Seven of the Wyred advanced on him, their hands locked together, their eyes glittering inside the black markings of the tattoos. He felt their magic, felt the fury of the gods pent up, an indrawn breath, eager for release, eager to destroy him.

  In his human form, Shakur had always known when to give in to superior odds, when to desert the battle, when to surrender in order to be able to continue the fight another day. He released the young Trevenici. Jessan fell to the ground. Shakur hoped he wasn’t dead. Plucking the bone knife from his chest, Shakur tossed it contemptuously on the limp body of the young man.

  “The curse stays with you,” Shakur said. “As do I.”

  Invoking his power, the Vrykyl became one with the Void. He was nothing. He was empty. A shadow had more substance than Shakur. He vanished.

  Damra killed the remaining human mercenary. Arim bent over Jessan, felt for a pulse. The Wyred ceased their spell-casting.

  “Search for the Void creature,” said their leader.

  Two departed. The leader sent the others back to the Portal, while she looked in the direction of the Outer Ring. The sounds of battle came from all around them—the thunk of rocks flung from mangonels striking the towers, the screams of the wounded and dying, the strange howling of the monstrous enemy.

  The Wyred turned to Damra.

  “Dominion Lord, the Vrykyl came for you. We have to wonder why.”

  “Are the pecwae safe?” Damra asked, avoiding the question. She was exhausted, drained. The horror of her encounter left her shaken, barely able to think. Yet, she had to remain focused. She had to concentrate, determine her next move.

  “They are safe,” said the Wyred, and she eyed Damra intently. “For the time being, at least.” Her gaze went to the Outer Ring, returned again to Damra. “You travel in strange company, Dominion Lord.”

  “With whom I travel is my business, not yours,” Damra said, wearily sheathing her sword.

  She did not think Bashae would reveal his secret to the Wyred, for they must have surely questioned the pecwae, but she could not be sure. The Wyred could be daunting, when they chose. Glad to have an excuse to avoid talking to the Wyred, she knelt down beside Jessan. Her action was rude, but then one could be rude to the Wyred. They were used to it.

  “How is the young man?” Damra asked Arim. “I fear he has taken mortal harm.”

  “His pulse was weak at first, but it grows stronger. He’s a tough one, this Trevenici. Some bones in his hand are broken, and he has lost blood from these cuts, but he will live.”

  Jessan stirred, his eyelids fluttered, then flared open. Giving a hollow cry of terror, he sat bolt upright, clutched at Arim’s throat.

  “Your foe is gone,” Arim said, taking hold of Jessan by the shoulders and giving him a shake to bring him to his senses.

  Jessan gasped in pain. Drawing back his injured hand, he cradled it in his arm. He looked around, shuddering. “What happened? Where did he go?”

  “Back to the darkness that spawned him,” Damra said. “That was a brave act, young man. I have never seen one so brave. Or so foolish.” She smiled, to take the sting from her words. “He very nearly killed me. You saved my life.”

  Jessan flushed with pleasure at her praise, but he was bound to be honest. A true warrior knows his own worth, has no need to lie. “I wasn’t brave. I was…” Jessan thought back, shivered at the memory. “I don’t know what I was. I couldn’t let him hurt Bashae. Where are they? The Grandmother and Bashae. Are they all right?”

  Damra glanced obliquely at the Wyred, who undoubtedly had her ears stretched to hear every word.

  “They’re safe. They’re waiting for us in the garden. Can you walk? If we stay much longer we’re liable to find ourselves in the middle of a war. Once we reach the other side of the Portal, we’ll have time to tend to your wounds. Both of you,” she added, as Arim wrapped a strip of cloth torn from his shirt around a b
loody gash on his upper arm.

  “I can walk,” Jessan stated as he would have stated if he’d had both legs hacked off.

  He rose to his feet, wobbling slightly, but able to move under his own power.

  “Here are our passes,” Damra said, showing them to the Wyred. “We expect to enter the Portal without difficulty. Thank you for your help against the Vrykyl,” she added grudgingly. She did not like to be beholden to House Wyval in anything.

  Bowing to the Wyred, Damra started off at a moderate pace, keeping an anxious watch on Jessan. Shaking off his own horror of his encounter with the Vrykyl, he grew stronger with every step he took and Damra started to think that they might escape safely yet, when, to her ire, the Wyred began to walk alongside her.

  “We don’t want to take you from your duties,” Damra said.

  “Our defenses are in place,” the Wyred replied. “We have done all we can. There are thousands of those creatures, all of them adept in the use of Void magic. We did not expect that.”

  “The Shield didn’t think to mention it to you?” Damra retorted. “I can’t imagine why.”

  As they entered the garden, Bashae came hurrying to Jessan.

  “Are you hurt?” Bashae asked anxiously. “Here, let me see.”

  He took hold of Jessan’s injured hand, examined it.

  “That’s my sword hand,” said Jessan, clearly worried. “Can you heal it?”

  “We have no time for healing,” Arim said sternly. “We keep moving. Time for that later.”

  Bashae ignored him, continued to examine Jessan’s hand. “Yes,” he said, after a moment, “but not all at once and not here.” He looked up. “Arim’s right. We should go someplace quiet.”

  The Wyred turned to confront Damra, stood blocking her path.

  “I could stop you from entering,” said the Wyred.

  “You could try,” said Damra. “And what good will a battle between the two of us accomplish, except to give our enemies a belly laugh.”

  “The Portal is about to be overrun. You are a Dominion Lord. Your sword and your magic could be of help to us. If the Portal falls, the elven nation will be at risk.”

  “The Shield should have thought about that before he withdrew the Portal’s defenders,” Damra said sharply. “Do you really think he knew nothing about this army? Are you that gullible? Of course, he knew. He’s made some deal with these humans. He’s giving them what amounts to safe passage through the elven Portal, passage paid for with elven blood.”

  “The Shield is wise—” The Wyred began the old litany and then she stopped, fell silent.

  Damra pitied the woman. She and the rest were the innocent victims of their master’s perfidy, and perhaps they were just starting to figure that out.

  “I would help you if I could,” Damra said, her voice softening. “Despite the fact that your people were involved in the abduction of my husband.” Seeing the Wyred’s eyes flicker, she knew she’d struck the black center of the target. “But I have my own battle to fight, my own war to wage.”

  “Against the Shield,” said the Wyred coldly.

  “No,” said Damra. She pointed back into the courtyard. “Against that Vrykyl, against creatures of the Void like that. They are the true enemy. Someday, the ancestors willing, we will all of us understand that and stop making war against each other.”

  “You live in a very pretty world, Dominion Lord,” the Wyred said. “I wonder for how long.”

  Turning in anger, she stalked away.

  “I wonder that myself,” Damra admitted somberly. “Not long if we stay here. That can wait,” she said firmly, jostling the Grandmother, who was knee deep in some sort of pecwae ritual, to judge by the screeching. They ran for the Portal, an oval of shimmering gray against a backdrop of trees and flowering bushes. They had almost reached it when they heard the howling sounds behind them grow in intensity and volume. Damra glanced over her shoulder. Hordes of taan ran across the courtyard, coming straight for them.

  “Hurry!” she gasped. “The Vrykyl has sent them after us—”

  A violent blast of wind tore the words from her mouth. The trees around the Portal dissolved, the flowers vanished. The gust was so strong that it knocked the pecwae off their feet. Bashae slammed into Jessan. Arim grabbed the Grandmother as she went flying past him, held fast to her while the wind threatened to tear her from his grasp.

  The sky took on an eerie orange tinge. The garden disappeared and they stood in a desert landscape. Sand swirled around them, stinging their flesh and gumming their eyes, choking them. The magical helm of the Dominion Lord covered Damra’s face, protected her from the worst of the sandstorm.

  Jessan was bowed almost double. His long hair streamed behind him. He gripped Bashae with one hand, covered his eyes with the other. Buffeted by the wind, Arim held onto the Grandmother, who had wrapped herself around him like a scarf around a tree trunk. He shouted something at Damra, but she couldn’t hear a word over the blasting wind.

  “Lock hands!” she cried.

  They couldn’t hear her, but they could see her. The magical armor gleamed silver amidst the strange gray-orange darkness. Jessan grunted in pain as Bashae grabbed his broken hand, but he kept his hold. Linked together, they staggered toward the Portal. Damra was the only one who could see it. The rest could not lift their heads, but stumbled after her like a group of blind beggars.

  Swirling sand obscured Damra’s view, left her nearly as blind as the rest. She kept to her course, fixed her eyes on the location where she’d last seen the Portal. She watched for some sign of it, her eyes watering with the strain. Fear grew in her that they had missed it, that they wandered aimlessly.

  She kept going in the direction she’d last seen the Portal, though the swirling sand soon had her dizzy and confused. Her strength started to wane. Those clinging to her were a dead weight. Grimly, she forged ahead. She thought she caught a glimpse of the Portal, a flash of gray, and the next moment, the winds parted the sand. The Portal appeared, right in front of them. With a sigh of relief, she plunged inside, half carried, half dragged the others with her.

  The Portal’s quiet enveloped them, blotted out the sounds of whipping wind and the eerie shriek made by the blasting sand. By mutual, unspoken consent, they halted just inside. Tears streamed down Bashae’s grimy cheeks. He coughed and spluttered, but he held fast to the knapsack. Arim blinked his eyes and tried to free himself of the Grandmother’s clutching hands. Her eyes were squinched tightly shut, she refused to open them. Jessan spit sand and looked ruefully at his bare arms, bleeding from a myriad tiny cuts, as if he’d been rubbed all over with salt. His hand was swollen, the fingers bent at odd angles.

  “How long can the Wyred keep that up?” Arim asked, his voice rasping, his throat raw. He finally managed to pry loose the Grandmother’s fingers.

  “Depends on how many are spell-casting,” Damra replied. “Several hours, perhaps. Not much longer.”

  “Still, that gives you time to reach the other side safely,” said Arim.

  “Yes, but we should not—” Damra stopped speaking. She’d just realized what he’d said.

  Tearing a long strip of cloth from his shirt, Arim wound it around his nose and mouth.

  “Arim, you can’t go back out there,” Damra said, appalled. “You heard the Wyred. There are thousands of those monsters—”

  Arim’s eyes gleamed. “I’m not a fool, Damra,” he said, his voice muffled. “I don’t plan to fight unless I have to. I’ll slip away in the confusion, return to my home. I must bring word of this to my Queen. This war is not just among the elves.”

  “Arim,” said Damra softly, shifting to elven, “you cannot do this. You will be throwing away your life. You cannot hope to win through—”

  “I must try, Damra,” said Arim quietly. “I must try. Give Griffith my warmest affection. The Mother and Father guard you.”

  “Arim,” she began, but saw that arguing would be useless. She clasped her friend’s hands, gave him
a kiss on both cheeks. “The ancestors watch over you, Arim.”

  He turned to Jessan, whose face was gray with pain, and the two pecwae, who were staring at him in dismay.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the Grandmother demanded.

  “Back to my homeland,” Arim said. “Someday, you will go back safely to yours. That is my dearest wish for each of you. Jessan, you are a valiant warrior. More than that, you have taught me the wisdom of the gods. If I had followed the thinking of my head and sent you and the blood knife away, we would all be dead now.”

  “I count you my friend. If you come to Trevenici lands,” said Jessan, “you will be an honored guest in my house.”

  Arim bowed, touched. The gift of his friendship is the greatest gift a Trevenici has to bestow. Arim turned to Bashae.

  “The gods chose well. You have proven a brave and true bearer.”

  “Thank you, Arim,” said Bashae. That seemed so inadequate, but he didn’t know what else to say. Certainly not the words in his heart, that were words of tears and ill omen.

  “Take this, if you’re set on going,” said the Grandmother. Rummaging around in the pack that hung from the agate-eyed stick, she drew forth a turquoise.

  “But that’s one of your protection stones,” Arim protested. “I couldn’t take that.”

  “Twenty-seven, twenty-six, what’s the difference?” the Grandmother said, pressing it into Arim’s hand and folding his fingers around it. “You’re going to need it more than I will.”

  Arim touched the stone reverently to his lips, clasped it tightly in his hand. “May the gods walk at your side with their arms around you.”

  Drawing his sword, he gave them a graceful wave and, before any of them could say another word, he ran back out of the Portal. He was immediately lost to sight in the shifting sands.

  “What will happen to him?” Bashae asked. He stared intently out the Portal, hoping to catch a final glimpse of his friend.

  When Damra failed to respond, Bashae looked directly at her. “He’s going to die, isn’t he? He doesn’t have a chance. They’ll catch him and kill him.”