Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  While the aide was gone, Shadamehr exchanged gossip with the guards. The elves stood aloof and impassive. The guards searched Jessan, grimacing as they had to touch the greasy leathers he wore and making rude comments, as though he was deaf and dumb as well as a barbarian. His anger at this treatment effectively helped banish his fear. He did as Shadamehr had asked him to do—feigned ignorance. The guards did not find the bone knife, though one put his hand right on it.

  The guard returned with the regent’s aide—a Temple magus—who stated that the regent was quite capable of dealing with these people, if the Palace Guard was not. If the Palace Guard was fearful of two elves, they could double the number of men assigned to them. The officer exchanged grim glances with his men and muttered something beneath his breath.

  No love lost between cloth and sword, Shadamehr noted with interest.

  “Very well,” said the officer tersely, “they are your responsibility.”

  The Temple magus stalked off, leading the way. The prisoners followed, escorted by four of the Palace Guard. The officer might have sent more, but he felt the honor of his men had been impugned by the magus.

  Shadamehr had not been inside the Royal Palace for fifteen years. Having played here as a child when his parents came to visit, he knew his way around almost as well as if he’d been here yesterday. Some things had changed. New tapestries hung on the wall, new stands of armor replaced rusting ones, but a truly ugly statue of King Hegemon still held its ponderous place in an alcove and a large porcelain urn, inside which the young Shadamehr had once crawled during a game of hide and seek, was still in its corner.

  Shadamehr noticed another change. He could not place it, at first, and then he realized what was different. The halls were usually filled with an assortment of sugared courtiers and self-important functionaries who clogged the royal arteries and kept the royal heart beating at a sluggish pace. The halls this day were empty.

  “Quiet as a temple,” said Shadamehr, puzzled. He realized the implication of his statement. “Od’s bodkin. This is a temple.”

  The vast marble halls had once rung with laughter and the sounds of barking dogs and coins being tossed onto the marble floors in games of chance. By contrast, these halls were silent, the only sounds being the soft whisper of woolen robes, the soft shuffle of leather boots and the soft murmur of voices speaking of celestial matters.

  A shiver ran over Shadamehr, starting at the base of his spine and rising up to his hair follicles. The thought came to him how easy it would be for a Vrykyl, in the guise of a High Magus, to populate the Palace with Void worshipers.

  He had no way of knowing if these magi were what they appeared to be. Magi all looked alike to him, no matter how many times Alise had tried to explain the differences in the garbs of the various orders. He wished very much that she was here, for she was an expert—albeit reluctantly—in Void magic, and she might have been able to tell him if that sweet-faced young magus in the corner concealed the sores and pustules of Void magic beneath her robes.

  Shadamehr assumed that they would be taken to the throne room, which was on the first level, but the magus disabused him of that notion by leading them up several marble staircases to the fifth level.

  Shadamehr knew these rooms, the private quarters for the King and his family. He and the late King had been good friends as children, a friendship that had regretfully cooled as they grew older. The magus led them to an antechamber with chairs, a fireplace and thick, soft carpet. A door at the far end led to an inner chamber. The magus knocked on the closed door and was admitted by yet another magus. Shadamehr, the elves, Jessan and their guards were told to wait in the antechamber until the regent should deign to see them.

  “My lord!” cried an astonished voice.

  “Gregory!” Shadamehr said warmly, advancing to seize hold of the man’s hand. “Thank the gods, I’ve found a living person! All these magi about, I thought I’d died, you know, and gone to the bad place.”

  “Baron Shadamehr!” Gregory stared at him, bewildered. “What are you doing here? If you’ve come for the funeral, you’re too late. It was last week.”

  “I know. I heard. I’m dashed sorry, Gregory,” Shadamehr said.

  Gregory looked grieved, distraught. This was not surprising. He had been the King’s chamberlain and confidant for well on twenty years.

  Shadamehr drew the chamberlain off to one side, cast him a fond and worried glance.

  “By the wretched way you look, we’ll be attending your funeral next. When did you last get any sleep?”

  Gregory shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s been awful. Simply horrible, my lord. I found him, you know. In his bed. He’d been fine the night before. He was in good spirits, though worried about these rumors of war coming out of the west. He canceled his annual hunting trip to his lodge because of it. I mulled his wine for him before bed; he liked me to make it, you know, instead of one of the servants. I left the cup sitting on the hob to keep warm, for he was writing in his journal…”

  “So that’s how they did it,” Shadamehr said softly. “The mulling spices would conceal the taste of the poison.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” said Gregory.

  “Nothing. Servants moving about the room, I suppose, turning down the bed covers, drawing the curtains, that sort of thing.”

  “Why, yes, my lord. The King was very well attended. The prince came in to bid his father good night and I left the two of them alone together…” He blinked red eyes. “That was the last time I spoke to him. I usually bid him goodnight and god’s blessing on his rest, but I did not want to disturb him. I know it’s foolish, my lord, but I sometimes think that if I’d asked the gods to watch over him—”

  “Now, Gregory, be sensible,” said Shadamehr with a kindly pat. “If you could truly invoke the power of the gods you’d be a wealthy man and not have to spend your days polishing His Majesty’s shoes.”

  “I’ve quite enjoyed my work, my lord,” said Gregory in wistful tones. “I shall miss it, when I’m gone.”

  “What’s this?” Shadamehr said. “Are you being turned out?”

  “Yes, my lord. Today is my last day. The regent decreed that only Temple magi are to be employed in the Palace from now on. She doesn’t feel it’s proper for His Majesty to come in contact with what she terms ‘common people’ such as myself.”

  “Good riddance to her, then, I say, Gregory,” said Shadamehr.

  “I suppose.” Gregory sighed deeply. “But the palace has been my home, my lord. My father was the old King’s chamberlain, you know. I shall miss His Majesty and I must admit that I am worried about him. He used to be such a happy and merry child. He rarely smiles at all now. It’s as if the life has been crushed out of him by these blasted magi.”

  Gregory stopped talking. His face paled. “I beg pardon, my lord. I spoke before I thought.”

  “You spoke your heart, Gregory. Listen,” Shadamehr added hurriedly, fearful that they might be interrupted, “where could I reach you, in case I needed you?”

  “I have taken lodging in the White Hart Inn, my lord,” Gregory said.

  “Good, good. I may be around tonight to look you up. Depends on how things go here. You wouldn’t mind coming to work for me, would you?”

  “I would be honored, my lord,” said Gregory, his face warming.

  “The young King trusts you and likes you, I take it?”

  “I should like to think so, my lord,” Gregory replied, puzzled.

  “Good, good.” Shadamehr squeezed the man’s hand. “Take care of yourself. Gods’ blessing and all that.”

  Lightly, casually, Shadamehr turned away and sauntered across the room to where the two elves stood talking quietly together.

  “Pretend we’re admiring the furniture,” said Shadamehr. “What do you say to a spot of kidnapping?”

  Damra and Griffith stared at him, then exchanged conscious glances between themselves.

  “Yes, amazing,
isn’t it?” said Shadamehr, shifting from Tomagi to Elderspeak. “This chair does not look thirty years old. I fancy it’s been recovered. However, if you will notice the right leg, you’ll see my tooth marks. My mother was fond of saying that I cut my teeth on politics—”

  Shadamehr leaned closer, shifted back to Tomagi, “If I am right, the Most High Revered Magus is, in reality, a Vrykyl. She has removed all the King’s trusted servants, replaced them with her own people. It’s my guess that she intends to hand New Vinnengael and the young King over to Dagnarus. We must rescue the King, smuggle him out of the city. Otherwise, I fear they will either imprison the child or kill him. What do you say?”

  Damra and Griffith again exchanged glances. Griffith nodded.

  “We’ve been thinking along the same lines, Baron Shadamehr,” he said softly. “We noticed what was happening, but we weren’t certain how to tell you. What is your plan?”

  “For all of us to come out of this alive,” said Shadamehr as the door to the inner chamber began to open. “With the possible exception of the Vrykyl.”

  The magus announced in sonorous tones:

  “All bow to His Majesty, the Most High and Holy King of Vinnengael, Hirav the Second.”

  The chamber into which they were ushered had once been the King’s favorite in the palace, a place the King had liked to call his “working” room. Spacious and airy, the room was on the corner of the building at the northern horn of the crescent moon. Two crystal-paned windows provided a wondrous view of the city of New Vinnengael to the west and the rich farm lands along the Arven river to the north.

  Passionately fond of hunting, Hirav had filled his room with souvenirs of his hunts. Shadamehr had not been in this room for fifteen years, but he remembered that there had been the white pelt of a deadly shnay on the floor. Heads of noble stags had adorned the walls, along with the King’s favorite weapons and a stand for his hunting hawk, who often kept him company while he labored over affairs of state.

  The room was undergoing transformation, Shadamehr noted with a pang. The stags’ heads had been removed. The shnay pelt had been rolled up and stashed in a corner. The weapons were nowhere to be seen. The King’s desk, that had once faced the windows—he liked to be able to look out into the sunlit meadows—had been turned so that it now faced the door. Heavy velvet curtains were being draped over the crystal windows to block out the sunlight. The job was only half completed.

  Presumably this transformation was being undertaken at the behest of the Most Revered High Magus Clovis, the new regent. A heavy-set woman in her mid-sixties, she had eyes the color of pick-axes. The lines of the woman’s face tended downward; no hint of a smile ever touched those thin, compressed lips.

  Shadamehr stared intently at the woman, hoping to determine if she was the Vrykyl. He dared not look at his companions, but he knew they were doing the same, trying to see past the illusion of life in the iron-gray eyes to the reality of the dead emptiness of the Void. He did not see the Void, only stern disapproval.

  Shadamehr casually shifted his gaze away from the High Magus to take note of other people in the room, to get a feel for the lay of the land, so to speak.

  It was then he saw the other magus.

  Shadamehr was born supremely confident in himself, in his cleverness, his skill and his courage. He rarely doubted himself or his abilities. At the sight of this magus, Shadamehr was forced to concede that they had a bit of a problem. The baron had been rather cocky over the fact that they were being guarded by four guards—one apiece. Take into account the King’s two personal bodyguards and that was six guards—six to four. He would take those odds any day of the week and twice on High Holy days, especially in company with a Dominion Lord. He had not foreseen the lamentable fact that the Most Revered High Magus would bring along her pet war wizard.

  Shadamehr sighed deeply. He knew the battle magus. His name was Tasgall, and he was a formidable opponent. The last time they’d been together, they had fought on the same side. Shadamehr favored Tasgall with a pleased grin of recognition, as one comrade to another.

  Tasgall regarded Shadamehr with a stony look and Shadamehr remembered, rather late, that Tasgall had never really approved of him.

  “If Tasgall’s gone to the Void then we can all bend over and kiss our sweet behinds farewell,” Shadamehr said to himself.

  The most feared of all the magi, a battle magus is trained in the art of warfare, trained to use his powerful magicks to hinder or destroy the enemy. The battle magus relies not only on magical arts. He is also a skilled combatant, proficient in the use of steel as well as sorcery. Tasgall was all decked out in his war wizard best: plate and chain mail, marked with the emblem of the Battle Magi—a crushing mailed fist—and he sported a huge two-handed broadsword on his hip. Taller than average, Tasgall was powerfully built with massive shoulders and immense arms. He stood with his arms at his sides, poised and confident—the image of the veteran soldier, who has proven his worth in battle.

  Shadamehr flicked a glance around the room, noted that despite the bright afternoon sunlight, a burning candle stood on the desk at Tasgall’s side. The candle served to warn the prisoners that the war magus was capable of casting both Earth and Fire spells.

  Tasgall’s keen brown eyes sized up each of the prisoners as they entered the room and, although he kept all of them in view, his gaze went most frequently to Griffith, the Wyred, the battle magus’s elven counterpart.

  Last, Shadamehr noticed the Most High and Holy King of Vinnengael, Hirav the Second.

  The child stood at one end of the desk. He had been fidgeting with a quill pen. At a word from the High Magus, the boy laid down the pen and turned to face them.

  Hirav was a comely child, with brown-gold hair that gleamed like polished mahogany, and gold-flecked green eyes. Outlined by thick, dark lashes, the eyes’ dancing glints were shadowed by thick dark brows. His face had the sickly pallor of one who is never permitted to go outside and play in the sunshine. He was dressed in all his finery, like a miniature adult, with tunic and silk hose and an ermine-collared cape that looked ludicrous on a little boy. He stood straight and tall and was trying very hard to look regal, although his red-rimmed eyes and pink-tipped nose gave signs that he’d been crying.

  “By gods’ arms,” Shadamehr muttered to himself, a wave of pity and anger sweeping over him, “if I do nothing else, I’ll see to it that this kid gets to play stickball outdoors in the sunshine.”

  They bowed to the King—the elves stiffly and Jessan not at all, until Shadamehr nudged him.

  The King gave a slight nod of his head, after which his eyes slid to the High Magus, seeking her approval.

  The workings of Shadamehr’s mind proceeded with remarkable swiftness. He developed his plan in the time it took to bend his body for his bow and straighten himself again.

  They were in the center of the room, about four feet from the desk. Clovis stood behind the desk, the King in front of the desk and slightly to the right. The prisoners’ four guards stood directly behind them. The two royal bodyguards remained at the door, facing outward. The war magus took up a position almost directly across from Griffith. Damra stood beside Shadamehr, on his right. The elves were playing their parts well, looked elegantly outraged. Jessan was on Shadamehr’s left.

  What the Trevenici youth was thinking was impossible to tell. He stood stock still, looking outlandish and oafish with his long, straggling hair, his sun-darkened skin, his well-worn and not particularly clean fringed leather pants and bead-adorned tunic. The King’s eyes widened at the sight of the young warrior and his glance strayed constantly to him. This was undoubtedly a new experience for the child, who had seen elves and noble barons by the score, but never a barbarian.

  “The Wyred takes Tasgall, the Dominion Lord deals with the High Magus, the Trevenici and I dispatch the six guards,” Shadamehr detailed his plan to himself. “I snatch the kid, use him as hostage—wouldn’t really hurt him, but they don’t know that, I’m a
desperate character—and we high-tail it down the hall to a secret passage that, with my customary luck and good looks, still opens the same way it used to open thirty years ago and still leads to the same place which was, as I recall, somewhere down around the privies. Doesn’t seem all that difficult.”

  The Most Revered High Magus rose up from behind her desk and walked around to stand at the side. If she hoped to daunt them by providing them with the full effect of her regalia that marked her as the highest authority in the Church, she was wasting her time. Shadamehr glanced at her with less interest than if she’d been the moth-eaten shnay pelt on the floor. Facing the King, Shadamehr said to him with a disarming smile, “We were brought here by your command, Your Royal Majesty. What is it you require of us?”

  The child was taken aback. He had not expected this and he glanced beseechingly at the High Magus, who sallied forth to his rescue.

  “I know you, Baron Shadamehr,” she said in severe tones.

  “Alas, Madam, you have me at a disadvantage,” Shadamehr replied, still smiling at the young King.

  “You do know me, I think.” The High Magus’s lips compressed. “I voted against you being given the opportunity to take the Tests for Dominion Lord. My opinion was ignored, more’s the pity. I still believe that you passed by chicanery, although I could not prove it. I was not in the least surprised when you lacked the courage to assume the honor the gods saw fit to bestow on you.”

  “Ah, now, you see, Revered Magus,” said Shadamehr, finally favoring her with a glance. “I thought that it was the gods who should be honored by my acceptance of the favor—an honor that I wasn’t quite ready to grant them.”

  The High Magus’s face suffused with anger. She swelled visibly and opened her mouth to respond, but Shadamehr had decided that the time had come to cease bantering with underlings. He returned his gaze to the King, who looked stunned.

  “Your Majesty,” said Shadamehr, ignoring the outraged splutterings of the High Magus, “my companions and I have ridden one thousand miles in sixteen days to bring you dire news. An army of ten thousand creatures of the Void is within two days’ ride of New Vinnengael. This army is led by a Prince who has given himself to the Void and who intends to take Vinnengael and our people with him. Your Majesty must take action now to defend your city and the people who look to you for protection.”