Shadamehr reached the opening, to find that it was covered by an iron plate meant to keep pedestrians from tumbling down and breaking their necks. Those small boys who had played in the sewer so long ago had been able to lift up the iron plate without too much trouble, crawl out from underneath it. Shadamehr hoped with all his heart that some energetic city official had not decided to bolt the plate in place.
To his vast relief, the plate shifted when he touched it. It moved so easily, in fact, that he wondered if the current crop of small boys had taken up the cessrat hunt. That made him think of the stories he’d heard—how the taan tortured, then ate their prisoners. He thought of all the children who lived and played in New Vinnengael, and he cursed bitterly those adults who would bring childhood to such a terrible end.
“I wonder if Dagnarus was ever a little boy?” Shadamehr asked Alise, as he maneuvered her out the opening. Once she was safely on firm ground, he pulled himself up and out and collapsed onto the street. He lay there gasping for breath and blinking up at the stars, feeling tiny pinpricks of pain jab his calf and thigh muscles. He had no idea what time it was.
“Dagnarus must have been a little boy,” Shadamehr mused dreamily. “He wasn’t born Lord of the Void. He must have hunted cessrats, played truant from his tutor, thrown sugar buns…at servants, just like…poor little king…murdered…‘Void take him’…already has…keep him, then…”
Shadamehr jerked himself awake. “’Ods bodkin! There’s a lark. Escape taan only to be discovered taking a snooze by the Imperial Cavalry. Got to wake up. Madness and folly.”
He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled, and pain gripped him in the back, so that he bit his lips to suppress a cry. Tears stung his eyes.
“You have to keep going,” he told himself angrily.
“I can’t,” he answered himself. “I have to rest. Just a few moments.” He patted the slumbering Alise on the shoulder. “I’ll just rest for a few moments. We’ll be safe here.”
Shadamehr leaned back against a stone wall. “No, we won’t. The taan will come back. The guards will come by. It will be dawn soon. Unless it’s only just turned night. Maybe we were down there a whole day. Maybe we were down there six whole days. I’m sorry, Alise. Gods, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything…”
“Grum’olt,” said a deep voice.
Shadamehr opened his eyes, peered up. He couldn’t see much in the darkness, just two large, bulky shapes blotting out the stars. Shadamehr tensed, his hand strayed to his dagger. Then he sniffed.
The air was redolent with the scent of fish oil.
Shadamehr smiled and relaxed.
“Gods love you,” he murmured, and passed out cold.
One of the orks picked up the baron in his strong arms and slung him effortlessly over his shoulder.
“Phew! Stinky!” said the ork to his fellow, who was gathering up Alise.
“Humans,” the second ork grunted, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
Concerned to hear that patrols were out searching the city for Baron Shadamehr, Captain Kal-Gah had posted his people all along the waterfront, with instructions to keep watch for the baron. The captain chuckled to hear that his men had found the baron crawling out of a sewer. His men tossed the baron and Alise in the shore boat. The captain climbed in and ordered the sailors to pull hard for the ship.
Once on board, the captain consulted the first mate in regard to the tide and his shaman in regard to the omens. The first mate reported that the tide was almost at the flood and they could lift anchor and sail at the captain’s pleasure. The shaman reported that the omens were good for leaving, bad for staying. The captain wasted no more time.
As dawn filled the skies with pink flame that set the lake afire, the orks sailed down Arven River. Everyone in the ship could see the taan forces massing on the riverbank across from the city of the New Vinnengael. The taan saw them as well and fired a volley of arrows that fell short of their mark. One arrow actually made it as far as the deck. Captain Kal-Gah smashed the black-feathered bolt to pieces with his bootheel, then picked it up what was left of it and tossed it overboard.
The orks bore Shadamehr and Alise below decks, bedded them down in the same small cabin where they’d taken the elves. Alise slept soundly, so soundly that the shaman pinched her to make certain she was not dead—a corpse aboard ship was the very worst luck possible. Seeing her flesh turn red and noting that the patient flinched, the shaman was satisfied.
She turned to Shadamehr. He slept fitfully, at one point shouting something unintelligible and flailing about with his arms. The shaman eyed him, but let him be. Dreams are the bearers of powerful omens and orks are careful not to waken a dreamer, even if he is in the throes of a nightmare.
When the baron quieted, the shaman felt it safe to approach. Holding the lantern over him, she saw the dried blood on the baron’s shirt. Quai-ghai was pleased. She enjoyed practicing the healing arts, and she rarely had the chance.
Orks have no skill in healing magic and are thus thrown back to remedies of their own devising. Quai-ghai had developed a marvelous unguent that she used on all occasions, claiming it capable of healing all injuries, from arrow punctures to compound fractures. While the unguent was successful in fighting infection, it burned like fire when applied to the wound, giving the patient the sensation of being roasted alive. Once this side effect passed, the unguent caused the patient to break out in a ferociously itchy skin rash that completely incapacitated him for days. Rather than scratch themselves raw, most of the orks aboard ship preferred to take their chances with natural healing and ran for their lives when they saw the shaman approach.
Here, Quai-ghai was pleased to see, was a patient who did not have to be strapped down like those other cowards.
She ordered her loblolly boy off to the ship’s surgery to collect a jar of her special unguent and was waiting impatiently for him to return when she noted something odd about her patient. She stared down at Shadamehr and frowned and growled in her throat. Moving to the other bed, she shook the male elf by the shoulder.
Griffith roused with a start and looked around in bewilderment, unable to remember where he was. The sight of the ork shaman standing over him brought back his memory. He sat up gingerly, expecting his stomach to heave and roll with the pitching of the ship, whose movements were much more lively now that they were under way. His head was clear, however, his stomach at peace.
Griffith smiled his grateful thanks. “Your remedy worked, Quai-ghai.”
“Of course it worked,” she flared, insulted. “What did you expect?”
Griffith flushed, embarrassed. “Truly I did not mean—”
The ork brushed his apology aside.
“You told me when we met in the baron’s keep that you had made a study of Void magic,” Quai-ghai stated. “Was that the truth or a lie?”
“I do not lie, Quai-ghai,” said Griffith mildly.
“And right there you have told a lie,” she said complacently. “All elves are liars. All know it. No harm in that. Orks lie, too, when there is need. Was that the truth or a lie?”
“I have studied Void magic,” said Griffith, thinking it best not to argue the matter further. “Why do you ask?”
Noting her grave expression, Griffith realized that this was not idle curiosity and he was alarmed. “Do you suspect the presence of Void magic somewhere?”
Quai-ghai grunted. “Come here.”
She led him from his bed across the narrow cabin to another bed. Because of the gloom of the ship’s interior, he could not see the bed’s occupant until Quai-ghai held the lantern over his face.
“Baron Shadamehr!” Griffith exclaimed. “Is he all right?”
“You tell me,” said Quai-ghai. “He smells bad.”
“He does, that,” agreed Griffith, covering his nose and mouth with his hand, feeling his stomach lurch.
“No, not that way.” Quai-ghai was irritated. “Worse. You say you know Void magic. Find out.”
“I think I understand what you mean.” Griffith looked intently at his slumbering patient, then glanced at Quai-ghai. “I will have to cast a Void spell to find out.”
She backed well out of range. Turning away her head, she stopped up her ears with her hands.
Griffith murmured the words that were like spiders crawling around his mouth. He spit them out as quickly as he could, cast the spell.
Shadamehr flinched and cried out in his sleep.
“How very strange,” Griffith murmured.
He intoned soothing words, and the baron relaxed, sank back onto the hard bed, and sighed deeply.
Griffith touched Quai-ghai on the shoulder. She gave a violent start, unstopped her ears.
“You were right,” he said. “Look there.”
The baron’s body gave off a faint glow, as can sometimes be seen with bodies that lie too long unburied.
“He reeks of the Void,” said Griffith.
SHADAMEHR’S BODY MIGHT HAVE SLUMBERED, BUT HIS MIND WAS active. He walked and walked, traveling through a landscape that was brown and gray and barren, flat and rock-strewn. He had no apparent destination, yet he held to a course and was frustrated and angry when an obstacle blocked his way. He plodded slowly down a road for hours on end, never seemed to be getting anywhere, only to skip over mountain-tops as if he had the legendary boots of the giant, Krithnatus, that gave him the power to hop about the world in seconds.
He was in a city where he knew his way. He moved rapidly, with only a fleeting impression of his surroundings. He was aware of destroyed buildings and streets that were broken, shattered. The entire city was empty and deserted. He was alone, and the knowledge saddened him, but didn’t surprise him.
He came to an enormous pile of rubble, that had once been a magnificent building, or so he seemed to remember. Next moment, he was underneath the building, with no idea how he came to be there, but that didn’t surprise him either. Although he could see nothing for the darkness, he knew that he was in a large round room, standing beneath a domed ceiling.
He was very close to the gods. If he reached out his hand, he could touch them.
Shadamehr resolutely kept his hands at his side.
Someone else was in the room. Someone who seemed to have been waiting for him. How Shadamehr saw him, he couldn’t say, for the room was pitch-dark. The man was young, and he might have been considered comely, but for the fact that his face was marred by a birthmark.
“You are Baron Shadamehr, the bearer of the human part of the Sovereign Stone,” said the young man.
Shadamehr didn’t answer yea or nay. He was uncomfortable and wanted to leave. Believing this to be a dream, he tried to wake himself, but that didn’t work.
“Dagnarus is searching for the four portions of the Sovereign Stone,” the young man continued. “Once he has them in his possession, he will join them together, at which point he will become so powerful that no person, no country, no nation will be able to rise up against him. He has the Dagger of the Vrykyl to grant him innumerable lives. He will rule Loerem for centuries. This is his plan. He needs only the four portions of the Sovereign Stone to bind all races to him.”
“That is a big ‘only,’” said Shadamehr. “You have the advantage of me, sir. You know my name, and I do not know yours.”
“I am Gareth,” said the young man.
“Gareth,” Shadamehr repeated. “Why do I know that name?”
“Hark back to the legends and the lore you have heard about Dagnarus, and you will find me among them. I was the whipping boy. After that, I was his sorcerer.”
“A sorcerer of the Void, if I remember my legends. You helped to bring about the destruction of Old Vinnengael. Excuse me for speaking bluntly, Master Gareth, but you are dead. And I am dreaming.”
“I am dead. You are not dreaming, however. You are the bearer of one part of the Sovereign Stone, and that is why I have summoned your soul to this place. When the gods gave Tamaros the Sovereign Stone, the stone was intact. He was warned not to split it apart, for he would find that the center was ‘bitter.’ He did not heed the warning of the gods. He split the stone asunder and gave a portion of it to each of the races: human, dwarven, elven, orken. What he did not know was that there was a fifth portion—a portion none of them could see, for they were not looking for it.
“One person saw that portion, however. He was only a child, but he was looking for it, and it was looking for him. The fifth portion of the Sovereign Stone was the Void. Dagnarus accepted it, when it was offered, and he has served the Void ever since. He has served it well, and now the Void grows in power, as the power of the gods wanes.
“To enhance that power, Dagnarus seeks the four portions of the Sovereign Stone. He will find them. For two hundred years, the human part of the Stone remained lost. Then Lord Gustav found it and within moments of its discovery, Dagnarus was aware of it. His Vrykyl, Svetlana, came very close to seizing it. The gods protected the Stone, and it has escaped him thus far. The power of the Void grows stronger by the minute, however, and the Stone cannot remain hidden for long. Dagnarus never sleeps. He searches for it, day and night. He can see even in the darkest darkness. You scurry about, hither and thither, but where will you hide, Baron, that he cannot find you?”
Shadamehr shrugged and smiled. He very carefully did not look at the knapsack he wore slung about his shoulder.
“It makes a good ale story,” he said, “but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Gareth smiled and pointed at the baron’s heart.
Glancing down, Shadamehr saw that he wore the Sovereign Stone around his neck and that its radiant light blazed in the darkness like a beacon fire.
“Damnation,” he said, and wrapped his hand about the Stone to quench the light.
The light welled through his fingers, so that beams of it shot through the dusty room in which he stood, shone clear to heaven.
“Suppose I concede that you have a point, Master Gareth,” Shadamehr said, embarrassed. “Just suppose, mind you. What do you suggest I do with the bloody thing? I assume you have a suggestion. Otherwise, why bring me here?”
“You must undo what King Tamaros did. You must return the Sovereign Stone to the gods. In order for that to happen, the pieces must come together here, in the Portal of the Gods.”
“All four pieces?” Shadamehr asked, incredulous.
“All the pieces,” Gareth repeated.
“Why not throw in the sun, the moon, a couple of stars, and the eyetooth of a dragon while you’re at it,” Shadamehr muttered.
Gareth had no reply. He began to dissolve, like an oil portrait over which someone has passed a wet rag.
“I have said all I have to say.”
“No you haven’t,” Shadamehr said loudly. “I have a question. If you gods didn’t want Tamaros to split open the damn Stone, why did you give it to him? If I hand a child a fragile vase and he drops it and breaks it, do I punish the child? I”—Shadamehr struck himself on the breast—“I am the one at fault, for I am older and wiser than the child, and I should have known what was going to happen.”
He shouted into the heavens, trying to make someone hear him. “You gods gave Tamaros this vase, and he dropped it—there’s a big surprise—and now we’re left to pick up the pieces and try to glue the damn thing back together! Does this make sense to you? What purpose does it serve?
“Or, here’s a thought, maybe it was a test? A test for King Tamaros. He failed! Hey, he’s human. What did you expect? You must have known he would fail. You gods know everything. If you don’t, you’re no better than we are, and why should I worship you? If you did know, then that means you were just playing with him. That means you’re just playing with us. And that makes you worse than us!
“And you wonder why I didn’t undergo your Transfiguration to become a Dominion Lord! Listen to me, damn you. Don’t you walk away! I’m not the one who is supposed to have charge of this Stone!”
Shadamehr strode forthrightly in
to the gray nothingness and woke to find the ork shaman picking him up in her powerful arms with the avowed intention of tossing him into the sea.
After much earnest pleading, Griffith persuaded Quai-ghai that she should not immediately heave the groggy and disoriented baron over the taffrail. Griffith argued strenuously with both her and the captain, trying to persuade them that Shadamehr had not been dabbling in Void magic, as Quai-ghai believed. Shadamehr was “tainted by Void,” a condition that did afflict those who cast Void magic, but which could, on rare occasions, happen to those unfortunate enough to have been on the receiving end of an extremely powerful Void spell.
Orks fear and detest Void magic, and Griffith might not have succeeded in persuading them, had not the ship’s cat—an enormous gray-blue male with golden eyes—rubbed his head against Shadamehr’s leg, looked up at him, and meowed.
Kal-Gah looked speculatively at Quai-ghai. Orks are very fond of cats, and every orken vessel has several.
“Nikk likes him,” said Kal-Gah, petting the cat.
“True,” said Quai-ghai. “A good omen. He may stay.”
The question of how Shadamehr had come in contact with powerful Void magic intrigued Griffith. He would have liked to question him, but the baron was obviously in no condition to be discussing anything. Griffith assisted the stumbling, groaning Shadamehr back to his rest. The baron fell into bed facefirst. He reached out his hand to touch the knapsack reassuringly and, after that, did not move.
Griffith cast a spell over Alise, as she lay sleeping, and found that she was also tainted by Void. He knew from gossip around the baron’s keep that Alise had once been a member of the Order of Inquisitors, the only members of the Church permitted to learn Void. He recalled that Alise had cast a Void spell in order to rescue them from the palace guard. Even such a simple spell as reducing iron bars to iron shavings would have left her tainted by Void, plus given her the nasty side effects that come with the use of Void magic.
Journey into the Void Page 12