Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  As for the taan, instead of the battle they had been promised, they watched their god, Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, ride alone into the city they had come all this way to attack. The taan knew of this strange custom of the derrhuth, that they must talk before a battle, “to try to prevent bloodshed,” or so their god had told them, but they did not understand it.

  Since taan live to shed their blood in battle, they saw no need to waste time bandying words. The fact that these derrhuth would do anything to avoid a fight further convinced the taan—who needed little convincing—of the inherent weakness of the species. The taan returned to their campfires and their topaxi and their stories of brave warriors. The topaxi was stronger than usual, and the celebration grew rowdy. Needing a vent for the aggression, the taan started to take it out on each other. The fights were not good-natured. They were brutal and ugly and more than one nizam had to wade in to break them up.

  Nb’arsk stalked about the camp, watching the morale of her people dip lower and lower, and she could not imagine what Dagnarus was up to. This was not the first time he had showed that he had no real understanding of the taan, for all he claimed to be their god.

  The other derrhuth in the camp—the human mercenaries, who served Dagnarus—were not bothered by this lack of action. The humans spoke laughingly of sieges that lasted months, even years, during which time enemy armies did nothing but take an occasional potshot at one another from over the walls. Nb’arsk had thought at first they were telling her falsehoods that were meant to be funny—joking was another mysterious aspect of the derrhuth—but she at last became convinced that they spoke the truth. Derrhuth really did fight that way.

  Nb’arsk watched the humans laughing and cursing over their games of chance, watched them roll about in the bushes with some of their females, or lie on the ground, wrapped in their blankets, snoring. She watched them with loathing, despised them for cowards. She wondered that her god could stomach being around them, and, not for the first time, Nb’arsk wondered about her god.

  Dagnarus fought like a god of the taan, he had the courage of a taan, the ferocity of a taan, the cunning of a taan. For all this, Nb’arsk revered him. Yet, there was a mystery about him she could never understand. When he was not wearing the miraculous black armor that marked him as Lord of the Void, Dagnarus the god chose to walk about in the skin of a derrhuth.

  Now he had gone off to the city of derrhuths—a fat city, he said, with stores of steel armor and steel weapons, with treasure chests filled with the gemstones the taan first enchant with Void magic, then place beneath their hides, and with many derrhuth to be taken into slavery and used for food. All that, their god had promised them. Better, though, he had promised them war against a well-armed foe, the chance for the young warriors to prove themselves and advance in rank, and for the older warriors to achieve glory.

  Three times the sun had risen on this city and three times it had set, and there was no talk of battle. There was just talk.

  Nb’arsk was a kyl-sarnz, a Vrykyl. Three taan had been “god-touched,” as the taan knew it—transformed into Vrykyl. The eldest of these, K’let, an albino taan, had been among the first taan to meet Dagnarus when he entered their world. Dagnarus had slain K’let with the Dagger of the Vrykyl, transformed him into the undead, soul-stealing fiends of the Void.

  The Vrykyl are bound to Dagnarus through the Dagger, forced to do his will or face banishment into the emptiness of the Void. All Vrykyl were constrained to obey Dagnarus, but not K’let. When Dagnarus sought to exert his control over K’let, the Vrykyl defied him. K’let saw then, as Nb’arsk was beginning to see now, that Dagnarus had no care for the taan, but was merely using them for his own ends.

  K’let broke with Dagnarus—the first and only Vrykyl ever to do so. K’let left Dagnarus’s army, taking with him taan loyal to him. K’let’s goal was to prove to the taan that Dagnarus was not a god, that he was nothing but a derrhuth playing at being a god.

  Nb’arsk knew because she was in touch with K’let through the Blood-knife—something Dagnarus did not know.

  Nb’arsk did not believe K’let. She was pleased and honored to be among the “god-touched,” and was proud to serve Dagnarus. Nb’arsk should have told Dagnarus that she was in contact with K’let. Yet she did not. She did not speak to K’let either, but kept her misgivings to herself.

  Her misgivings had grown during their march through the land of the gdsr—the elves, a race of derrhuth so weak and spindly that they did not even make good slaves. The cities of the gdsr were fat and filled with jewels and steel, and the taan looked forward to conquering them. Dagnarus forbade it. The taan swept through the lands of the gdsr by means of a magical hole-in-the-air. They fought one battle, and that was over one of these holes.

  No cities, no slaves, no armor, no jewels. Only talk. The gdsr, Dagnarus announced, were going to surrender to him. He would be their ruler and, because of that, he wanted their cities left intact, their people unmolested.

  After that, the taan had marched into the land of the xkes, the humans, and it was then that Nb’arsk contacted K’let. She did not agree with all his views—in her mind, Dagnarus was still her god—but her doubts were beginning to grow.

  Dagnarus did not return to his armies that night. Nb’arsk had no fear that something might have happened to him—he was a god, after all. When she heard shouts and cries coming from the city, she was pleased. She expected that any moment the taan would be summoned to battle. The taan hastily caught up their weapons and waited for the call.

  The call did not come.

  Nb’arsk rounded up one of the half-taan, a miserable race, yet one that was useful, for they could speak the language of both the taan and the xkes. Commanding the cringing half-taan to accompany her, Nb’arsk entered the camp of the mercenaries and searched for their leader, a human named Klendist. Klendist had taken command of the army, following the execution of the former mercenary leader, Gurske, following the ill-fated battle of the elven Portal.

  “What is going on?” Nb’arsk demanded through the translator. She pointed toward the walled city. “What is the meaning of all that noise? Has our god started the killing without us?”

  “Hardly!” Klendist began to laugh, then clamped his mouth shut. He was not afraid of the Vrykyl, as were most of the other humans. But he didn’t like her, didn’t like being around her. “That’s cheering you hear. I don’t know what’s going on, but it must be good. Likely the city has surrendered.”

  The half-taan translated as best she could, for the taan have no word for “surrender.” Nb’arsk had come to understand it, however.

  Nb’arsk glared balefully at the city, which smelled so strongly and sweetly of human flesh. “So again we are not to fight.”

  “Who knows?” Klendist said, shrugging. “His Lordship will tell us, one way or the other.”

  “I don’t like this,” Nb’arsk growled.

  “It is not your place to like it, Vrykyl,” Klendist returned. “You will do what your god tells you.”

  The half-taan sank to his knees before translating Klendist’s words, begging that the Vrykyl would not think they were his own words. Nb’arsk knew well enough that they were not.

  She turned on her heel, about to depart, when a sudden thought struck her.

  “Dagnarus is not your god, is he?”

  Klendist was first startled by her question, then amused.

  “No,” he answered shortly.

  “Who is your god?”

  “I don’t believe in gods,” Klendist returned. “A man does for himself in this life.”

  Nb’arsk considered this. “None of you xkes believe Dagnarus is a god. Why is that? He is as powerful as a god.”

  “I guess because he was born human,” Klendist said. “Whatever may have happened to him after that, he started out the same as us. Likely his old man walloped him on his backside, same as my old man did me. So, no, I don’t consider him a god.”

  The human walked off,
shaking his head at the stupidity of the “savages.”

  Nb’arsk stared after him. She had wondered about the humans’ impiety before now, but she had always put it down to the fact that they were an impious race. They held nothing sacred, unless it be their physical pleasures. She was often angered by their lack of reverence around Dagnarus; but now that she looked back, she saw that he did nothing to encourage reverence for himself among the xkes. Not as he did among the taan.

  “What if K’let is right?” she muttered, chilled. “What if he is not a god? What does that mean for us?”

  Nb’arsk walked among the taan, who slept soundly, after their revels. She pondered such questions all the rest of the night.

  She had her answer in the morning.

  Dagnarus returned to his forces as the sun’s light illuminated the eastern sky. Darkness still lay upon the land; the taan warriors slept. The taan taskers were up and about, preparing the meal that would break their fast. Cloaked in the Void, Dagnarus emerged from the mists rising off the river, seemed to materialize right in front of Nb’arsk.

  She was startled and impressed and uncomfortable. He seemed godlike, shredding the mists that clung to him with ghostly hands. The black armor of the Void gleamed in the predawn gray light. Catching sight of Nb’arsk, he motioned her to walk with him.

  She could not tell what he was thinking, for she could not see his face. He wore the bestial helm of the Lord of the Void, kept his face concealed. The faces of the derrhuth were weak faces, soft and pliable, revealing every emotion, every thought. Dagnarus always wore the helm when he spoke to the taan, well aware that when he came before them in his human form, he lost something.

  He turned the bestial metal face toward Nb’arsk. She saw dark eyes and inner fire, and for a moment she cowered, for she feared that he might have seen her rebellious thoughts. She very nearly sank to her knees, to beg him to forgive her, but then he spoke, and his demeanor was brisk, businesslike. They communicated through the Dagger of the Vrykyl, thought to thought, thus sparing the need for a translator.

  “I have orders for you, Nb’arsk. You will take five thousand taan and march south to a city known as Delak ’Vir. I will send one of the taan sages to you with maps. You will attack and seize the city and the Portal that is there. Once you have conquered the city and slain or enslaved all the inhabitants, you will leave one thousand taan to guard the city. The rest of you will enter the hole-in-the-air. The Portal will take you to the land of Karnu, where you meet up with the other taan Vrykyl, L’nskt, and you will reinforce those taan already fighting there.”

  Nb’arsk was pleased and relieved. No derrhuth-talk of negotiating or surrender. This was talk a taan could understand: seize, conquer, slay, enslave.

  “You will leave at once,” Dagnarus continued. “Rouse the taan and get them started. I want the army on the road by first light.”

  The taan were always prepared to pick up camp and move, so a swift departure did not present a problem. But why were they splitting forces? What were the remainder of the taan going to be doing?

  “Tomorrow at first light, we enter New Vinnengael,” he replied.

  “Enter, Ko-kutryx?” Nb’arsk asked, displeased. “Not attack?”

  “There is no need to attack,” he returned. “The city has surrendered to me. The people have made me their god.”

  “I am pleased for you, Ko-kutryx,” said Nb’arsk. “But for the taan this means no slaves. No gemstones, no armor.”

  “On the contrary,” said Dagnarus. “These city people are an arrogant people. They need to be humbled in both spirit and body. They need to understand that I am their god and that my word is law. I plan to use the taan to teach them what it means to respect my authority.”

  Nb’arsk was skeptical. “How will this come about, Ko-kutryx? How will we gain entry to the city without battle?”

  “The city people think, in their arrogance, that they are preparing a trap for the taan, a trap into which the taan will walk blindly because the taan are ignorant beasts.”

  Dagnarus laughed at this, as did Nb’arsk.

  “In reality, of course,” he continued, “it is the taan who will be setting the trap for the humans—a trap I will spring once the taan are inside the city.”

  “I would like to be a part of that trap, Ko-kutryx,” stated Nb’arsk eagerly. “So will all the taan.” She made a dismissive gesture. “We will conquer this hole-in-the-air another day.”

  “I gave you an order, Nb’arsk,” said Dagnarus. “I am not accustomed to having my orders questioned. You will march at first light, as I have commanded.”

  “Yes, Ko-kutryx,” Nb’arsk replied, chastened. “I did not mean to question you.”

  “I will not be here to see you leave, for I must return to the city. Remember, you must be on the road with first light. Glory in battle, Nb’arsk.”

  “Glory in battle, Ko-kutryx.”

  Nb’arsk roused the taan and gave the order to march. The taan worked swiftly to dismantle their camps, and in less time than it would have taken the humans to have crawled, bleary-eyed, out of their tents, the taan were packed up and ready to go. The prospect of more slaves, more armor, and a grand battle lay before them. Their spirits high, the taan cheered Nb’arsk as she took her place at the head of the column and gave the order to move out.

  Glancing back at the city, Nb’arsk was sorry and ashamed of her previous feelings of doubt and disloyalty. The taan Vrykyl and half the taan army headed south for Delak ’Vir.

  ONE OF THE FIRST LESSONS GIVEN A MAGUS IS A LESSON IN SLEEP. Since the ability to sleep is inherent in all living creatures, the notion that one must be taught to sleep seems ludicrous to those who do not have to rely on the use of magic for either their lives or their livelihood. Magic is termed a “gift” of the gods, and so it is—a power akin to that of the gods given to mankind for his use. But the term “gift” does not imply, as some laymen mistakenly believe, that magic may be used without cost.

  Wielding magic is hard work, drains the strength of the magic-user. The only means of renewing that strength is through sleep; deep, peaceful, restful, uninterrupted sleep. Thus, all magi must know how to leave behind them all worldly thoughts and cares and find strength and renewal in sleep.

  Battle magi, in particular, must learn to find peace and relaxation under circumstances that are far from peaceful or relaxing. Thus Tasgall was able to banish all his mental turmoil, his worries, anxieties, fears, and doubts with a few moments of silent prayer. He slept well and deeply, woke with the dawn feeling refreshed, to find that his worries, anxieties, fears, and doubts were exactly where he had left them the night before.

  The bell that woke the inhabitants of the Temple and sent them about their daily chores had barely rung before the knocking started on Tasgall’s door. He was summoned to meet with the Regent. He was summoned to meet with the Inquisitor. He was summoned to meet with both the Regent and the Inquisitor.

  He sent back word that he would meet with the heads of the Orders, that the meeting would be brief, and that he would do all the talking.

  They didn’t like that, of course. He’d known they wouldn’t, but he could not afford to spend the time required for them to hear his plan, discuss it and debate it, view it from all sides, turn it inside out, then try to decide whether and how to proceed with it.

  He planned to talk privately to only one person that morning, and that person was Rigiswald. Tasgall sought out his old teacher in the library.

  Entering, he searched among the tables and their silent readers doggedly pursuing their studies even in the midst of turmoil and war, to find Rigiswald seated near a stone-light. Tasgall rested his hand upon the magus’s shoulder.

  Rigiswald glanced up. Seeing who it was, he immediately closed his book and accompanied Tasgall to the room where they had talked earlier.

  “I do not have much time,” Tasgall said. He did not sit down, and neither did Rigiswald. “I have to meet with the heads of the Orders in
a few moments to explain the course of action we are going to take tomorrow against the taan. The heads are not going to like it,” he added grimly. “I don’t like it. And yet, this course is our only way to live through this, that I can see.”

  “What do you want of me?” Rigiswald asked.

  “You know this man, Dagnarus.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,”

  Rigiswald replied.

  “You have studied him—”

  “As best one can. I have studied what has been written of him, but he is, as are we all, a very complex individual.”

  Tasgall brushed all that aside with an impatient gesture. He then proceeded to outline Dagnarus’s plan for dealing with the taan. When he had finished, he looked intently at Rigiswald.

  “Well?” Tasgall demanded.

  “Well, what?” Rigiswald returned irascibly, unwilling to be drawn into that matter. “You have obviously made up your mind to go along with him, Tasgall. I don’t understand what you seek of me. My approval?”

  “No,” said Tasgall. “From what you know of him, is this a trap—”

  “Certainly it is a trap.”

  “But a trap for whom?” Tasgall asked tensely. “For the taan? Or for us?”

  Rigiswald was silent, thoughtful, then he asked, “Do you now believe that the young king is one of Dagnarus’s Vrykyl?”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” Tasgall returned impatiently. “At one point yesterday, yes, maybe I did. But now I’m not sure, and, anyway, does it really matter? The young king is no longer king.”

  Rigiswald could have said that it mattered a great deal, but, of course, it didn’t. Not to Tasgall, who held the lives of thousands in his hands. Rigiswald sighed deeply.

  “Dagnarus pledged his faith with his life,” Tasgall argued, seeming to try to convince himself as much as Rigiswald. “He has given himself as hostage. We are to slay him if he betrays us.”

  “If he is the wielder of the Dagger of the Vrykyl, he has as many lives as there are Vrykyl in this world, for everyone of them bequeaths a life to Dagnarus when he dies. You might have to kill him forty times over in order to truly slay him,” Rigiswald said dryly.