Wolfram had brought with him some wood and kindling, enough to build a small fire. Returning to the tent, he picked up the maltreated firebox and placed the wood inside. Then he sat back and stared at it, bemused. Wolfram was no magus. He’d never cast a magic spell in his life, had never wanted to cast one. Now he was going to attempt a grand spell, one that even experienced magi find difficult.
Wolfram wasn’t worried about casting the spell. He was worried because he wasn’t worried. He felt a warmth inside when he thought about the spell, a knowledge that he could do it, even though he had no idea how. And that bothered him.
Kolost peered inside the tent. Wolfram stepped out to meet him. The plaza had been sealed off. Dwarves stood guard at the entrance, waved away the curious.
“Someone’s been in the tent,” said Wolfram. “Tell your people to keep a sharp lookout.”
“They’re good men. They know what to do,” said Kolost. “Who was it? Do you have any idea?”
Wolfram shook his head. “Just a feeling, that’s all. Come inside. Sit there.” He gestured to a place near the firebox. “If the spell works, we’ll see everything just as it happened that night, as if we were there ourselves. But, of course, we won’t be. It’s just visions of the past.”
Kolost nodded to show he understood and took his place where Wolfram indicated. Kolost sat down with knees akimbo, placed his hands on his knees, and looked expectantly at Wolfram.
“I’m going to…uh…change,” Wolfram said, his face flushing with embarrassment. He didn’t want Kolost to think he was trying to show off or that he was putting on airs. “It’s part of being a Dominion Lord. The armor, that is.”
Wolfram eyed Kolost askance, waited tensely for him to ask questions. Kolost said nothing, however, merely indicated that he was ready to begin. Wolfram was relieved. He was liking this dwarf more and more.
Clasping his fingers tightly around the medallion, Wolfram brought to mind the remembered image of Gilda in her magical armor and, the next thing he knew, he was clad in armor of his own: fine, supple leather with silver buckles and a silver helm.
Kolost’s eyes widened at the sight, but he kept his mouth shut.
The wondrous armor was as familiar as Wolfram’s own skin, made him feel secure and protected. He knew immediately what he had to do to cast the fire-scry spell. The magic flowed from him at will. He had only to think it and it was done. The wood in the firebox burst into flame. Wolfram stared into it, his thoughts concentrating on the night another fire had burned in this box.
Images of myriad nights flooded into his mind, so many that he was overwhelmed. He needed something to connect him to the one particular night. Reaching out his hand, he grabbed hold of a corner of the bloodstained horse blanket.
Fire swirled in the firebox, and the tent was filled with smoke, thick and choking. Wolfram couldn’t breathe. He heard Kolost coughing and gagging.
“Get out!” Wolfram ordered the Void.
The smoke roiled furiously. Then there came a wolf’s howl. A gust of wind shook the tent, sent the edges to flapping. The wind sucked the smoke out of the tent, carried it away. Wolfram could breathe again. He heard Kolost gulp air in relief.
Looking into the flames, he saw the Children…
The Children of Dunner each took turns being the bearer of the Sovereign Stone. Every day, a different Child wore the stone. This night, Fenella was the bearer. A sickly child, Fenella had been abandoned in the city of Saumel. In leaving her behind, her parents were obeying the decree of the clan chief, who maintained that the weak child placed the entire clan in danger. Fenella had been given into the care of an elderly dwarf female. Her caretaker had just recently died. The ten-year-old girl was on her own.
By now, Fenella had outgrown the childhood illnesses. She was strong as any young dwarf. But that didn’t mean she could go back to her clan. She had no idea where they were, and they probably wouldn’t take her back anyway. Fenella took over the basket-weaving business of the dead woman and, though her life was hard, she was making do.
Weaving baskets all day left her only the nighttime hours to pay tribute to the Sovereign Stone. She never missed a night, however. She looked forward to the day when she would be called to go on the quest for Dunner’s grave and ask his blessing to become a Dominion Lord. Fenella knew this was her destiny. Dunner himself had told her in a dream.
This night, Fenella lifted the Sovereign Stone from its place of honor in the tent that was a temple and watched it sparkle in the firelight. Every time she touched the Stone, she was awed, humbled. She felt as if she could draw a straight line from herself to Dunner and from Dunner to King Tamaros. The hundreds of years intervening were as nothing, when she wore the Stone. The difference between a dwarven orphan child and a human king was nothing.
Fenella was a storyteller, and on those nights when she was the bearer of the Stone, she entertained the other Children with stories of the Stone and those whose fates were bound up in it. Although the stories were old, having been handed down from Dunner himself, Fenella breathed new life into them. The Children never tired of listening to her.
Fenella sat on the box that was an altar and made herself comfortable. Seven Children of varying ages ranged themselves around her. One, a boy named Rulff, was put in charge of guarding the entrance to the tent against intruders. The post was honorary. There had been only one intruder, in all the history of the dwarven Sovereign Stone, and that had been two hundred years ago, when a Dominion Lord, sent by King Helmos had invaded the sanctity of the temple-tent to ask for the Stone’s return. Still, the Children were always on the lookout for someone to try to steal the Stone. Rulff took his place proudly, a sharpened stick in hand.
Fenella had been feeling sad all that day, and she chose for her story one that always made the Children laugh.
The tale had been a favorite of Dunner’s. It dealt with a human child called Gareth, who was companion to Prince Dagnarus, and told of the first time Gareth had attempted to ride a horse. The tale was amusing to dwarven children, for, although some had never ridden a horse, they were all born to the saddle. They laughed heartily when Fenella came to the part where the horse bucked and the human boy Gareth went sailing out of the saddle, head over heels, to land in a hayrick.
Rulff turned his head. “Hush,” he said. “I think I heard something.”
He opened the tent flap, stared into the darkness.
“Someone’s out there,” he reported, and he sounded puzzled, for few people ever came this way during the day and none at all after dark.
“Maybe it’s another knight come to try to take the Stone from us,” said one of the Children hopefully.
“Maybe it’s your mother, Rulff,” said another, and he snickered.
“You get up on the box, Fenella,” said a third. “We’ll stand guard.”
Fenella, feeling proud and only a little nervous, took her place on top of the box. The other Children lined up in front of her, sharpened sticks in their hands. Fenella rested her hand on the Sovereign Stone and found reassurance in the feel of the crystal that always seemed to her to be humming to itself, as though the jewel had an inner life of its own.
She was listening with her heart to the Stone’s song, when Rulff gave a scream that was so horrible she froze up inside. The blade of a sword, smeared with blood, thrust out of Rulff’s back. A beast-man tore open the tent flap, barged inside. As the beast-man entered, it kicked impatiently at Rulff, impaled on the sword. His body slid off the blade and landed in a heap on the ground.
Two more beast-men shoved into the tent. One of the older boys made a desperate lunge at the beast-men with his sharp stick. The beast-man made a kind of gurgling sound that might have been a laugh and brought his club down on the boy’s head, smashing it open, spattering the tent wall with blood and gore.
Some of the other Children fought. Some screamed and tried to escape. Some stood staring, frozen in terror. The wicked swords of the beast-men flashed in the fireligh
t. Bodies fell, some of them headless, others stabbed to the heart. The floor was red with blood.
Fenella was the only child left alive. She couldn’t move. She stared at the slavering beast-men, their arms bloodied to the elbows, and she waited to die. One raised his sword, and Fenella shut her eyes.
A voice said something in a commanding tone, and Fenella did not die.
She opened her eyes to see the beast-men pointing at her and arguing. Their language was as horrible as they were.
The beast-men reached a decision. One walked toward her, his bloody sword in his hand. Fenella felt a hideous warmth wash over her, and she was afraid she was going to faint. She grasped hold of the Sovereign Stone, and the cold of the crystal helped brace her.
The beast-man knocked her hand aside. He grabbed hold of the Stone.
A flash of white light blinded Fenella. She could not see anything for long minutes except the blue afterimage of that flash. When that cleared, she saw the beast-man who had tried to take the Stone lying on his back on the ground, wringing a blackened hand.
Fenella was proud of the Stone for fighting the monsters, and her pride gave her courage. She stood straighter and stared at them defiantly.
Another of the beast-men tried to seize the Stone. Fenella was ready and she squinched her eyes tight shut. Even then, she could still see the blinding light.
The beast-man lay on the ground, shaking his head and groaning.
The beast-men glared at her and at the Stone, at a loss for what to do. One of them shouted something, and a fourth beast-man entered. This beast-man was apparently some sort of slave, for he walked with his head bowed and stood, cringing, before the other beast-men. This creature looked like one of the beast-men, and he didn’t, for he didn’t have the beast-man’s snout. His nose was more like the nose of a human.
The beast-men and the newcomer held another conversation. Fenella knew that the conversation involved her, for they constantly pointed at her and pointed at the Stone. The beast-man pointed at her hand, then held up his own burnt hand.
The beast-man said something in a tone of finality. He kicked at the slave and pointed at Fenella.
The slave picked up one of the sharpened sticks and approached Fenella. She thought that he was going to kill her with the stick, and she braced herself to die. Instead, he used the tip of the stick to gingerly catch hold of the horsehair rope from which the Stone dangled and carefully slide the Stone around so that it now hung down Fenella’s back.
Dropping the stick, the slave took hold of Fenella. He hoisted her onto his back, grasped her wrists around his neck, and, giving the nod to his companions, carried her piggyback out of the tent.
The slave’s nails dug painfully into Fenella’s arms. His strong grasp bruised her flesh. The smell of the beast-men, mingled with the smell of the blood of her friends, made her sick and dizzy. She felt the hideous warmth come over her again, and this time she let herself sink into it.
Wolfram watched the vision in the flames, and his rage burned hotter than the fire. Calming his fury, he paid close attention to all that was happening, listened closely to the beast-men’s talk, in the futile hope of hearing anything that might be useful.
The three spoke briefly in a language that was as ugly as they were. Wolfram could make out only a couple of words amid the hoots and whistles. He found, though, that he could understand the slave, who spoke the beast-man’s language, but the words came out clearer, not as clotted. One word this slave repeated several times, always with a show of awe, was the word, “K’let.” The word was easy to understand, although Wolfram had no idea what it might mean.
As the slave carrying Fenella left the tent, one of the beast-men accompanied him, probably to keep an eye on him. The other beast-men stayed behind to ransack the tent, searching for more treasure. They smashed the box and even searched the small bodies. Finding nothing, they snarled their displeasure and departed. Wolfram tried to keep track of them, but once they passed out of the tent, he lost them in the darkness. The fire in the firebox dwindled and died. The spell ended.
Wolfram gave a deep sigh. Neither he nor Kolost said anything. The sight had been too awful for speech.
When Kolost finally spoke, his voice was harsh, almost unrecognizable. “What were those creatures?”
“They are called ‘taan,’” said Wolfram. “I heard about them at the monastery. These are the same creatures who sacked Dunkar, killed many hundreds, and enslaved hundreds more.”
“What was that other creature, the one that looked human.”
“He was a half-human. A gods-cursed mixed breed.”
“I have never heard of these ‘taan’ before. Where do they come from?”
“No one knows. The Void, maybe. Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, brought them to this land, or so I have heard. They serve him.”
“Then this Dagnarus is the one who has stolen the Sovereign Stone, the one who is responsible for the deaths of the Children.”
“So it would seem,” said Wolfram.
“At least we have found out why there were only eight bodies. They carried off the ninth child. What will they do with her, do you think? Why didn’t they kill her?”
“You saw what happened when they tried to take the Sovereign Stone,” said Wolfram. “The magic of the Stone prevented them from touching it. They could see that the girl touched it and that it wouldn’t hurt her. My guess is that they think she has some power over the Stone, and that’s why they took her. Hopefully, if they believe that, they’ll do their best to keep her alive. And that gives us a chance,” added Wolfram, grimly determined.
“A chance for what?” asked Kolost.
“A chance to rescue her and recover the Stone.”
Kolost gestured to the embers that flickered in the firebox. “But this happened months ago. They could be anywhere—”
His words were cut off by a shrill shriek of anger and an all-too-familiar voice.
“I will go where I please! Keep your filthy hands off me. Wolfram! Come out here this minute! I said don’t touch me, you dwarf, you. If you do, I’ll swear you’ll be sorry. You don’t want to see me angry—”
“The Wolf save us. It’s Ranessa!” Wolfram groaned, and raced out of the tent.
RANESSA! DON’T!” WOLFRAM SHOUTED, HAVING VISIONS OF her shifting into a dragon right there in the middle of the plaza. “Ranessa?”
He looked around, bewildered. He heard her voice, but he couldn’t see her. Then a dwarf female with long, untidy black hair came storming toward him, brandishing her fists at the other dwarves, who were attempting to stop her and pausing every now and then to kick at them or take a swing.
At the sight of Wolfram, she cried, “Thank goodness!” and shifted to her human form.
The sudden transformation of the dwarf female into a human female achieved one objective. The dwarves who had hold of her let loose and fell back, muttering among themselves. Several raised weapons, and those who were not armed picked up stones and sticks.
“Girl, you mustn’t—” Wolfram began.
She brushed his words aside. “One of those things was here! I saw it.” She pointed. “It was standing right over there, near that tent you came out of.”
“One of what things?” Wolfram asked, thinking she might mean a beast-man.
“Like the thing that tried to carry you off,” she said, her eyes dark with anger. “Like the thing that killed Lord Gustav. What did you call it—”
“A Vrykyl?” Wolfram gasped, the hair pricking the back of his neck beneath his helm. He still wore his Dominion Lord armor, but armor hadn’t helped Lord Gustav. The Vrykyl had stabbed him right through it. “Do you still see it?”
“No. I was going to go after it, but these nincompoops wouldn’t let me pass. I tried to reason with them”—Ranessa rounded on the dwarves, who were slipping up on her from behind—“but the thing must have heard me shout, because when I looked for it again, it was gone.”
“Let her be,” Wolfram ord
ered, waving his arms at the approaching dwarves. “She’s with me. I’ll answer for her.”
The dwarves eyed him askance, none too certain of him either, this strange dwarf in his fancy armor. Kolost came to back up Wolfram, assured the dwarves that he had the situation well in control. The dwarves retreated, but they kept a suspicious watch on Ranessa and on Wolfram.
“What is she upset about?” Kolost asked.
“There was a Vrykyl here,” said Wolfram. “One of those Void knights I was telling you about. He was listening at the tent.”
“If Void creatures walk the streets of Saumel,” Kolost said grimly, “we will find them.”
“No you won’t,” said Ranessa. “He was disguised as a dwarf. I could see through it, but that’s because I’m a dragon.”
“Keep your voice down!” Wolfram said sharply. “We’re in enough trouble already.”
“So how do we find this Void knight?” Kolost asked.
“You don’t want to,” said Wolfram earnestly. “Trust me, Kolost. There’s nothing you could do to harm it. Just hope it got what it came for and that it went away.”
“But what did it come for?” Kolost demanded. “The Sovereign Stone is gone.”
The unpleasant thought occurred to Wolfram that perhaps the Vrykyl had come for him.
“You didn’t get a feeling that Vrykyl was following us, did you?” he asked Ranessa. “You know, the way you felt the last time the Vrykyl followed us?”
“No,” she said positively. “We were not followed. Besides, Vrykyl can’t fly. Can they?”
Wolfram didn’t think so, but he didn’t know that much about their habits, and he didn’t care to find out.
“What was it doing by the tent?”
“Eavesdropping,” Ranessa answered readily. “The Vrykyl had his head plastered against the side. He was listening to what you were saying.”
“Now that’s damned odd,” Wolfram muttered.
What possible interest could a Vrykyl have in his fire-scry? Wolfram couldn’t figure it out, and he decided he wasn’t going to let it bother him. He had a task ahead of him. He would concentrate on that.
Journey into the Void Page 33