Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  As soon as his horse was at hand, Ulaf mounted and turned to head back in the direction of the crossroad.

  Jessan caught hold of the bridle. “You’re in no condition to ride, my friend. You’re half-frozen, as it is.”

  “I don’t have much choice,” Ulaf said. “I have to locate Klendist and see where he enters that rogue Portal. It’s the only way to reach Baron Shadamehr in time to warn him that if he takes the Sovereign Stone to Old Vinnengael, he could be walking into a trap.”

  “Eh?” Wolfram looked up, startled. “What did you say about a trap?”

  “I overheard one of the Vrykyl, the one known as Shakur, talking to a mercenary in the pay of Dagnarus,” Ulaf explained. “He said that the Dominion Lords carrying the pieces of the Sovereign Stone were told to take them to Old Vinnengael. According to Shakur, they’re walking into a trap set for them by Dagnarus.” A thought came to Ulaf. He eyed the dwarf with sudden, keen interest. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” said Wolfram. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned away.

  Ulaf looked at him in concern, but he was in a hurry. He couldn’t stay to discuss the matter further. The dwarf wasn’t likely to tell him anything anyway.

  “The gods go with you,” Ulaf said.

  His blessing went to all of them, but his gaze lingered longest on Wolfram, who met it stubbornly.

  Ulaf kicked his horse’s flanks and galloped down the road.

  Wolfram watched him go, gnawed his lip.

  “We should be going,” said Jessan. “I don’t like the feel of this place.”

  “The Void is very strong,” Ranessa agreed. “Where are you going, Nephew?” she asked diffidently.

  “Home,” said Jessan shortly. He found he could not look at her. It seemed very right, that she should be a dragon. They had always known something was wrong with her as a human. But he still was having trouble understanding.

  “The way back to Trevinici lands is long and dangerous,” Ranessa said. “I know. I rode it with the dwarf.”

  She shook her hair out of her face, made her pronouncement. “I will take you, Nephew, and the Grandmother and the body of Bashae back to the lands of the Trevinici.”

  Jessan looked startled, then dismayed. “No, Aunt—”

  “We agree,” stated the Grandmother. “The plan is a good one.”

  “Grandmother,” said Jessan. “You don’t understand.”

  “I do understand,” said the Grandmother irritably. “I’m old. I’m not stupid. She is a dragon, and she’s going to fly us back to our home. A home that may not be where we left it,” she added, cocking a bright eye at him. “Did you think of that? What if the tribe has picked up and moved? How will we find them? It would be much easier if we had wings. She”—the Grandmother pointed at Ranessa—“gives us wings.

  “I lost the stick, Jessan,” the Grandmother said with a little tremor in her voice. “I had to leave it behind. I don’t have any way to see the evil now. We should go with Ranessa. She wants to do this for you. She wants to make things right.”

  “Ranessa is a good soul, lad,” Wolfram added. “You can trust her with your life. I’ve done that, and I’ve had no reason to regret it.”

  “You want to go home, don’t you, Jessan?” the Grandmother urged softly.

  “Yes,” said Jessan. “More than anything else, I want to go home.”

  “Very well, then,” said Ranessa. “No more discussion. Jessan, you and the Grandmother—”

  “And Fenella,” the Grandmother chimed in. “She’s coming with us.”

  “Out of the question,” said Wolfram firmly. “Fenella is a dwarf. She belongs with her people.”

  “How will she travel there? Will you take her?”

  Wolfram was caught. He scratched his chin in perplexity. He couldn’t take Fenella to Old Vinnengael. And he couldn’t very well haul the child all the way back to Saumel.

  “It’s just…Well, I thought maybe I could…”

  “Were her people good to her?” the Grandmother asked.

  Fenella held fast to the Grandmother’s hand, her dark eyes fixed on Wolfram. He thought of the shrine, that was now empty. He thought of the Children of Dunner and the child no one had missed. He thought back to two other children, himself and Gilda, alone in the world, except for each other.

  “It’s up to you, Fenella,” Wolfram said. “Where do you want to go, child? Do you want go back to your homeland? Or would you like to live with the Grandmother and her people?”

  “Will you be coming back to Saumel, Wolfram?” Fenella asked. “Will the Sovereign Stone?”

  “I don’t know, Fenella,” Wolfram told her honestly. “I can’t answer that.”

  “I would like to be a Dominion Lord someday,” Fenella said. “But, until then, I think I would like to go with the Grandmother. I can always go back home, can’t I?”

  “Yes,” Wolfram said. “You can always go back home.”

  They picked up Bashae’s body in its soft cocoon, removed it from the litter. Jessan and the Grandmother and Fenella began to make the body ready for the continuation of its journey.

  Wolfram watched for a while. It was time for him to leave, but he was suddenly reluctant to do so. It had been a long time since he’d traveled alone.

  He walked over to Ranessa, who stood staring up into the stars as though she could not wait to be among them.

  “I’ll miss you, girl,” he said. “I wish you were coming with me.”

  “I have an obligation.” She glanced over at Jessan. “They were good to me. I didn’t do much to deserve it.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Ranessa smiled the ghost of a smile. “Even as a dragon, I could have been kinder, I think. Still”—she shrugged—“what’s done is done. I will take them to their land and help them find their people. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Where will you go after that?” Wolfram asked, an aching in his heart.

  “I need to be on my own for a while,” Ranessa answered. “Maybe a long while. Dragons are solitary beings, Wolfram.”

  “So are dwarves,” he answered. “Some of them.”

  “Then come and find me someday,” Ranessa said with a sudden, dazzling smile. “We will be solitary together.”

  “I’ll do that,” he promised.

  Ranessa leaned down, gave Wolfram a swift, hard kiss on the cheek, a kiss that burned like the touch of flame. She turned away from him, spread her arms and flung back her head. An expression of joy suffused her face, and the dragon’s face, the dragon’s wings, the dragon’s body shone in the moonlight.

  “Hurry up, Nephew!” she commanded. “We don’t have much moonlight left.”

  Jessan began to lash the pecwae’s cocoon onto the dragon’s spiky mane.

  “I’m sorry about Bashae,” Wolfram said.

  “He died a hero,” said Jessan. “Not many pecwae can say that.”

  No, thought Wolfram. And I doubt many would want to. He remained politely silent, however.

  “My people will take good care of the dwarven child,” said Jessan, adding in a low voice, “I will see to it that she is not raised by pecwae.”

  “Thank you,” said Wolfram, hiding his smile. “It was good seeing you again, Jessan. Or maybe I shouldn’t call you that now. Did you find your adult name?”

  “That will be up to the elders to decide,” said Jessan. “But, yes, I found it.” He paused a moment, then added somberly, “It wasn’t what I expected.”

  “It never is,” said Wolfram.

  Jessan nodded. He lifted the Grandmother to the dragon’s back, hoisted up Fenella to sit beside her. He climbed up onto the dragon, settled himself between the wings.

  Putting one strong arm protectively around both the Grandmother and Fenella, Jessan grasped the dragon’s mane with the other. “We’re ready—” He paused, looked back at the dwarf, and smiled ruefully. “We’re ready, Aunt Ranessa.”

  Spreading her wings, the dragon dug in with her
powerful hind legs, then leapt into the air.

  “Good-bye, Wolfram!” Ranessa called out as she soared toward the stars.

  “Good-bye, girl,” Wolfram said softly.

  SHADAMEHR HAD THE SENSATION OF BEING A CHILD AGAIN, BEING rocked to sleep in his cradle. He might have enjoyed it, except that for some strange reason, his mother kept flinging cold water into the bottom of his cradle, water that was continually sloshing back and forth. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she covered him with a blanket made of fish.

  He tried repeatedly to wake up to complain about this rude treatment, and sometimes he managed to do so. He would wake up just enough to be able to drink water that tasted of fish, eat fish that tasted of fish, and when he was starting to think he was sufficiently awake to sort things out, he would sink back to sleep in the waterlogged cradle.

  Shadamehr had no idea how long this lasted. Day blurred into night and back to day again. His sleep was dreamless and peaceful, except for the sloshing water and the smell of fish. No one hurt him. Indeed, they were very protective of him. Just like his mother. Despite that, he felt resentment start to grow inside him, and one day when he had been hoisted out of the bottom of the cradle and carried onto dry land, Shadamehr stared at a cup of water they shoved into his hand and tossed it away.

  “No,” he said groggily. “I won’t stand for this.”

  His words came out sounding as if they’d been mixed with mush, but apparently the orks understood, for one of them ran off to report. The Captain appeared. She stood over him, glared down at him. Shadamehr roused himself, looked up at her. She seemed to swell in his vision, then recede and swell again, and he spent a few moments blinking until she settled down.

  “Whash going on?” he demanded. His tongue felt as if it had got into the wrong mouth.

  “You have been asleep for six days. How do you feel?” the Captain asked.

  He gave her question a moment’s thought. “Well rested,” he answered.

  The Captain laughed heartily.

  The boat had been beached on the bank of a wide, sluggishly flowing river, where willow trees dropped dead yellow leaves into the water. One ork stood guard over the boat. Other orks were fishing or cooking fish. The air was chill. The winter sun shone overhead, danced off the water. Damra lay beside him, slumbering soundly.

  “Is Damra all right?” Shadamehr asked.

  “She is well,” said the Captain. “She sleeps, that is all. We have fed her and given her water. Do not worry.”

  Shadamehr cudgeled his weary brain, forced himself to try to think. Damra was there, but others were missing. He started to remember.

  “Alise and Griffith,” he said. “Are they safe?”

  “Your fire-haired woman and the elven omen-maker? I left them behind.” The Captain chuckled. “I have no need for bad omens on this trip.”

  Shadamehr winced. “You knew the truth about that?”

  “Of course!” The Captain was disdainful. “A shaman who can’t tell a god-given omen from an omen made by an elf wouldn’t be much of a shaman.”

  “Why did you go along with it, then?” Shadamehr asked. “Why order the ships to leave?”

  “It suited my plans,” said the Captain.

  One of the orks shouted something. The Captain waved her hand.

  “We have to go.” She pointed at the fish. “Eat your meal. You will grow weak otherwise. Even in sleep, your body requires food.”

  “Where are we going?” Shadamehr asked.

  He heard chanting and began to feel drowsy. They were casting a spell on him. He fought against it, but it was no use.

  The Captain took the food from his limp hands. The last words he heard were those of the Captain.

  “You know where,” she said.

  Again the enforced slumber, the smell of fish, the water sloshing around him in the boat, as he lay at the bottom, covered in an oil-slick tarp. Again the passage of time, slipping past him like the river water, the waking and wondering and eating, all ending with the sounds of chanting. The Captain did not speak to him again, and the other orks stared at him with blank expressions when he demanded answers.

  Then the motion of the boat ceased. Strong hands grabbed hold of him. A muscular ork flung him over his shoulder. Once he got Shadamehr properly settled, the ork wrapped an enormous arm around Shadamehr’s legs and carried him off as if he were an obstreperous child being hauled away to bed.

  His head and arms hanging down behind the ork, Shadamehr could see nothing except orken behind. His brain was still sleep-fogged, and he drifted in and out of consciousness. But the next time he awoke, he awoke fully, without the horrible sensation that someone had stuffed his head full of goose feathers.

  He sat up. His hands and feet were securely bound, but, checking himself over, he found that otherwise he appeared to be in good condition.

  “About time,” came a deep voice from the darkness, speaking Elderspeak. “I’m sick and tired of listening to you snore.”

  “I don’t snore,” Shadamehr returned with dignity, then added, “I wonder why it is we always deny that we snore. One would think it was some kind of terrible malady, like the plague.”

  “Who cares?” the voice said irritably. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Shadamehr didn’t immediately answer, for a rock was jabbing him uncomfortably in his posterior. He scooted his body into a more comfortable position and looked about. As near as he could make out, he was in a cave. Sunlight streamed in from a large opening about ten paces distant. Outside, he could hear the crash of rushing water—a far different sound than the gentle rippling of the placidly flowing river.

  Hearing a groan and a sigh, he wriggled around and saw Damra lying next to him. Her hands and feet were bound like his.

  “How very extraordinary,” Shadamehr said. “Her magical armor should have protected her. Strange. Very strange.”

  He wiggled his hands experimentally. Finding that the knots were secure, he gave a shrug. He wasn’t going anywhere, not for a while at least.

  “I said—who are you?” repeated the voice belligerently.

  “Are you a prisoner?” Shadamehr asked.

  “No, I’m here for my health!” the voice snapped.

  As Shadamehr’s eyes adjusted, he could eventually make out a short, squat figure, trussed up with ropes around his arms and legs, sitting with his back against the rock wall. Shadamehr could see nothing of the face, except a pair of eyes that gleamed with indignation.

  “You’re a dwarf!” said Shadamehr.

  “What has that got to do with anything?” the dwarf demanded.

  “Look, I’ll tell you my name. It’s Shadamehr. I was formerly Baron Shadamehr, but now I’m landless, pfenningless Shadamehr. I’d shake hands, but I’m rather incapacitated at the moment.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” said the dwarf.

  “Good things, I hope?”

  “I’m trying to remember.” A pause, then the dwarf said grudgingly, “The name is Wolfram.”

  “By the gods!” Shadamehr gasped in astonishment. “I’ve heard of you myself!”

  Something clicked in Shadamehr’s mind, like the inner workings of a water clock. It was only a trickle of thought, but enough to start the mechanism moving. He had the feeling that something had clicked for Wolfram, too, for he grew a shade less distrustful.

  “Do you know a Vinnengaelean named Ulaf?”

  “Do you know a Trevinici named Jessan and a pecwae named Bashae?”

  Damra sat up, stared down at her bonds in perplexity. “What has been going on?”

  “I was wondering that myself,” said Shadamehr. “Your magical armor should have acted to protect you.”

  “What magical armor?” Wolfram asked suspiciously.

  “Who is that?” Damra asked, just as suspicious.

  “For that matter, who are you?”

  “Damra, this is Wolfram, who was with Lord Gustav when he died, according to Bashae. Wolfram, this is Damra, the person Bas
hae gave the Stone to. It seems we have come full circle,” said Shadamehr. “I know how we got here, Wolfram. The orks brought us. How did you come to be here? Did the orks bring you?”

  Wolfram hemmed and hawed a great deal, but eventually his story came out.

  “So you ran into Shakur. You travel in exalted company, Wolfram,” said Shadamehr.

  “And you are lucky to be alive with your soul intact,” said Damra.

  “Your friend, Ulaf, is looking for you, Baron. He had a message for you.”

  “We’ll get to that later. When did all this happen?” Shadamehr asked.

  “Not long ago,” said the dwarf evasively.

  “If we are where I think we are,” said Shadamehr, “Mardurar is a far piece from here.”

  “If you must know, there’s a rogue Portal in the Meffeld Pass,” said Wolfram. “I took it. I’m in a hurry, you see. I inherited a manor house in the north—”

  “From Lord Gustav,” said Damra.

  “Never mind Lord Gustav,” Wolfram growled. “I was on my way to my manor house. I walked out of the Portal and the next thing I know, a shadow comes alive and looms up in front of me. Then the sun falls from the sky and gives me a blip on the noggin that knocks me cold. And that shouldn’t have happened, because—” He halted, clamped his mouth shut.

  “Because…” Shadamehr prompted.

  Wolfram remained silent.

  “Because your magical armor should have protected you,” said Shadamehr. “Just as Damra’s should have protected her.”

  “What magical armor?” Wolfram groused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t either,” said Damra.

  “He is a Dominion Lord,” said Shadamehr. “He carries the dwarven portion of the Sovereign Stone. And he’s not going to his manor house. He’s going to Old Vinnengael.”

  Wolfram’s jaw dropped so that they could practically hear it thunk on the cavern floor.

  “Here, now,” he said suspiciously. “How do you know all this?”

  “Because I carry the human portion of the Sovereign Stone,” said Shadamehr. “And Damra of Gwyenoc carries the elven portion. And, unless I am much mistaken,” he added, as the Captain of Captains entered the cave, “the fourth part of the Stone is with us as well.”