“I’ll cut you loose,” said Raven coolly. “But I won’t fight. I could never wash away the yellow of your coward’s blood.”
He sliced through Klendist’s bonds. Klendist rubbed his wrists and looked about for his sword. He saw it lying nearby.
“I will take your horse,” Raven was saying. “A noble animal, far too noble to bear the likes of you—”
Klendist made a leap for his weapon. His hand closed over the hilt. He swung himself around, swinging the sword at the same time. Raven ducked the wild, slashing blow. His foot slammed into Klendist’s groin, doubled him over. Klendist fell into the dirt, lay there clutching himself, rolling about in agony.
“I would not stay here long,” Raven advised. “Taan scouts will be out on patrol. You won’t want them to find you.”
“You’ll be sorry for this,” Klendist gasped. “I’ll remember you, don’t think I won’t. There’ll be rewards out for your head, Trevinici. Every bounty hunter from here to Dunkarga and back will be on the lookout for you, you damn gig-humper.”
“You’ve already wasted a lot of valuable time,” said Raven.
Picking up Klendist’s sword, Raven swung himself up onto Klendist’s horse. With a smile and a mocking salute, the Trevinici rode off and was soon lost to sight among the hills.
Left alone, lying on the blood-soaked ground, Klendist took stock of his situation. He thought about Shakur. He thought about the taan scouts. Klendist decided that the Trevinici’s advice was sound. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself to his feet. Massaging his burning member, he staggered off, heading northward.
Klendist had a lot of ground to cover this day. Not only did he have to escape the taan.
He had to escape Shakur.
TOWARD MIDDAY, RAVEN, MOUNTED ON HORSEBACK, RODE INTO Dag-ruk’s camp. His half-taan tribe followed him on foot, leading horses behind them. All was silent in the taan camp, except for the moans of the dying prisoners, staked out in the tall grass. The taan warriors gathered around Raven, but said nothing, made no move. The warriors eyed the bodies that the half-taan brought with them, eyed the horses that the half-taan led, the bloodstained weapons they carried. They noted that the half-taan walked with heads held high, walked proudly, as would a taan.
Raven did not deign to look at any of the warriors. He kept his gaze fixed on Dag-ruk’s tent.
She emerged, as Raven rode up to the front of her tent. He dismounted, stood facing her. Dur-zor came hurrying up to translate. She did not kneel to Dag-ruk, as she would have once done. She stood proudly at Raven’s side.
Dag-ruk looked at the bodies of the humans. She looked at the half-taan. She looked, last, at Raven.
“These humans escaped your warriors,” Raven told her. “They were going to regroup, attack your camp again. We stopped them.”
Dag-ruk’s eyes flickered. She seemed uncertain how to respond. She could not deny that some of the humans had managed to escape, nor could she deny that the half-taan had brought them down. Raven waited for her to say something and, when it became clear she had nothing to say, he remounted his horse. Reaching down his hand, he caught hold of Dur-zor and pulled her up behind him.
“We are returning to our camp now,” he said, “to celebrate our victory and to put the dead to rest.”
Dag-ruk found her voice. “They are strong food. Your warriors will dine well this night.”
Raven understood the compliment, and he was immensely pleased by it. He was careful not to show his pleasure, however.
“We will dine on the wild boar we killed yesterday,” he said. His gaze went to the six taan who had tried to steal it. “The dead we will bury.”
“That is not the way of the taan,” Dag-ruk said coldly.
“No,” said Raven, “but it is the way of the half-taan.”
K’let returned to the taan camps the morning after the raid. He cast a curious gaze at the human prisoners as he walked through the camp. K’let said nothing, asked no questions until he reached his tent. Immediately on arrival, he sent for Derl.
The aged, wizened shaman had been on the lookout for K’let, and he responded to the summons with eager alacrity. K’let took his preferred form, that of the albino taan he had been in life. He met Derl with a frown, for the shaman had to be assisted into the tent, leaning on the strong shoulder of one of his assistants.
“What have you done to yourself?” K’let demanded.
“I was injured in the battle last night,” Derl replied, with a proud glint in his eye. “A twisted ankle, nothing more.”
“He was leading the attack, Kyl-sarnz,” said the assistant. “He killed many before he slipped in some blood and went sprawling. Fortunately, the warriors found him and carried him to safety.”
“That the day should come when I have to be carried to safety,” Derl muttered, irate.
“Still, they did well,” said K’let. “I cannot afford to lose you, my friend. Now of all times. Leave us, Shaman. I will take care of him.”
The shaman deposited Derl gently upon the floor. The elderly taan appeared so frail and fragile that it seemed his bones might snap at a touch. K’let did not make a fuss over him, for that would have disgraced both of them. He ordered that strong food be brought to Derl and encouraged him to eat in order to regain his strength.
Derl had long ago lost any appetite for food of any kind, but he ate a little to do honor to his host.
“What happened here?” K’let asked, when Derl had shoved away his bowl.
“A human raiding party,” said Derl, and that was all that needed to be said on the subject. “But what of your mission, K’let? Do you have the Sovereign Stone?”
“No,” K’let replied.
“No?” Derl was disappointed. “Did Tash-ket fail in his mission?”
“He did not fail,” K’let said. “He obtained the Stone from the gdsk. I could have taken it. I chose not to.”
“But, K’let, your plan…” Derl was bewildered.
“My plan.” K’let chuckled. “Why settle for one Stone when I can have all four and Dagnarus into the bargain?”
Derl stared, amazed.
K’let was pleased with himself. He started to slap Derl on the knee, thought better of it. He might break something. He contented himself with tapping Derl on the chest.
“You have always said that the gods of the taan are with us, even in this strange land. You are right. I was on my way to meet with Tash-ket to obtain the Stone, when I came across Shakur. It seems that Dagnarus discovered that Tash-ket had stolen the Stone in my name. Dagnarus was furious, and he sent Shakur after me.”
“Shakur!” Derl spit on the ground. “Did you dispatch him to the Void where he belongs?”
“Shakur is a slave,” said K’let with contempt. “What honor is there in fighting a slave? It is his master I seek.”
“And you have found a way?”
“I have. The gods brought me in time to overhear Shakur tell one of his human toads that Dagnarus has set a trap for the four Sovereign Stones. Even now, chosen warriors of each race bring the stones to Old Vinnengael. And there, too, comes Dagnarus. The gods are with us, Derl,” said K’let, nodding. “The gods are with us.”
“We will give thanks this night to L’K’kald and Lokmirr for it is their hands I see in this,” Derl said, nodding wisely. “Are you certain that this Stone means so much to Dagnarus that he will come for it?”
“All that he has done in this land, all the blood of our people that he has spent has gone to gain him this one object, this Stone. He will come for it.”
“This Stone must have very powerful magicks,” said Derl, his watery eyes shining with greed. “Perhaps you do wrong to give it up.”
“Bah!” K’let gave a snort. “Xkes magic. Worthless. The Dagger of the Vrykyl, now. That is Void magic. With it, I will create an army of kyl-sarnz. When we go back to our own land, we will be invincible. None can stand against us.”
“What do we do now? What are your orders?”
“Your slave!” Derl rubbed his withered hands. “I know who one will be…”
K’let gave a hooting laugh. “Dagnarus will serve me for a change. Eternity will not be long enough for my pleasure at the sight of him kneeling before me.”
“But who will be your other Vrykyl?” Derl asked. He bowed his head. “I hope that one day you will so honor me, yet, I feel that I still may be of some use to you alive—”
“Not you, my friend,” said K’let, resting his hand on Derl’s shoulder. “Someday, as you say, but not now. You must take us back to the gods, back to the old ways.”
“Then who?”
K’let rose to his feet. Going to the tent’s entrance, he parted the flap. “Send for the human, R’vn. Tell him to bring food and water and his weapon. I have a journey to make, and he will accompany me. We are going to the City of Ghosts.”
Dur-zor and the other half-taan were elated when the messenger arrived with word that K’let had chosen Raven to accompany him on his mysterious mission to the City of Ghosts. Dur-zor could barely contain her glee as she translated the taan’s message, and the other half-taan whooped and shouted and chanted Raven’s name. The commotion grew so loud that some of the young taan warriors of Dag-ruk’s tribe came running over to find out what was going on.
Proudly, Dur-zor told them. The young warriors gazed at Raven with admiration and envy. Some touched him in hopes that his good fortune would rub off on them.
Raven said what he knew that his people wanted to hear. He spoke of the great honor done to him, then he went into his tent to pack what he would need for the trip.
Dur-zor entered the tent. “Raven, the messenger grows impatient—What is the matter?” Alarmed, she caught hold of his arm. She stared at him, her face contorted in horror. “Raven! I forgot! The claim he made on your life…you can’t go!”
“I have to. This is a great honor. Dag-ruk would give every magic stone in her hide to have this honor.”
He smiled at her, shrugged. “I am a nizam, Dur-zor, and one of the responsibilities of the nizam is to look after the welfare of the tribe. If I go with K’let, the half-taan will be honored and accepted by the taan, even if I am no longer here to watch over them.” He picked up his pack. “You are nizam while I am gone.”
Dur-zor flung herself into his arms. “I will wait for you. I will be here. We will all be here, waiting for you. I will pray to the gods for you. I will pray to your gods.”
“I would like that, Dur-zor,” he said.
As he left the camp, the half-taan cheered their nizam and, to his astonishment, cheers went up from Dag-ruk’s camp.
Raven left the cheers behind, left all that he cared about behind. Looking back, he saw Dur-zor standing in the midst of the tribe, her tribe now. She raised her hand, waved to him. He waved back, then he faced forward. He never expected to see any of them again, and he was startled to find how much that hurt him.
He had gone about two miles when a dark shadow of enormous wings slid over him. Tilting his head, Raven looked into the cobalt blue sky.
A dragon flew among the clouds.
Raven had heard of these wondrous beasts all his life, but he had never been privileged to see one. He stopped walking to stare, entranced by the dragon’s marvelous, deadly beauty.
The dragon was far, far above him, but even at that height, he could see the sun shimmer on red scales, so that they flashed with fire. He could see the sinuous curve of the neck, the glistening tail, the slow dip and rise of the enormous wings. The dragon was too high to see him, save perhaps as a speck on the rolling hills.
The dragon flew on. Raven watched until it had disappeared from sight. He would never know that in that moment he had seen his wayward sister, Ranessa. Yet he knew that in some strange way, the sight of the dragon lifted his heart, gave him courage.
THE PEOPLE OF NEW VINNENGAEL WERE MAKING PREPARATIONS for the annual spring festival. They had worked hard to remove all traces of the taan invasion, repairing buildings that had been damaged, scrubbing the exterior walls to remove the black, greasy soot that fell from the skies after days of burning the bodies. They had washed most of the blood stains from the streets. The wounded were healed by now, although they would bear scars of the battle for the rest of their lives. Few would show off there scars or boast about them to their grandchildren. None was proud of what had been done that day. Everyone looked forward to the fragrant spring winds, which would blow away the lingering stench of death, and the gentle spring rains, which would cause flowers to bloom in the blood-soaked ground.
Even though the festival was yet a month away, shop owners sent out apprentices to cover the plaster walls with a fresh coat of whitewash. Sign painters repainted or touched up the colorful shop signs. Dressmakers plied their needles by candlelight, for every gentle lady must have a new gown to wear to His Majesty’s Spring Revels.
The sounds of hammer and saw could be heard from dawn to dusk, as the carpenters erected booths on the fairgrounds. Small boys were employed to walk every inch of the grounds, clean them of stones and sticks. The innkeepers and tavern owners and Hospitalers laid in fresh supplies, for this was the busiest time of year for them all. The Spring Faire attracted people from every part of Vinnengael. Merchants would travel from Dunkarga, Nimra, and Nimorea. Even in this time of civil war, elven merchants were expected from Tromek, and a few dwarf merchants would make the trek from Saumel. Ork ships filled with goods had already started to clog the harbor.
The weather might be gray and gloomy, rainy and cold now, but the sun always shone on the Spring Faire. People listened to the rain dripping from the eaves and closed their eyes and imagined warm sun and laughing children.
Times were good for the people of New Vinnengael. They were pleased with their new king, and they had reason to be. Dagnarus might have climbed over the broken, twisted bodies of hundreds to reach the throne, but, once there, he washed the blood from his hands and tried his best to do what he considered right.
“Someday, they will speak of King Dagnarus of blessed memory,” he said to himself, standing before the portrait of his father. “Well, perhaps not ‘blessed memory,’ for I won’t be dead. I won’t be a memory. I will be their living king, ruling through the ages, leading Vinnengael to eternal prosperity.”
He had long puzzled how he was going to explain the fact to his people that he would never age, never die. He could not tell them the truth, of course, that he lived on lives stolen through the Dagger of the Vrykyl. Already, since he’d been king, he’d found two people willing to give their souls to the Void in return for favors from their royal master. The favors they received were not quite the favors they had sought. The Dagger of the Vrykyl had found them both acceptable candidates, and now Dagnarus had two new Vrykyl, one of them a lord who spied on his privy council and the other a Temple magus.
Dagnarus decided to tell his people that the gods would grant him eternal youth in return for the safe recovery of the blessed Sovereign Stone. The Church would be appalled. He’d let them rant and rave, silence those who grew too tiresome. He had his supporters, and they would come through for him. Meanwhile, the people would see their young and handsome king standing with his hand upon the sacred Stone, all four parts together at last, as it was meant to be. In time, the clamor would diminish. His opposition would dwindle away. Those who were babes in arms today would grow old under his kingship and commend their children to him on their deathbeds.
All was in readiness to accept the Sovereign Stone. He’d ordered the carving of a new marble altar on which to place it. Curiosity ran high as to what this altar might be for, but Dagnarus would say only that it was destined to bear the greatest gift the gods had ever given mankind.
Da
gnarus was meeting with his privy council when he felt the Dagger of the Vrykyl grow pleasantly warm against his flesh. He carried the dagger with him always, thrust into his belt beneath his silken shirt. The warmth meant that one of his Vrykyl was seeking to contact him. Dagnarus hoped and expected it would be Shakur, for the last report he’d received from Gareth indicated that the four Dominion Lords bearing the Sovereign Stones were drawing near the ruins of Old Vinnengael.
“Gentlemen,” said Dagnarus, rising to his feet. “No, please, do not stand up. I must beg your indulgence for a few moments. I hate to interrupt our discussion, but I must make use of the privies. I do not know why it is that happens to me whenever we meet, gentlemen,” he added with a grin. “I’m beginning to think that is why it is called the ‘privy’ council.”
The members laughed heartily. They always laughed at the king’s jokes.
Dagnarus managed to rid himself of courtiers and servants and hangers-on, who continually dogged his footsteps. He recalled Silwyth, how adept he had been at filling the royal life with courtiers when they were wanted and shooing them away when they weren’t. The elven chamberlain had taught him all he knew about the intrigues of court life. Dagnarus supposed that elves had a natural gift for this sort of thing. His current chamberlain was an ass. Dagnarus made a mental note to contact the Shield and ask that he send him an elf to serve in this capacity.
On reaching the royal bedchamber, Dagnarus ordered his chamberlain to shut the door, ordered his guards to refuse entry to anyone. A modest man who was fond of his privacy, Dagnarus had built for himself a water closet for his own personal needs. In this windowless chamber, with its stone walls and stone floor and heavy doors, Dagnarus responded to the Dagger’s call.
“There is a problem, my lord,” Shakur said. “Klendist did not arrive at our meeting place. I warned you that he was unreliable—”
“What happened to him? Something must have happened.”
“I have no idea, my lord. When I went to their camp, it was empty. They had not been there for several days, by the looks of it. I waited another day, but they never came back.”
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