Is the voice speaking Silwyth’s? Damra wondered. Or the Vrykyl who has seized hold of him? Or are they both so close that the living and the dead speak as one?
She was tempted to ask, but Silwyth kicked suddenly, savagely, at the corpse of the elf.
“We must hurry,” he said, and led them on.
It was about midday, or so they guessed, when they reached one of the ramps that ran from the second level to the top of the high cliffs, where stood the magnificent Temple of the Magi and the wondrous palace, set against the backdrop of the seven waterfalls. They could hear the thunder of the water, though the falls themselves remained unseen in the fog.
The ramp had been carved out of the cliff by human magi, experienced in Earth magic. The ramp did not lead straight up the cliff, for the grade would have been too steep for wagons and pedestrians. Instead, it made a gentle curve that wound round the face of the rock.
On a bright and sunny day in Old Vinnengael, walking up this ramp would have been a pleasurable experience. One could have looked upon the vast and bustling city spread out below, the blue lake beyond, and upward to the palace, with its glittering towers and dancing rainbows.
The rainbows had gone gray, the glittering towers had fallen to ruin. The mists blotted everything from view except the ramp, which was slick and slime-ridden, pitted and crumbling, with wide, gaping cracks. Each person in the group knew that this ramp carried them to destiny.
What a strange and terrible path to lead us to the gods, thought Damra.
I wish I had brought some rope, thought Shadamehr. A few stout lengths of rope would make all the difference.
“Dunner walked this road,” Wolfram said to Gilda, whose spirit he felt near him. “I am walking in his footsteps. I must do nothing to disgrace him.”
The shaman read the omens, recalled the Captain of Captains. The omens were bad for the humans, but good for the orks, or so the shaman said. Omens do not lie, but sometimes they do not tell us all the truth.
“Are you here, my lord?” Valura called out silently to Dagnarus. “Do you lie in readiness? I bring you the gift you have long sought. They follow me like sheep, trusting, unknowing. It will be easy to take them by surprise. Tell me that you are here, my lord. Tell me you are here, waiting for me.”
No answer came. Only the rushing crash of the water spilling over the falls.
The climb was long and arduous, the rock so slippery and treacherous that in places they had to crawl on all fours. Their hands and knees were soon scraped and scratched, their clothes soaked, torn and covered with slime. They kept away from the ramp’s edge, so that a misstep would not send them plunging over the side. At one point, Shadamehr slipped and slithered halfway back down the ramp before he could stop himself. At another, they came to a crack in the ramp so wide that Wolfram, with his short legs, could not jump across. The Captain picked up the dwarf. With a heave of her huge arms, she sent the stout Wolfram flying. He landed with a thud on his stomach on the opposite side, the breath knocked clean out of him.
And as they climbed, a sense of dread fell on them, grayer and danker than the mists.
“What did you say?” Wolfram looked around at the Captain.
“Me? I said nothing,” replied the ork. “I need my breath for more important things—like breathing.”
“You said something,” Wolfram stated. “I heard you clearly.”
The Captain shook her head and continued climbing.
“What is it?” Shadamehr asked, alarmed, looking around at Damra.
“What is what?” She stared at him blankly.
“You touched me on the arm,” he said. “I thought you wanted something.”
“I did not touch you,” Damra said. Both her hands clung to a stone jutting out from the wall. “I don’t dare let go. If I did, you’d have to pick me up at the bottom.”
“Something touched me,” said Shadamehr.
“And I heard a voice,” said Wolfram.
Then they all heard the voices, distant, indistinct, echoes of shouts or screams from centuries before. They felt the hands, unseen fingers grasping, clutching, pushing. They began to see things, too, glimpses of movement caught from the corner of the eye, only to vanish when confronted.
“Let go of me,” Wolfram cried, taking a swipe at something with his fist.
He lost his balance and would have toppled into a crack, if the Captain had not caught him by his belt and dragged him back. They were near the top of the cliff. The path was here steeper and more treacherous, for parts of the ramp had been buried beneath rockslides. The mists closed in. They could not see the ground below, nor could they see anything above them. They seemed suspended in nothingness.
It was hard to move, to keep going. Unseen bodies buffeted them, pushing and shoving.
I can’t keep this up much longer, Shadamehr realized, gasping for breath. He shivered with the cold; sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down his neck. He lost two steps for every step he took forward. Then something struck him, knocked him off his feet. He fell onto his hands and knees on the rain-slick rock. The crowds surged around him. They were carrying him over the edge of the cliff…
Stop it! Damra pleaded.
Their voices clamored in her ears, all of them filled with terror or crying out in pain.
Please stop! I cannot help you! She pressed back against the wall, crying for them to stop.
The Captain struggled on, then the unseen force slammed her up against the side of the cliff, held her pinned. Voices shrieked and howled, so that it seemed she must go deaf or mad. Fists pummeled her, feet kicked her.
Walking within the Void, Valura could see what the others could not. She could see the screaming mouths and the panic-widened eyes, the battering fists and the bloodstained hands. The mob caught her up and swept her back in time to the night that should have been a triumph for her lord, but had gone so terribly wrong. Caught in time, Valura could not move. She fought and struggled, but centuries stood in her way.
“My lord!” she cried in silent supplication. “The dead have us trapped. We are within sight of the Temple, but we cannot reach you. Our path is blocked. If you do not come to my aid, I must fail you!”
But if he responded, she could not hear his voice for the terrifying cries of the dying.
Caught in the unseen tide of terror, Wolfram couldn’t see for the mobs that surrounded him, couldn’t hear for the screams that shrilled in his ears.
I have to get away from here, he thought, his heart swelling with panic. I have to flee the flames and the falling rock and the murderous soldiers. Death stalks me. I have to flee death and no one is going to stand in my way. These are not people who block my way. They are beasts, trying to save their lives at the cost of my own.
With a roar, he turned around and started to run back down the ramp, only to slip and fall. He lay on the ground, cursing and shrieking.
Shadamehr was on his knees, his hand raised in a futile effort to protect himself. Damra huddled in a crack in the wall, her hands covering her ears. The Captain fought unseen foes, lashing out at the gray nothing in a frenzy of panic.
“What is this that blocks our way?” Shadamehr cried.
“Ghosts,” said Silwyth. “Ghosts of despair. Ghosts of terror. Ghosts of fear. Held prisoner by the wayward magic, the ghosts endlessly scream, endlessly flee, endlessly try to escape the inescapable. None can withstand them. They carry all before them in a mad rush to an end that for them is nothing but another horrible beginning.”
A chill, pale light glimmered before them, burning like ice on wet flesh. The figure of a woman, helmed and armored, took shape out of the mists.
“Did my master send you?” Valura called out.
“I am come,” said the chill voice.
“That is no answer,” Valura returned.
“It is the only answer you will have from me,” was the response.
“You are a Dominion Lord. I can tell by your armor.”
“I am.”
“What are you, then?” Valura cried. “What are you called?”
“I am the Lord of Ghosts.”
The woman stood before them, clad in armor that shone ephemeral and beautiful as moonlight on a cobweb. Her helm was a mask of her face, set in the calm serenity of death. She carried no weapon. The dead fight no battles, know no fear.
When she spoke, the screams and clamoring voices went silent. She raised her hand, and the shoving, pushing, bashing hands fell limp. The ghosts halted in their terrible flight, fell back, gave way. They bowed before her, permitted her to pass.
The Lord of the Ghosts.
She passed the Tests for a Dominion Lord. She underwent the Transfiguration, and she was granted the blessing of the magical armor. But though her spirit was strong, her body was weak. Her heart burst, and she fell down dead before the altar.
The Lord of the Ghosts beckoned to the four Dominon Lords, motioned them to come forward.
“I have watched for you a long time,” said the Lord of the Ghosts. “And so have others. They await you in the Portal of the Gods.”
“Who is it that waits for us in the Portal of the Gods?” Shadamehr demanded, not moving.
“You wait there, Dominion Lord,” said the Lord of Ghosts.
“I don’t understand,” said Shadamehr.
“You are not meant to.”
“I will come,” said Damra, clasping her hand around the medallion she wore on her neck.
“We will come,” said Wolfram firmly. “Gilda and I together.”
“I come to fulfill the oath,” said the Captain. “And put an end to bad omens.”
One by one, they vanished. Only Shadamehr remained. He and the Lord of Ghosts. His ghosts. Ghosts of regret, lost opportunities, past mistakes, failures.
“I will come,” said Shadamehr, humbly.
That left Valura, in the guise of Silwyth, standing on the ramp with the Lord of Ghosts. The calm, serene face of hallowed death looked into the hollow eyes of the hideous, rotting skull.
“You cannot pass,” said the Lord of Ghosts.
Fear and despair filled the emptiness of the Void. Yet Valura did not falter. She faced her fear. She faced the Lord of Ghosts.
“You cannot stop me. Nothing can stop me,” Valura said. “My lord wants me. All this I did for love of him.”
“A love that dishonored you,” returned the Lord of Ghosts sternly. “A love that gave nothing and took everything. A love that fed on itself, fed on you.”
“Nonetheless,” Valura answered, staring straight into the cold and burning light, “it was the only love I ever knew.”
FOR MANY DAYS, RAVEN HAD WALKED ALONGSIDE LIVING DEATH IN the form of the taan Vrykyl. Perhaps prolonged exposure to that horror inured him to the terrible sights he witnessed in the ruins of Old Vinnengael. Or perhaps his years on the field of battle had hardened him. He felt cool pity at the sight of the innocents who had died, but a warrior knows that the god of war does not bother to differentiate between those paid to bleed and those who stumble unwittingly into his clutches. Raven felt nothing at all when he came upon the bodies of the unburied soldiers, except to repeat the soldier’s prayer in his heart, asking that he be spared such a fate or, if he wasn’t, that the god of war accept his spirit anyway.
He and K’let traveled a different route from the one taken by the Dominion Lords. He and K’let did not take the ramp. They could see the others climbing it, and K’let, with a gesture, motioned Raven to a stone stairway. K’let ascended it, and Raven followed. He did not know his fate, but he accepted it, made his peace with it.
Their destination was somewhere at the top of the cliffs on which the city had been built. Every time they halted, K’let turned his gaze in that direction. Raven had no idea what was up there. He knew little or nothing about the city. He’d heard tales of its destruction, but he couldn’t remember details. Cities under siege hold little interest for Trevinici warriors. Proper battles are fought in wide-open spaces, with armies charging at one another to meet with a resounding clash of arms. Flinging flaming jelly on helpless people trapped behind walls is not a Trevinici’s idea of warfare.
Whatever was up there, K’let was in a hurry to reach it. The taan climbed swiftly and eagerly, using both his hands and feet to scale the crumbling stairs. Lacking the Vrykyl’s undead strength and endurance, Raven climbed more slowly, with frequent stops to rest and catch his breath. He could feel K’let glowering at him every time he paused, and since meeting the taan’s dead-eyed gaze was not pleasant, Raven forced himself to keep up as best he could.
They were about halfway to the top when Raven felt the touch on his arm and heard the scream. He drew his knife, looked swiftly about. He saw nothing. The hair rose in prickles on his neck. Trevinici do not tell ghost stories. Their respect for the dead is too great, and Raven was not one to give way to his imagination.
“Cobwebs,” he told himself, and continued on.
The hands pushed at him and shoved him and tried to knock him off the stairs. Their voices dinned in his ears, howled and shrieked so that they nearly deafened him. He sought to ignore the unseen foe and continue climbing, but he was falling farther and farther behind. The battle sapped his strength. He gasped for breath. Every movement was a struggle. The stair seemed endless, the mist-shrouded cliff top high above him. Raven collapsed, unable to go on. He crouched against the stairs, beating at the unseen fists and feet, cursing and flailing at them.
A hand closed over his arm.
Raven gasped and shuddered and cried out in agony. The hand was the hand of a Vrykyl, and its touch was the touch of the Void. The hand burned with a dreadful chill that struck to Raven’s heart.
K’let’s talons dug into Raven’s flesh. Rivulets of blood trailed down Raven’s arm. K’let yanked Raven to his feet.
Raven tried to jerk his arm free, but K’let’s grip was strong, and Raven could not break it.
“Let go of me,” Raven said through teeth clenched against the painful burning of the Vrykyl’s touch. “I can make it on my own.”
K’let’s dark and empty eyes stared at him.
“I can make it,” Raven repeated. “The ghosts are gone.”
K’let stared at him a moment longer, then, with a grunt, he let go of Raven and began once again to climb.
Raven looked down at his arm. The flesh was a ghastly white in the imprint of a hand. Raven rubbed it, to try to restore some color. He could not feel his own touch, however. It was like touching the flesh of a dead man. At least, he could still use his hands, and he used them to good purpose. He climbed rapidly, fear lending him strength.
If there were still ghosts around, they held no terrors for him. Not anymore.
THE DRAGON OF THE VOID CIRCLED THE RUINS OF VINNENGAEL. He was enormous, the largest ever to walk upon Loerem, and he had been here once before. Descending on the ruins of what had once been the proud city of Vinnengael, the dragon had lifted the body of the monk of Dragon Mountain from the rubble of the destroyed Temple of the Magi. The monk had come to record the history of hubris and jealousy, treacherous ambition and blinding pride, heartbreaking sorrow, noble self-sacrifice, and the dragon had been sent to bring the dead monk home.
Shredding the gray mists with his black wings, the dragon settled upon the mountainous ruin that was all that remained of the Temple.
The dragon of the Void was the eldest of his kind upon Loerem and the only dragon wholly dedicated to the Void. How many years he had lived, not even he could say, for the passing of the seasons meant very little to him. He had been an elder dragon when King Tamaros was born. He had witnessed the rise of Dagnarus as Lord of the Void. The dragon had watched the fall of Old Vinnengael, had been the one to rescue the body of the monk from the ruined city so that the history of the moment should be preserved.
The dragon generally took no active part in mankind’s affairs, except as one of the five guardians of the monks of Dragon Mountain. The dragon of the Void had little care for
mankind, but he did find man’s struggles as he plodded along life’s brief path to be an endless source of amusement, thus he had agreed to become one of the dragons who guarded the recorders of that struggle.
Over the centuries, the dragon had watched another struggle—an eternal struggle, between the gods and the Void for the souls of man. The Void dragon had watched the tide of battle ebb and flow, with now one side coming close to victory and now the other. He thought it likely that neither would ever win (or should ever win, as the elemental dragons were wont to preach). Then Dagnarus looked inside the Sovereign Stone. He saw the Void and embraced it. He claimed the Dagger of the Vrykyl. The Void dragon was intrigued.
He foresaw that Dagnarus’s fire would not blaze up only to gutter out like the fires of so many others before him, extinguished by vacuum of the Void. The fire of Dagnarus needed no air. It fed on itself and it had the potential to burn long and bright. Through him, the Void gained power, and the dragon could actually envision a time when the Void might reign supreme in the world.
“The gods marshal their forces,” the Void dragon warned Dagnarus, as the Lord of the Void climbed down from the dragon’s back. “They have sent their champions to test you.”
Dagnarus laughed. “The gods only think they sent them. The champions come at my behest.”
The Void dragon was troubled. “Do not trust your friends, Lord of the Void. And do not underestimate your foes.”
“I have no friends,” Dagnarus returned. “And my foes fall before me. This day, the Sovereign Stone will be mine.”
“Eschew the Sovereign Stone,” said the Void dragon contemptuously. “You do not need it.”
“I do not need it,” Dagnarus agreed. “But I want it. Farewell, Wise Master, and thank you for bearing me to my destiny.”
The dragon was black as the Void that is the heart of the universe, around which all the other elements revolve. In his eyes was the darkness that surrounds the stars. Everything that is born, even the stars, must eventually fall into that nothingness. There the gods waited, with hands outstretched, to gather up the nothingness and cast it back into the heavens, where it burst into suns.
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