Well of Darkness

by Margaret Weis

  The captain of the human armies had shown himself loyal to Helmos, but reports had it that the troops were much more likely to side with Dagnarus in a battle than with his brother. That might change now that Dagnarus had been shown to be a follower of the Void, but it might not. That would remain to be seen.

  Much would also depend on whether or not Dagnarus escaped Lord Mabreton’s wrath. If he did, and if he lived, there was no doubt in the elf’s mind that the newly made Lord of the Void would carry out his promise and attempt to become ruler of Vinnengael.

  If this happened, Vinnengael would be entering a period of civil war, and the Shield would be a fool if he did not act swiftly to take advantage the turmoil to snap up disputed border towns, perhaps acquire some new territory.

  As a Dominion Lord, the elf was pledged to peace. As a loyal follower of the Shield, the elf might be pledged to war. He wondered where he now stood.

  Helmos could read the elf’s thoughts as clearly as if they had been written in ink across his forehead. Helmos saw his danger and that of his people. Once again, he hoped the matter would be taken out of his hands.

  “As for Silwyth,” the elf said, finally answering the question that had been asked of him, “his crime will be judged by the Shield.”

  “What crime?” Dunner demanded bluntly. The dwarf stumped over to stand before Helmos. “Silwyth has committed no crime that I can see, except to remain loyal to a master he has served for over ten years! And what is Prince Dagnarus’s crime? Nothing but to fall in love with a woman of such peerless beauty that not to fall in love with her would be a greater crime!”

  “Dagnarus has shown himself to be a follower of the Void,” said Helmos.

  “The Void!” Dunner snorted. “What has that to do with anything?”

  The dwarf was upset, shaken, troubled. He admired and loved Dagnarus, and could not come to grips with what had happened to the prince—a fate the dwarf only vaguely understood. Dunner wondered what all the furor was about. Dwarves do not view Void magic as evil, as do humans. They take a pragmatic view of Void magic, conceding that it has its uses and its place, as does the night, as does death.

  “He should not be banished! His darkness makes the Dominion Lords shine that much brighter,” the dwarf insisted.

  “By his darkness we are diminished,” said Helmos, coldly, rebuking him. “And by taking his part, you are not worthy of the trust my father placed in you.”

  Dunner was offended, deeply offended. Bowing once, stiffly, he turned and stalked away without another word.

  Helmos did not realize the wound he had inflicted on the dwarf, and his unkind words were soon buried by other worries, by grief, by fear, by shame. The necromancers—those magi who tend to the dead—came to bear away his father’s body, to ready it with various magicks, prepare the body for the lying-in-state and the funeral. Helmos watched them at their duties, his heart heavy and sore. He was ashamed at his emotions, ashamed that he could not feel pain over his beloved father’s loss, but only anger. Anger at his father for having left his son to cope at such a time, anger at his father for having, in essence, created this new and dreadful Lord of the Void.

  The necromancers concluded their work. Composing the body, they covered it with a cloth of golden silk. The body would, by custom, lie in state in the central hall of the palace, for all to come and pay their final respects. Lifting the body of the King to their shoulders, the necromancers bore him away with solemn, slow, and measured step. The human Dominion Lords formed an honor guard, and the procession wended its mournful way to the Halls of Necromancy.

  The candle flames swelled suddenly in Helmos’s vision, the stone altar seemed to dissolve. He closed his eyes and reached out a hand to steady himself. He could feel Anna’s arms bracing him, hear her call out for help, but her voice was far away and seemed to be growing fainter and fainter.

  He was assisted to a chair—the chair of the Most Revered High Magus next to the altar. Sinking into the seat, Helmos pressed his wife’s hand, urging her not to worry about him. His vision seemed clouded with red, but then he saw that he was staring at the blood-soaked vellum, its words of fire burned black into the scroll.

  Repulsed, Helmos averted his gaze. The High Magus hurriedly retrieved the document, handed it to a subordinate, who took it gingerly and with loathing. The document was borne away, to be placed in the archives of the Temple’s Library.

  “Healer!” Reinholt beckoned. “Come attend to His Majesty!”

  The King shook his head. “No. It was a momentary weakness. I am already feeling better. And”—he sighed—“there is much work to do. My dear,” he said to his wife, “you should go to the Queen. See if there is anything we can do to ease her suffering.”

  Anna regarded him, troubled. “I do not want to leave you, my lord.”

  “I will be fine. I want to speak a moment to the High Magus. Go to Emillia. Take the healer with you. Give the Queen our deepest sympathy.”

  Anna left, not without several backward, anxious looks.

  When she was gone, and the King and the magus were alone, Helmos asked quietly, “Is it wrong, Revered Magus, for me to wish my brother dead?”

  Reinholt was silent, thinking how to answer that question. He did not want to lie, yet he wanted to bring comfort. At last he said, “The gods know what you must do, Your Majesty, and why it must be done.”

  Helmos managed a weary smile. “In other words, the gods may see fit to curse me, but I must bear it. For the sake of my people, my brother must die, and I must command his death.”

  “Perhaps the elven lord—” the Revered High Magus began, but without much hope.

  Helmos shook his head. “My brother draws strength from the Void. With that help, he survived the immolation, the fire from heaven. It is my belief that a single lone Dominion Lord will not be able to slay him. Perhaps all of us together could not even do so. Yet, that must be our task, should he return.”

  Reinholt made no reply. He had seen the elven Dominion Lords exchanging significant glances before they hurried off to return to their lands to report to the Shield. The High Magus had watched Dunner walk away, hurt and insulted. The ranks of the Dominion Lords were broken, split apart, even as Tamaros had split apart the Sovereign Stone. The Most Revered High Magus himself had seen the Void in the Stone’s center. He had looked away, but another had not. Dagnarus had seen it and been drawn to it. His father’s firm but loving hand might have saved his son, had he been there to advise him of the danger and pull him back. But that had not happened.

  Still, perhaps some comfort could be offered, after all.

  “Your father acted for the best, Your Majesty,” said Reinholt. “He did what he believed was right. Do not think mistakenly that this tragedy is your father’s fault. His only thought was to act nobly, generously by his younger son. Dagnarus took this noble, generous act and perverted it, defiled it. I have no doubt that young Gareth—the gods pity him—broke the vow of secrecy the magi take and revealed to Dagnarus the nature of the Seven Preparations. Thus he knew in advance how to answer, how to behave in order to impress us. He has forfeited his life, Your Majesty. The gods themselves have condemned him to death and, indeed, tried to destroy him with the fire. By the aid of the Void, he survived. If you kill him, you are as innocent of the deed as the executioner who carries out the King’s law.”

  A magus could be seen hovering in the shadows, not wanting to intrude upon the King’s conversation.

  On seeing the man, Reinholt beckoned him to come forward. “Your Majesty, here is one I sent to gather some information for me. You may be interested in hearing what he has to report.”

  “Let him approach,” said the King.

  The brother bowed to the King. Looking exceedingly grave, he said, “As you suspected, High Magus, the ancient chamber dedicated to the Void, which has been locked and abandoned for many years, has been recently reopened.”

  Reinholt shook his head.

  “High Magus, Your Majes
ty, I dread to tell you this, but…we found blood upon the altar.”

  Helmos lifted his head, stared. “Blood! Some animal…”

  The High Magus sighed deeply. “I think not, Your Majesty. If what I fear is true, this could explain how your brother survived the immolation. I do not want to say more now, before I have proof.”

  “At least tell me what you suspect,” Helmos said.

  Reinholt hesitated. “I would not cause you more pain, Your Majesty. And what I fear may not have come to pass—”

  “I must know now, High Magus,” Helmos said. “If I am to deal with Dagnarus.” He smiled sadly. “As for pain, I do not think it possible for you to inflict more upon me, even if you were to pierce me through with barbed arrows.”

  “Very well. It is possible, Your Majesty, that Prince Dagnarus has come into possession of what is known as the Dagger of the Vrykyl, a terrible and evil artifact of the Void. This magical dagger, when used by a person whom the Void has embraced, has the power to steal the life essence of the victim and grant that essence to the one who wields the dagger.”

  “May the gods have mercy!” Helmos cried, his face pale and ghastly.

  “In addition, Your Majesty,” the High Magus continued relentlessly, “the dagger that slays the victim also has the power to animate the corpse. There was once one among us, an old man named Zober. We suspected that he found such a dagger and took it away with him before we had a chance to stop him.”

  “An artifact of the Void!” Helmos repeated. “How would Dagnarus come by it? How would he even know of its existence?”

  “We had assumed that Zober was dead or at least had traveled to some far distant land,” said the Most Revered High Magus. “We should have done more to find him, to ascertain his whereabouts, but at the time, he was suspected only to be a worshiper of the Void. We had no proof. But now my guess is that Gareth must have run across Zober and obtained the dagger from him. As are all artifacts of the Void, the dagger would have been eager to be found.”

  “How did this Zober get hold of such a dangerous weapon?” Helmos demanded. His eyes narrowed. “How did he know about it?”

  “He would have found references in the library, Your Majesty.”

  “Knowledge like that should have been locked away, kept secret!”

  “Knowledge is a two-edged sword, Your Majesty,” the Most Revered High Magus replied in gentle rebuke. “Much that is used for good can be used also for ill. The juice of the poppy eases pain, but if taken in large quantities, it can send the person into a deep slumber from which he never rouses. Would you have us lock away all our books and manuscripts?”

  “Not all,” Helmos said sharply. “But it seems to me logical to destroy those dealing with such evil things.”

  “But only in such books, Your Majesty, will we find how to counter the evil and fight against it. Evil exists in the world, Your Majesty, as does good. Destroying the books does not destroy the evil.”

  “Well, well, that is neither here nor there now,” Helmos said with a touch of asperity. He rose to his feet, weary and dispirited.

  “You should get some rest, Your Majesty,” said the Most Revered High Magus, laying a gentle hand upon Helmos’s shoulder.

  “I foresee very little rest for any of us, Reinholt,” said Helmos. “I must make arrangements for both my father’s funeral and for my brother’s return at the head of an army. Let me know what more you discover about this accursed dagger.”

  The Most Revered High Magus bowed low. “The gods go with Your Majesty.”

  “My poor father,” said Helmos softly. “If he had known what evil my brother had done, he would never have ordered us to let Dagnarus escape unharmed.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not, Your Majesty,” said the Most Revered High Magus. “Your father was in the arms of Death when he found the strength to rise up and give his command. The gods alone are the only ones with the power to have restored him to life in order to issue that one last command.”

  Helmos made no reply. There was nothing to say. One could only ask why the gods would have done such a thing, and to that there was no answer that any mortal knew or could ever hope to know. He was about to step down off the stage, when he was halted, confronted by the Captain of the orken and his companions.

  “Yes, what is it, my lords?” Helmos forced himself to be patient.

  “I offered to kill your brother when he was a pup,” said the Captain. “The omens were very bad then. Your father should have listened to me.”

  Helmos had nothing to say to this either. He was too tired to try to explain, too tired for niceties that would be lost upon the orken anyway. Helmos was King now, with myriad burdens and responsibilities. He would have continued on past, but the orken took a step and blocked Helmos’s path.

  “My lord…” Helmos was starting to become angry.

  “The omens this day were good for the orken,” said the Captain.

  Helmos paused, regarded the ork closely. “Does this mean that you will not assist me in fighting Prince Dagnarus?”

  The Captain looked at the shaman, who shrugged her massive shoulders.

  “We will see what future omens have to say,” the ork replied. “But for now, the answer is no. We will be returning to our homeland.”

  “As you choose, my lords,” said Helmos.

  He left the stage, left the altar, and walked alone back to the palace.

  The Lord of the Void

  The new-made Lord of the Void met up with his Vrykyl outside the city gates. The guards permitted Dagnarus to pass through the gates, having no orders to do otherwise.

  Shakur did not ask for explanation, seemed to know exactly what had transpired. Dagnarus had noticed before that he and the Vrykyl had some sort of strange mental link, that the Vrykyl would often answer a question before the prince had asked it or say something to indicate he had been following Dagnarus’s thoughts. Dagnarus could also understand what Shakur was thinking and the prince had the impression that he could, with some effort, guide the thoughts of the being he had helped to create.

  “What says the King’s minister?” Dagnarus demanded, pausing a moment in their wild galloping, which had carried them out the gates in a rush.

  “The King of Dunkarga supports you in your endeavor, Your Majesty. An army of ten thousand men will march upon your command.”

  “Excellent. But, perhaps,” Dagnarus added, brooding, “my uncle will not support me when he hears the lies that will be told about me. Already they are calling me ‘demon,’ and you can be assured that my dear brother, Helmos, will do what he can to encourage that belief.”

  “From what I gathered in conversation with the minister, who is a trusted confidant, your uncle would not believe Helmos if he should make the claim that the sun shone in the sky. Not only that, but Reynard is ambitious, and ambition sees only what it wants to see.”

  “Then I will return to Vinnengael,” Dagnarus said, looking up at the men-at-arms, who were staring down at him with astonishment. He raised his voice. “Tell the King I will be back, and when I come it will be at the head of my army!”

  “Oh, ride on, my lord!” Valura urged him desperately. “We have spent too much time here already!”

  Dagnarus scoffed. “Helmos will not pursue us. He lacks the guts.”

  “But my husband will, my lord,” Valura said, her voice low. “I have brought him to shame and disgrace. He will not rest until he has caught us and avenged his honor.”

  “That is true, Your Highness!” Silwyth called. He pointed. “Look! Look there!”

  The gates were being closed behind them. A cloud of dust rose from the streets. Dagnarus could hear and even feel the thundering gallop of hooves, possibly as many as a hundred elven horsemen, all of them highly skilled with bow and arrow.

  It galled Dagnarus to have to run from his foes. Had he been alone, he might have stayed to fight. He felt strong enough to take on the gods themselves. But he had Valura to consider. She would be the prima
ry target of her husband’s rage and Dagnarus could not fight and protect her at the same time. Putting his spurs to his horse’s flanks, he wheeled his steed and raced off down the road. Shakur and Silwyth followed, driving their horses hard. Gareth, pale and shaking, rode with his eyes squinched tight shut, more terrified of the horse than the possibility of battle. He hung on to Silwyth with a deathlike grip.

  Lord Mabreton was shouting for the guards to keep the gate open, but Dagnarus knew that human soldiers would not be in a hurry to obey an order given them by an elf. There would be a delay at the gate, and this would gain him some time. He plotted his strategy as he rode.

  His first goal must be to throw off pursuit. His second was to find a position he could defend and that would afford Valura protection. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw that the gates were starting to once again swing open, but very slowly. The elves were bottled up behind the gates. The highway Dagnarus rode curved, rounding a hill, and the city gate was lost to sight.

  Dagnarus followed the highway for another few miles, then, finding the path he had sought, he wheeled, turned his horse off the road, and crashed into the forest. The others followed, their steeds slowing as they tried to break through what seemed an impassable tangle of scrub trees and thick undergrowth. The smell of sage, crushed beneath their horses hooves, scented the air.

  “Shakur! Cover our tracks!” Dagnarus ordered, slowing his mount but not stopping.

  The Vrykyl, his face invisible beneath his black helm, nodded to show he understood. He slid from the saddle while the horse was still in motion and ran back to the road. Using his immense strength, the Vrykyl ripped out the underbrush and began arranging the limbs and small trees to conceal their passage.

  Dagnarus pressed on, urging the horse as fast as possible along the path, which was overgrown and, in places, disappeared altogether. The trail was an ancient one that led to an old, tumbledown outpost, which the soldiers of ancient Vinnengael had once used to keep watch against her enemies.