Dagnarus was taking a calculated risk in turning off the main road. His horse was swift and might have been able to outdistance those ridden by the elves. But the horse was carrying two people, as was Silwyth’s mount, and would not be able to keep up a racing pace long. If his plan worked, and the elves were thrown off the trail, Dagnarus calculated that he and Valura had only to lie low for several days, until the elves gave up the chase, and then he would make good their escape.
The outpost was built on a cliff overlooking Lake Ildurel. There the watch had once lit huge bonfires, which could be seen from the village and which warned of enemy forces traveling up from the sea by boat. Made of stone dug out of the side of the mountain, the outpost had been abandoned for more than a hundred years, ever since Vinnengael had grown into a major city, whose strong walls would protect it from assault.
The outpost’s small guardhouse was in disrepair, its walls crumbling, its roof long ago caved in. No shutters covered its windows, its single door, half-rotted away, hung precariously from rusted hinges. But the outpost would make an excellent hiding place. Few humans remembered the outpost’s existence, and the elves would almost certainly not know of it. Dagnarus knew of it only because Captain Argot had brought the prince there as a youth, to illustrate a lesson on the importance of the outpost to the defense of what had then been a large fishing village.
In later years, Dagnarus had returned to the outpost, using it as an informal hunting lodge. He liked to sit on the cliff and look out over the vast lake, the surrounding lands, and down into the city of Vinnengael. An eagle could not have a better view. From the outpost, Dagnarus had been able to spot weaknesses in the city’s defenses, weaknesses he planned on either shoring up—should he become King—or exploiting.
As his horse picked its way carefully up the steep trail, Dagnarus turned to make certain Valura was all right. He need not have worried. She reveled in the excitement. Her face was flushed, her lips parted in an ecstatic smile, her eyes glittered with pleasure. Once he heard her laugh, sparkling laughter that echoed over the rocks like splashing water.
Silwyth had been a soldier; he rode well and kept up with Dagnarus. Gareth had finally opened his eyes, only to see that they were climbing what appeared to him to be a vertical cliff face. He shut them again. Shakur had not yet returned. The Vrykyl waited behind to report on the elves.
The sun was setting on this strange and awful day when Dagnarus and his followers reached the outpost.
“I fear you will not find this place very comfortable, my love,” Dagnarus said, as he helped Valura from the horse. “But I trust we need hide out here for only a few days, until your husband tires of seeking us.”
Valura looked grave. “My husband will never tire of searching for us, my dear. Not if he were to live a thousand years.”
Dagnarus removed the black wolf-faced helm, shook out his sweat-damp hair. Silwyth was trying to persuade Gareth that they had arrived, they were safe, and he could dismount. Gareth opened his eyes, stared in shock at the river, which was only a ribbon of silver far, far beneath him. Shuddering, he looked hurriedly away. He tried to climb down off the horse, but he was so stiff and sore, his muscles so clenched with fear, that he slid off and fell heavily to the ground.
“The Shield of the Divine is my ally,” Dagnarus said, smiling in reassurance. “He has agreed to provide me men and arms to overthrow my brother’s rule. In return, he will have the border cities he wants. He will not allow the personal vendetta of one lord to imperil our alliance.”
Valura smiled sadly. “How little you know of us, my own.” She kissed him tenderly. “Silwyth will explain the situation. I am too tired to do so myself. No, my dearest, I can manage. All I need is a blanket to spread on the floor.”
“You do not even have a cloak,” Dagnarus chided gently. “The night will be cold here in the mountains. Ah, my love,” he added, taking hold of her hands and drawing her close. “What have I brought you to? Ruin, disgrace, danger. No food, nothing but a smelly horse blanket under which to sleep. You made a poor choice when you chose to come with me. You should have remained with your husband and denounced me along with all the others. At least you would be safe at home this night, warm in your bed with its silk sheets, eating peacock tongues and drinking mulled wine.”
“I long for those as the escaped prisoner longs for his iron manacles and his dark cell,” Valura replied. Her voice hardened. “I have been a prisoner all my life—first in my father’s house, then in the houses of my husbands. No chains bind me now except those of love, and those chains are made of forget-me-not and gossamer. Yet these chains are so strong, not even death can sunder them. If I die tomorrow, my love, my own, I shall die with a smile on my lips, for I have been happy this day. Happy to be free of our secret, happy to show the world how much I love you.”
He kissed the hands he held, kissed her fingers, and then kissed her lips. Against her protests, he accompanied her into the guardhouse, where he did what he could to make her comfortable. Silwyth went off to tend to the horses. A tumbledown stable located behind the guardhouse offered some shelter for the weary beasts.
Gareth was too shaken from his fall and drained from the day’s cataclysmic events to be of much use to anyone. He sat forlornly on a portion of the crumbling stone wall that surrounded the guardhouse, staring out at the sky. Long streaks of red made it look as if the sinking sun was grasping at the clouds with bloody fingers, trying to save itself from sliding into night.
He glanced up dispiritedly as Dagnarus approached.
“Well, was it worth it?” Gareth asked bitterly.
“The pain?” Dagnarus’s eyes darkened, his face blanched, his hand curled in upon itself in remembered agony. “I did not believe I would survive,” he said, after a moment, his voice harsh. “The pain of the fire was excruciating. I could see…” he paused, awed, “…I could see the faces of the gods! They were not angry, only sad.” He smiled grimly. “Odd, but I was reminded of Evaristo when he was beating you. The gods looked the same way as they punished me.”
He hesitated, as if he was loath to talk of it, but seemed to need to speak.
“It would have been easy to die. I wanted to die, to escape the terrible pain. But then I saw another face watching alongside the gods—my brother. And he was watching me suffer with a smile on his lips.”
“No, he wasn’t!” Gareth protested, shocked. “I saw Helmos quite clearly. He was horrified. He risked his life, trying to save you from the flames! The other lords had to pull him back, and even then he struggled to free himself.”
“Did he?” Dagnarus shrugged. “Well, perhaps I was mistaken. At any rate, he did save my life, for it was the sight of that smug grin of his that gave me the will and the strength to battle the gods. In the midst of the fire, I sought the darkness. I entered the darkness, and in its vacuum, the flames died. And the darkness rewarded me! Made me stronger than a Dominion Lord. Better than even my father’s creations.”
“Lord of the Void,” Gareth murmured.
“I feel its magical power inside me, much as a woman feels new life within her, or so I must imagine,” Dagnarus continued, ecstatic. “The power is young yet, but it grows with every passing moment.”
“You will need it to escape Lord Mabreton,” Gareth observed darkly.
“Hah!” Dagnarus laughed. “He’s gone off on the wrong track. He and his men are probably halfway to Tinnafah by now!” He yawned, stretched. “Gods! I am exhausted! I will go lie down with Valura for an hour or so.”
Dagnarus glanced down at his armored arms, the black breastplate. “Speaking of sleep, what do I do with this strange armor? It is comfortable—I can hardly feel that I am wearing it. The armor seems to be a part of me, like my skin or fingernails. Yet I trust I am not expected to keep it on day and night.”
“Your brother Helmos and the other Dominion Lords wear a magical pendant given them by the gods, Your Highness,” Gareth said. He, too, was suddenly weary, but he was afrai
d to sleep. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw the prince withering in that holy fire. “A touch on the pendant and a prayer to the gods causes their armor to appear.”
“I doubt if prayer to the gods will avail me much now,” Dagnarus said wryly. “I don’t suppose I pray to the Void?” he asked, doubtful.
Gareth sighed and shook his head. “No, Your Highness. The Void does not give unconditionally, as do the gods. The Void takes first, then grants the request. You gave your soul. The Void accepted your sacrifice and rewarded you with renewed life, the armor, and the magical power it confers.”
Gareth studied the armor closely. The armor conformed to the body, re-created the body. He could see outlines of rib cage and muscle and sinew and bone. In the center of the breastplate, over the heart, an emblem was engraved. The emblem was simple—four mandalas, representing the four elements. In their center, a single black dot, darker than the armor itself, darker than night.
Gareth pointed his finger, careful not touch the armor. “That symbol, Your Highness. Look at it.”
Dagnarus peered down. “I recognize it!” he said softly, awed. “When I was…dying, I suppose, I saw it! Black amidst the flame, the wheel spun before my eyes. What does it mean?”
“It is a symbol for the Void, a very ancient one. The mandalas represent the other four elements. In the center is the Void. Place your palm over that symbol, Your Highness, and wish the armor away,” Gareth instructed.
Dagnarus did so. The armor disappeared, seeming, to their astonished gaze, to dissolve into the prince’s skin, a drop of shining darkness draining into each pore, becoming part of his life’s blood. Dagnarus stood in the clearing, clad in the white robes he had been wearing during the ceremony. Around his neck hung a round pendant. Cut from a single, large stone, the pendant glittered and sparkled in the sunlight with the radiance of a diamond, except that it was jet-black. At his side was the Dagger of the Vrykyl, held in place by his will, attached to him by the magic.
Dagnarus regarded the pendant and the dagger with satisfaction, the robes with disgust. “A fine sight I shall look, riding over the countryside dressed like a virgin on her wedding day! Ah, here is the Vrykyl! What news of the elves?”
“They missed the trail completely, my Master,” said Shakur, bowing from horseback. “I waited, hiding in the Void, and watched them gallop past. Not one thought to look off to the side, so intent were they upon catching you on the road ahead.”
“Fools!” Dagnarus dismissed them with a gesture of contempt. He looked with interest at Shakur’s saddlebags. “I don’t suppose you have a change of clothes in there?”
“As it happens, I do, my Master,” Shakur replied. Opening the saddlebags, he drew out a leather tunic, a fine silk shirt, and woolen hose. He held them out to Dagnarus, who glanced at them disparagingly.
“A burgher’s clothes. Still, I suppose that will have to do until I can buy something better. What is that brown stuff spattered all over them?”
“Blood, my Master,” said Shakur imperturbably. “You ordered me to conceal the murder, and so I thought it best to leave no trace. I buried the body, but I brought the man’s possessions with me, intending to sell them later.”
“Silwyth,” Dagnarus ordered, “take these and wash them, see if you can make them fit for me to wear.”
Shakur lifted the visor, revealing the face with its dead eyes. The Vrykyl held out the soiled clothing to the elf.
Silwyth, his expression impassive, took a step backward.
“Drop them on the ground,” Silwyth commanded, making no move to touch them.
“Come take them from me, Elf,” said the Vrykyl, sneering.
Silwyth did not move. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “I will not. I smell the stench of death and decay on you!”
“His name is Shakur, Silwyth,” Dagnarus said, watching the confrontation with some slight amusement. “He is a Vrykyl, a creature of the Void who serves me—as do you,” he added, voice grating.
Silwyth bowed low. “I serve Your Highness. I am loyal to Your Highness, as I believe I have proven. But I will not serve this corrupt mockery of sacred life.”
Dagnarus’s face flushed in anger.
Gareth plucked at the prince’s sleeve, whispered hurriedly, “Don’t force the issue, Your Highness! Not if you value Silwyth! The elves honor death, revere those who have died. The elves believe that their spirits leave this life to go on to another, better life. The idea of a spirit imprisoned in dead flesh is abhorrent to them.”
Dagnarus’s anger simmered, but he said nothing to Silwyth. A new and troubling thought had occurred to him.
“Will Valura feel this way, do you think?”
“I should imagine so, Your Highness,” Gareth said.
“Then I will send the Vrykyl away. He can precede us, rendezvous with my uncle’s army. Shakur!” Dagnarus beckoned. “I have new orders for you—”
“Too late, Your Highness!” Gareth said in a low voice.
Valura stood in the doorway of the building. Her face was livid, and she stared at Shakur with an expression of revulsion and horror.
“Death!” she whispered. “Death is come for me!”
Her knees gave way. She sagged against the open door and would have fallen, but Dagnarus ran to her and caught her in his arms.
“No, my dear, my beloved!” the prince said. “Not death, but life! I have found a way to defeat death. This body will not die!”
Valura’s gaze shifted to the bloodstained clothing. “He lives by feeding off the lives of others!” She shuddered, closed her eyes. “I heard him say so.”
“In my cause,” Dagnarus emphasized. “They die in my cause. By the gods, they should give thanks! That their petty little lives are now exalted, made worthwhile in my service. You do not doubt me, beloved,” he added, frowning, annoyed and displeased. “You do not question my actions?”
“No, no!” Valura said, but she kept her face turned away from the Vrykyl and even lifted her hands to hide him from her sight. She pressed her head against Dagnarus’s chest.
“I did what I felt compelled to do,” he said, his voice cool. His arm dropped from around her. “Without this creature that so repulses you, we could not have escaped. Even now, we would most likely be at the mercy of your husband except for him. The Vrykyl’s strength is ten times that of mortal men, he does not have the weaknesses of mortal men, he does not require sleep or food. He does not need rest. In his death, he gave me his life essence! Thus I survived the fire that would have killed me. We are bound together, he and I,” Dagnarus added, his voice softening in awe. “His thoughts are mine. My thoughts are his. Should he travel to the far reaches of this world, I could still command him, and he would still obey me.”
Dagnarus gripped the Dagger of the Vrykyl, held it for Valura to see. He clasped her chin, when she would have turned her head away, forced her to look on the dagger, on him.
“Listen to me, my love,” Dagnarus continued, holding the dagger before her frightened gaze, “with this weapon, I plan to create more of these Vrykyl, as many as my father made Dominion Lords. Each one will give me his life essence and so I will cheat death. I will have the life span of an elf or longer. Think of it! You and I will not be separated. I will not grow old and die while you remain young and beautiful. We will be together always, and it is the Vrykyl who makes this possible. Do not curse Shakur. You should instead be offering him your blessing.”
Valura turned to look upon the Vrykyl, but she did so very reluctantly, very unwillingly. Her eyes met the dead eyes of the animated corpse. She blenched and shuddered. But she did not avert her gaze.
“Forgive me for my silly weakness, my dear one,” she said, through lips so pale and stiff they could barely move.
Dagnarus kissed her tenderly. “Come, love. This has been a trying day. You are exhausted.”
He assisted Valura back inside the outpost, only to return a few moments later.
“How is she?” Gareth asked anxiously. “
She did not look well.”
“The sight was shocking. My fault. I should have prepared her for it,” Dagnarus replied. “She will soon come to accept the necessity, but for now, she needs time to adjust, and that will not happen while the Vrykyl is present. Shakur! Ride to Dunkarga. Tell them what has happened. Tell them I have need of the army now. Find out how soon they can be ready to move.”
“I am constrained to obey your command, my Master,” said Shakur. “But I urge you to reconsider. Your Highness is not yet out of danger, and there are few of us to guard you as it is.”
“I have no need of any guards,” Dagnarus retorted. “The elves are off on a wild-goose chase. You will do as I command, Shakur. The Dunkargans must be immediately apprised of the situation. Helmos knows that I will turn to Dunkarga for support. My brother may have already ordered his own army to march upon Dunkarga in an effort to forestall me! I gave you an order, Shakur. You will obey me.”
The Vrykyl bowed. Tossing the bloody clothes at Silwyth’s feet, the Vrykyl lowered his visor, wheeled his horse, and galloped back through the woods.
“Well, what is the matter now?” Dagnarus demanded, rounding irritably upon Gareth.
“Nothing, Your Highness,” said Gareth.
“You think I acted wrongly to send the Vrykyl away?”
“I think he would have been useful, Your Highness,” Gareth said somberly. “We must keep watch this night and we are all dropping from weariness.”
“There is nothing out there to watch for!” Dagnarus said angrily. “But if it will make you happy, I will take the first watch while you and Silwyth sleep. And now make yourself useful. Draw water from the well and see if you can find something for us to eat. Silwyth, do what you can to wash the bloodstains from those clothes.”
Entering the outpost, Dagnarus slammed shut the door with such violent force that he nearly splintered it.
Twilight’s afterglow still filled the sky, but night was already starting to creep through the woods. Gareth had no idea how he was supposed to find food. He could use his magic to start a fire, but such magical light—bright and white as the stars against the darkness—would be a beacon to anyone searching for them.
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