This monk’s name was Tabita, a spry old lady of about one hundred and eighty. She was a human, as are all the monks at the monastery. Although the monks place no stricture on race, and they accept any who are serious about dedicating their lives to the pursuit of history, few members of the other races choose such a life. All races, even those who are most prejudiced against humans, honor the monks and treat them with great respect. The elves find, however, that the tea that extends the lives of a human shortens the life span of an elf to a considerable degree, cutting off some two hundred years. The dwarves, though they like the notion of traveling the world, dislike the idea that they have to take time to write it all down. The orken, with their reliance on omens and signs and portents, are far too unpredictable to make good historians. Thus most of the monks are human.
Tabita had nearly reached the end of her life span. She was the eldest of the monks currently living and the most honored. Her body was covered with tattoos, recounting all the important events she had witnessed. Among them was the birth of King Tamaros, which had been recorded on the shin of her left leg. Tattoos covered all her body, including her face, which was so seamed with wrinkles as to make most of the tattoos almost unreadable. In death, the skin would be drawn taut and smooth over the bones—an effect of the tea, which prevented the body’s decay.
The crown of Tabita’s shaved head was still bare as that of a baby’s. On that portion of the body the monk records what he or she considers the most momentous event of a lifetime, and Tabita had yet to record hers. Many of the younger monks whispered that only when this event was finally set down would she consider her life’s work complete and so be able to die in peace.
Perhaps these whispers had reached the head of the Order, or perhaps they guessed what was coming and had saved her to record it.
“Tabita,” said Fire, for each head was known only by the name of the god he or she served. Fire was clad in a cloth of orangered. “It is time for you to travel to Vinnengael.”
Tabita bowed her bare head to each of the four and to the vacant chair, for the fifth—though absent—was never forgotten. She had been expecting this summons. “I will leave immediately, Honored One. And I thank you,” she added.
Tabita had not been a tall woman, and the tea and her vast age had shrunken her still more. Standing before the four, she seemed as fragile, as brittle and dry as a corn-husk doll. She wore only the simplest of clothing—a long piece of fabric bound around her body, rather like a winding cloth. The monks never wear cloaks or heavier robes, no matter how bitter cold or inclement the weather. The tea provides the body all the warmth it requires.
“The army of Dagnarus is on the move,” said Air, whose winding cloth was sky-blue in color. “It is a vast army comprising elves and humans, among them the fierce barbarian warriors, the Trevinici. Because the army is so large, their progress is slow. You should have ample time to reach Vinnengael ahead of them.”
“The gates of Vinnengael are closed and guarded,” said Water, who wore green. “The Portals are sealed, no one may enter from any of the lands of the other races. Since they refused to give up their parts of the Sovereign Stone, King Helmos no longer trusts those who were once his allies and has not asked for further assistance from them. No one in Vinnengael is allowed to leave by the Portals now, for King Helmos fears that they might be captured by elves or dwarves or orken and turned over to Dagnarus.”
“Those people living on farms around the city have already abandoned their homes and fled inside the city walls for protection,” said Earth, dressed in brown. “King Helmos is expecting your arrival, however, and the gates will be opened for you and your retinue.”
The four monks and Tabita glanced at the vacant chair, as if assuming now it must be filled, but it remained empty. Tabita bowed to each in turn, to indicate she understood and accepted their information.
“It is likely that you will be embroiled in a bitter battle, the likes of which have never before been seen on Loerem,” said Fire gravely. “The danger to yourself cannot be overstated.”
“I understand,” said Tabita calmly. “And I am prepared. The gods willing, I will have time to record whatever may transpire before I die.”
“We have chosen the best and strongest of the Omarah to accompany you. Both armies have promised to provide you safe passage through their ranks, but there is no telling what may happen in the chaos of war.”
“I am aware of that,” Tabita said. “To be quite honest, I grow very weary of this life and would gladly take my place in the Catalog.”
“The gods’ blessing be with you,” said the four simultaneously, and bowed to Tabita, who bowed to the four in turn.
A clanking of metal and heavy, heavy footfalls indicated that the Omarah bodyguard was forming in the monastery’s courtyard. Tabita had no need to pack for her journey, for the monk’s have no possessions of their own. When the monks travel, they live off the land—the bodyguards do the hunting and cooking—or they are fed by those they meet along the way.
Leaving the four, Tabita headed for the stables to choose a donkey. There was a small, gentle gray—a favorite of the old woman’s—and Tabita hoped that the gray had not already been appropriated by some other traveling monk.
She entered an alleyway that separates the main building from the stables. The alley is cloaked in perpetual shadow, cast either by the top of the mountain that looms over the monastery or by the main building itself. Sunlight never reaches the alley. Snow that falls in the winter remains all the year long there, though flowers bloom in the sunshine of the monastery’s gardens.
Tabita had reached the end of the alley, the stables were in sight, when a shadow blocked her way. The old woman lifted her head, fixed the shadow with a shrewd gaze.
A monk stood before her. The figure was tall and gaunt and, unlike the others, was shrouded in black, which covered every single portion of the body; even the hands were wrapped in strips of black. The face was not visible, only two eyes, which peered out of the darkness and yet seemed such a part of the darkness that Tabita almost didn’t recognize them as eyes at all, simply darker bits of darkness.
She had never in all her one hundred and seventy years in the monastery (she had entered as a child of ten) seen the fifth monk. She knew well that was whom she faced, however, and her bow was very deep and very reverent.
The fifth monk spoke no word, which would have been muffled by the black cloth covering the lower portion of the face. Reaching out a black-wrapped hand, the fifth monk laid that hand upon Tabita’s bare head.
The touch of that hand was cold even to tea-warmed blood. Tabita was chilled, and shivered. She kept her head bowed, too humbled to look up. The touch was withdrawn. She remained standing, head bowed, for several long moments and only when the shadow, too, was withdrawn and she could again see sunlight at the end of the alley did she realize she was alone.
She had received the blessing of the fifth monk. She had been embraced by the Void. Awed and profoundly moved, Tabita continued on her way to the stable, where she found, to her great joy, that those who tended the stable had received advance word of her need and the gray donkey was saddled and patiently waiting.
The army of Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, was on the march. The army was thirty thousand strong, formed of warriors from Dunkarga, led by their King, Dagnarus’s uncle; elven warriors under the leadership of one of their own generals, sent by the Shield; Trevinici warriors, always happy to fight no matter what the cause, but now hoping to firmly establish their claim to certain disputed lands; and a host of mercenary soldiers who had been lured to Dagnarus’s banner by money and the promise of rich looting.
The mercenaries were led by Shakur, a commander so fell that even the most callous and cruel warrior, who fought only for love of gold, and generally cared not a hang about orders, the type who would just as soon stab a commander in the back as salute him, cringed and knuckled their foreheads respectfully whenever the Vrykyl approached.
The army had spent the year camped on the vast open grassy plains outside the city of Dalon’Ren, on the eastern border of Dunkarga. Dagnarus made no move to conceal his might; rather, he flaunted it, well knowing the value of demoralizing the enemy. He knew Helmos’s spies were watching him, and he welcomed them. Let them return and describe the vast host assembled to attack Vinnengael. Let the people worry and fret and gnaw at their hearts. Let the merchants quit coming, the trade fall to nothing, the economy falter. Let the city weaken from within, so that it would fall more readily when attacked from without.
Thus did Dagnarus deliberately delay his attack. When all in Vinnengael expected him to come roaring down upon them soon after he had escaped Lord Mabreton, Dagnarus let them sweat upon the battlements, while he trained his warriors at his leisure. Occasionally he would assemble his army, gather in supplies, load up the wagons, and appear to be on the verge of marching. He would receive reports from his own spies that the inhabitants of Vinnengael, hearing Dagnarus was on the move, were laying in supplies, preparing for a siege. He heard reports of farmers fleeing their fields, reports of the soldiers manning the walls. At the last moment, he would announce to his troops that this had all been an exercise. The next morning, they were back to drilling in the grassy fields as usual.
Twice more, he made this feint. His soldiers had found it amusing at first, though now they were starting to chafe and champ at the bit. Dagnarus could not hold them much longer, but he didn’t need to hold them much longer. He knew—everyone in the world knew—that Vinnengael’s so-called allies had refused to give up their portions of the Sovereign Stone.
Vinnengael was on its own, left to watch the horizon to the west in fear that slowly gave way to weariness and weariness that slowly began to give way to despair—a city under siege and not an enemy within one hundred miles.
With the end of summer, when the harvest had been gathered in, so that all his troops had to do was take what they wanted from full granaries and storehouses, he gave the order for his army to prepare to march. This time, everyone knew he meant it.
“We launch a two-pronged assault,” he told his generals, gathered together in the black-bannered command tent. “Here and here.” He pointed to a map, spread out on a large table.
He wore his black, shining, bestial armor, though not the helm, so that his commanders could see his face and be aware of his determination, his fierce resolution. Valura stood at his side, armored and helmed. Few ever saw her face, and those who did regretted it, for they would see that beautiful and terrible visage in their dreams ever after. She was always at Dagnarus’s side, his bodyguard.
Silwyth was now his lord’s aide-de-camp and liaison between Dagnarus and his elven troops, helping to smooth out many little difficulties and misunderstandings natural between two cultures. Silwyth was present this day as translator.
Gareth was also in attendance. He had gathered about him sorcerers, those who had embraced the Void. Shunned and persecuted by people who either knew or suspected what they were, the sorcerers found not only refuge in Dagnarus’s army, but monetary reward and respect for their talents. Though Gareth was among the youngest in years, he was one of the eldest in Void magic, for he had been studying it since he was a child, while most of the others had come to it in their adult years. For the first time in his life, people regarded Gareth with respect—including Dagnarus.
“Part of our forces will attack the city from the north. That is the direction from which they expect us to come, and we do not want to disappoint them. Their main defenses will be concentrated there.”
“That is because that is the only direction from which we can attack, Your Highness,” stated the elven general, not bothering to conceal his scorn. “The remainder of the city is guarded by sheer cliffs and waterfalls. The Portals have been sealed off by the magi, their magic no longer works. And, therefore, I am completely opposed to splitting our forces! We will need every man we have and probably wish we had twice the number to breach their defenses at the north wall.”
“A two-pronged attack,” Dagnarus repeated, his voice grating. His cold, dark eyes never wavered, never blinked. “We hit here at the north wall. We let them think that is the main thrust of our assault. But the real attack will come from here.” He laid his finger upon the line that marked the winding path of the broad and swift-flowing River Hammerclaw.
“You’re mad!” the elf scoffed, nothing daunted by Dagnarus’s baleful gaze. “Do you plan to have us plunge down the waterfalls? Are we to capture the city by dashing ourselves to pieces on the rocks below? Or perhaps you plan to drink up the river,” he added, mocking. The elven officers accompanying him laughed dutifully at their commander’s wit.
“That is exactly what I plan to do,” Dagnarus replied gravely, with a glance at Gareth, who bowed. The elves ceased their laughter, looked grim.
“I will have nothing to do with Void magic,” their commander stated.
“I would not ask you to,” Dagnarus returned. “Your forces, along with Shakur’s, will attack the north wall, draw their attention, and keep it.”
The elven general continued to cavil and finally left without committing himself or his forces. Nominally, the elves were fighting for the Shield, not for Dagnarus, as the elves were constantly reminding him, leading him to wonder more than once if their alliance was worth the trouble and causing Silwyth to spend much time in negotiations.
In this instance, Silwyth came back to Dagnarus’s tent several hours after the initial meeting. “General Urul has agreed to the plan, Your Highness,” Silwyth reported. “He was mainly quibbling in order to save face before his men. I made a few meaningless concessions to him, concessions that may easily be withdrawn if you so choose. He no longer opposes you.”
“The Void take him and all elves,” Dagnarus muttered, drinking off a glass of wine. “Present company excluded, of course.”
Silwyth bowed and silently poured His Highness another cup.
Dagnarus was drinking a great deal of wine these days. He began when he woke and continued to his final cupful to lure the sleep that would not come to him sober. The wine had no effect on him that anyone could tell, no matter how much he drank, and he drank enough to have sent an ordinary human to an early grave. The wine never cheered him, never brought a spark of light to his shadowed eyes, never brought a smile to his lips. He did not even seem to relish the taste, but drank it down uncaring.
It was as if he were pouring the wine into the Void, Gareth often thought to himself. Pouring it into the Void that had become Dagnarus.
“Are the sorcerers ready?” Dagnarus asked, emptying his cup and holding it out for more.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Gareth replied, biting his tongue, knowing that to remonstrate with the prince about his overindulgence in wine was less than useless. Such remonstrations in the past had brought down on him either a furious tirade or a sullen refusal to speak at all. “I must tell Your Highness that a spell of this magnitude has never, to my knowledge, been cast before. I have no idea what its effects will be, nor its long-term ramifications. Its casting will demand every bit of magical energy each of us possesses. We will all of us be weakened after the casting to the extent that I doubt if any of us will be able to cast another spell for a long period of time. There is a possibility that some of us may die—”
“There’s a possibility that all of us may die,” Dagnarus returned. “A hazard of war, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He looked up, his dark eyes flashing with a spark not even the wine could drown. “Are your precious sorcerers a bunch of damn cowards?”
Gareth sighed. “I only wished to apprise you of the situation and to let you know that if you use us to cast this one large spell, we will be of no further use to you afterward.”
“So long as you cast that one spell and you cast it well and it works”—Dagnarus laid emphasis upon the word—“the Void may take all your sorcerers and welcome. Victory will be mine.”
Gareth knew the next
request was hopeless and that he risked incurring the prince’s ire, but he owed it to Helmos to at least try.
“Your Highness, may I suggest that it would be only fair to warn your brother of what we intend to do, give him a chance to surrender the city. You’ll save thousands of lives—”
Dagnarus laughed. The laughter, soaked in wine, was mirthless and grating and terrible to hear. The prince’s anger would have been far easier to bear than that unearthly laugh.
“Do you honestly think that my dear brother would surrender to me? Allow a ‘demon of the Void’ to rule in his stead? What a chump you are, Patch! It is no wonder I keep you around. You are the only one who can amuse me anymore. I should make you my fool, not my whipping boy.”
Gareth bowed and left the tent, so angry he dared not trust himself to speak. He knew quite well that Dagnarus was right, Helmos would never surrender, and Gareth did not know which brother angered him the most. Dagnarus for speaking the truth, or Helmos for refusing to see it.
That night, the night before the army marched out, Gareth lay in his bed, listening to Dagnarus and Valura talking in low voices, making plans for how they would rule Vinnengael as King and Queen.
At length Dagnarus’s voice died away. Gareth knew what he would find if he walked into the prince’s tent, and the knowledge did nothing to contribute to his peace of mind. He would find the Vrykyl, encased in her black and shining armor, standing over the bed of her lover, guarding his wine-sodden, troubled sleep.
Well of Darkness Page 49