Journey into the Void Page 11

  “She and Dagnarus know you are here in New Vinnengael. They know you visited the palace. The young king is a Vrykyl named Shakur, one of the eldest and most powerful. You fought him at the Western Portal. He recognized you. The Vrykyl are searching for you even now. Valura is searching…”

  “How do you know all this?” Damra demanded, her suspicions of Silwyth returning. “How do you know what this Valura thinks and what she and her evil lord plot? How did you find me? How do you come to be on this ship? Perhaps the answer to these questions is that you are Vrykyl yourself.”

  “If I were a Vrykyl, Damra of Gwyenoc, you would already be dead. I gave you my reasons in the house of the Shield. As for Valura, I have been following her, as I told you. I have listened to them plotting together. They take care to keep their voices soft, but I hear the very whispers of their souls. How not? Once, our souls were intertwined, tangled in a knot that they cannot now unravel. The Void is ascendant. But it has not yet won. The gods and other forces continue to fight against it.”

  “But how can I fight if I am not to return to my homeland?” Damra asked, exasperated. “What good is the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone if it remains hidden away? Where am I supposed to go, and what am I supposed to do?”

  “I have thought on this long, Damra. For many hundreds of years, in fact. The only way to reduce the power of the Void is to return the Sovereign Stone to those who made it.”

  Damra blinked at him. Sick and weary, she was finding it hard to follow his reasoning. “The gods made the Sovereign Stone. You want me to return the Stone to the gods? Now, when humans have just found their part of the Stone? They would grow strong, and we elves would dwindle. Is that your idea?”

  “I do not speak of returning only the elven portion. All four parts of the Stone must come together in the location where the Stone was given to Tamaros—the Portal of the Gods.”

  Silwyth is an old man, Damra said to herself, and old men have strange fancies, harking back to the days of their youth. It would be impolite to challenge him, and I don’t want to start an argument. I am too tired.

  The medicine the ork had given her was working. She was no longer nauseated. She could endure the gentle rocking of the ship without feeling her stomach rock with it. Weak and wobbly, she wasn’t going to be going anywhere for a while, and neither was Griffith. They would not be in fit shape to travel until tomorrow or the next day. By then, Shadamehr would be on board and she could explain matters to him and perhaps even obtain his help to return to her homeland. For that was where she intended to go, back to Tromek. And she would take the Sovereign Stone with her.

  “The decision is yours to make, Damra,” said Silwyth, reading her mind. “But I ask you to think of this. The Void grew in power because the Sovereign Stone was split asunder.”

  “Meaning that if the four parts are put back together, the Void will once again be contained.” Damra shook her head. “One cannot put baby spiders back inside the egg sack.”

  “Yet, perhaps one should try,” said Silwyth, releasing her wrist, “before the spiders grow large enough to devour the world.”

  An old man’s fancy.

  “I will think on it,” she said.

  There was no answer.

  “Silwyth?”

  Damra stared into the darkness, listened for the sound of breathing, padding footfalls, wood creaking.

  Nothing. Night embodied could not have been more quiet.

  Night embodied.

  Thinking of that, Damra fell asleep.

  THE SEWER SYSTEM OF NEW VINNENGAEL WAS NOT EXTENSIVE. ITS network of tunnels ran from the Temple and the palace—the two major building complexes in the city—and emptied into the Arven River. The sewers had been built by those Earth magi who possessed engineering skills, using their magic to burrow through the bedrock. There had been some talk of extending the sewer system to serve the entire city. The expense of such a massive building program was deemed to be too great and, after considerable argument, the project was abandoned. The rest of New Vinnengael followed the ages-old practice of dumping their slop into gutters that ran down the center of the streets and were flushed out naturally with rainwater during the wet season or with water pumped from the river if the rains did not fall.

  Rain had not fallen for almost a week, which meant that it was time for the pumps to be put into action. But the sudden appearance of an enemy army camped on the river’s western shores drove all thoughts of street-cleaning from the heads of city officials. River water was being pumped, but it was flowing into barrels and buckets, meant to be used to put out the fires of war.

  “Lucky for us,” Shadamehr said to the slumbering Alise. “Otherwise, we’d be hip deep in gunk. Whereas now it’s only wetting my toes.”

  Shadamehr was familiar with the sewer system. As a child, he and the late king, Hirav, had sneaked out of the palace on numerous occasions to go cessrat-hunting in the sewers. Taking along their slingshots, they had pretended they were chasing wild boar or trolls or other monsters. The hunt always ended with a swim in the river—jumping in clothes and all—to rid themselves of incriminating evidence, or so they fondly thought. Then they would lie in the sunshine to dry off before returning to the palace, happy and tired and stinking to the high heavens.

  “We couldn’t have fooled anyone but dear old Nanny Hanna,” Shadamehr confided to Alise, the memories of those carefree times returning to him forcibly as he once more walked the twisting, turning tunnels. He fed on the memories, using them to take his mind off the fact that he was growing weaker with every step. And they were a long way from their destination.

  “Nanny Hanna,” he said, pausing a moment to rest. “Sweet woman, but none too bright.”

  He looked at Alise, hoping for a response, but she remained asleep. Nothing roused her, not the stench, not his voice, not the flaring lantern light, not even when he’d accidentally bumped her head while trying to climb down a ladder with her slung over his shoulder. He wondered, with a pang, if she would ever waken. He’d known people to fall into such deep slumbers that they could not be wakened to take food and slowly starved to death. So even though the Grandmother had said Alise might sleep for a day or more, Shadamehr talked to her, hoping for some sign that she heard him.

  “Hirav always told her he’d slipped and fallen in the privies,” Shadamehr recalled. “She always believed him.”

  Shadamehr settled Alise more comfortably over his shoulder, or at least tried to. The muscles in his neck and shoulder, arms and back and legs throbbed and ached. Sweat rolled down his face and neck. He would have liked to stop longer to rest, but he feared that he if stayed still too long, he might not have the strength to continue.

  “I often think now,” he said, flashing the dark lantern at a place where two tunnels branched off from the main sewer, “of the danger we were in. Once we were nearly caught in a flash flood. Why we both weren’t drowned is a mystery to me. Fortunately, we were near a maintenance ladder and managed to escape. We thought it a great lark. Didn’t have brains enough to be scared.

  “I wonder which way to go?” he asked himself, staring thoughtfully at the two tunnels. “I seem to remember one way leads back toward the Temple. The other is the one we just came down. It leads to the palace, while the third leads down to the river. That way”—he flashed the lantern light—“looks as if it goes uphill, so that must lead to the Temple. We’ll take the tunnel to the right. I seem to remember that right is the way.”

  He took a step, felt his legs start to tremble. Breathing heavily, he lurched against a wall.

  “I just need to stretch,” he told himself. “Work out the kinks. Then I’ll be fine.”

  He placed the dark lantern on the floor of the tunnel and doused the light. He would ever after wonder why he did that—shutting off the light. Instinct? The teachings of his youth? Keep to the dark in dark places had always been an old dictum of his father’s. Or was it squeamishness? Shadamehr’s stomach was still a bit unsettled, and
he didn’t want to look at what he was stepping in. Or was it the charm of the Grandmother’s turquoise? He would never know. All he knew was at that moment, he doused the light.

  Gently, he lowered Alise down to the floor, propped her up against the curved and slimy wall, and tucked the blanket snugly around her.

  “Sorry about the filth, dear. I’ll buy you a new dress.”

  Straightening as best he could—he didn’t remember the tunnel ceilings being this low—he massaged his aching leg and shoulder muscles.

  “Not much farther,” he encouraged himself. “Not much farther.”

  “Skedn?” hissed a voice, and it wasn’t Alise.

  Shadamehr froze in the darkness. The voice had come from the direction of the right-hand tunnel. Harsh and guttural, it sounded like no voice he’d ever heard before. He waited, breathless, unmoving. Although he couldn’t understand the words, he could guess at the meaning: Did you hear that?

  The owner of the voice also waited, unmoving. Then another voice spoke, in response to the first.

  “No skedn.”

  The language had the sound of jagged rocks being tumbled down a mountainside. The creatures didn’t appear to be slow-witted, didn’t mumble like trolls. There was a note of command in the first voice and deference in the second that was indicative of structure, discipline, organization.

  “Taan!” Shadamehr guessed with an inward groan.

  He recalled what his scouts had told him of the taan—fierce monsters, they walked upright like humans and used weapons as well or better than most humans. The taan were fearless in battle, fought with intelligence and skill.

  His first wild notion was that he might be facing the entire taan army planning on taking the city by attacking from the sewers. More rational thought prevailed. Thousands of warriors could not march through the sewers. These were advance scouts, searching for weak points in the city’s defenses.

  “And, by the gods, they found one,” Shadamehr said to himself. “And we’re trapped like cessrats.”

  He dared not retreat. The taan had heard something, perhaps him talking to himself, and they were on the alert. His only weapon was a dagger he had concealed in his boot. The palace guards had taken his sword and his other weapons from him, but they’d missed the dagger. He might have asked for Ulaf’s sword, back at the inn, but he’d had too many other things on his mind to think of it. Thanks to either his father, the love of the gods, or his own good sense, he’d doused the light that would have given away their presence.

  Crouching, moving slowly and silently, he pressed himself close to the wall, made himself as small as possible, and quieted his breathing. He cursed the loud thudding noise of his own heartbeat, which seemed to echo through the tunnel. After some quiet fumbling in the muck, he discovered a good-sized rock. He slid his dagger from his boot. His other hand closed over the rock.

  The taan remained stationary, still listening. Shadamehr was quiet. They were quiet. All of them were so quiet that he could hear the clicking of cessrat claws along the stone floor.

  One of the taan made an explosive sound, a cross between a grunt and a hoot, that nearly did the trick of silencing Shadamehr’s heartbeat by stopping it cold. He braced himself for a rush, but then came the sound of shrill, terrified squeaks, a scrabbling sound, the stomping of feet, and the squeaks ended.

  “Rtt,” said the first voice, and laughed.

  Amid scattered chortles, the taan resumed their march.

  Shadamehr breathed again, felt chill sweat trickle down his shirt.

  Torchlight flared. The taan had arrived at the junction of the three tunnels and stopped to confer. Shadamehr had his first good look at the creatures.

  He was impressed and dismayed. Any hopes that he might have harbored for New Vinnengael holding out against thousands of these warriors washed away like so much sewage.

  The taan were five in number. Their faces were savage, bestial, with protruding snouts and large mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth. Their hair was long and ragged. Small, squinting eyes glared out from beneath overhanging foreheads. The eyes glittered with the same intelligence he’d heard in the voices. Their bodies were humanlike, but far more muscular and powerfully built. They were festooned with weapons of every type—some human, some elven, some of their own creation, perhaps. Their armor was the same bizarre assortment, probably stolen from the corpses of their victims.

  They would occasionally lift their heads and sniff the air, by which Shadamehr gathered that the taan relied on scent for much of their information about the world around them, and he blessed the stench of the sewer.

  The taan appeared puzzled over which route to take. They spent some time discussing the matter. Since the taan used their hands as much as their voices for talking, Shadamehr was able to follow the argument.

  One taan wanted to split the group, apparently, for he pointed up Shadamehr’s tunnel, then pointed to himself. Indicating another tunnel, he pointed to the leader. The leader considered this, but was dubious. He shook his head and jabbed his finger emphatically at the tunnel that led to the Temple.

  Shadamehr naturally sided with the leader and mentally urged him to stand firm. The discussion continued. Either out of boredom or fear, the taan who was holding the torch took it into his ugly head to flash the light around. The light lit up Shadamehr, so that his white shirt and Alise’s white blanket glowed like the eyes of a girl at her first dance.

  The taan drew in a hissing breath, gave a hoot. The leader whipped around. The taan pointed straight at Shadamehr.

  “That’s torn it,” he said to himself.

  He rose to his feet, stood protectively over Alise, dagger in one hand, the rock in the other.

  “The last stand of Shadamehr,” he remarked. “‘Died in a sewer, devoured by rats.’ Terrible song. Not a bad rhythm, but where do you go from there? Nothing rhymes with sewer.”

  “Derrhuth,” said the lead taan, sneering.

  Drawing his sword—an outlandish-looking blade with a serrated edge—the beast-man strode forward. The other taan held back, grinning and waiting for the show.

  “Deer hoot, yourself!” said Shadamehr loudly.

  The taan warrior drew near, his teeth bared, snarling. He sniffed the air and then, suddenly, the taan halted. He stared, his squinty eyes opening wide. The taan gulped. He dropped his sword into the muck.

  The taan who had been arguing with the leader barked out a question.

  The lead taan half turned. “Kyl-sarnz!” he hissed, over his shoulder.

  The four taan stared at Shadamehr. The torchbearer took a step backward. “Kyl-sarnz!” he repeated, awed.

  “Kyle Zarnzzt,” said Shadamehr, having no idea what was going on, but determined to take advantage of the situation. “That’s me. Kyle Zarnzzt. Remember that name.” He gestured with his dagger toward the tunnel that led to the Temple. “Go that way. Kyle Zarnzzt commands it.”

  The blade caught the light, flashed brightly. The taan cringed and bowed low.

  “Nisst, Kyl-sarnz,” he said in reverent tones. “Nisst, Kyl-sarnz.” Rejoining his group, the taan jerked his head and his thumb in the direction of the tunnel that Shadamehr had indicated. All five of the taan bowed low, intoning the phrase, “Kyl-sarnz” over and over. Then, with a rush of feet, they turned and dashed up the sewer.

  “I’ll be a double-damned dingo dog,” said Shadamehr.

  He had no idea what was going on and no intention of staying around to find out. Gathering up Alise in his arms, he hastened down the tunnel in the direction of the river. His aches and pains were gone. He had never felt so strong.

  “Gut-wrenching terror is a wonderful tonic,” he commented to Alise. “Someone should bottle it.”

  The wonderful restorative powers of fear carried Shadamehr clear to the sewer’s end. A huge iron grate blocked off the outlet where the sewer emptied into the river. The gate had been placed there to prevent an enemy from doing just what the taan had done—using the sewer to sn
eak into the city.

  The heavy iron grate, which took three strong men to lift, had been torn by brute force from its moorings and flung aside. Shadamehr thought back to the taan, to their muscular arms. He thought back to himself, standing there facing them with a knife and a rock.

  “Shadamehr,” he said, “you are one lucky bastard.”

  The river ran dark and sluggish about three feet from the sewer’s outlet. A maintenance ladder led up from the tunnel. Refuse too large to pass through the grate had piled up at the bottom. Shadamehr did not look too closely at the heap. Flashing the dark lantern over the floor, he could see wet footprints leading away from a crude boat, drawn up on the narrow stone outcropping that formed the lip of the sewer opening. He recalled Rigiswald saying something to the effect that all taan are afraid of water.

  “Hah!” Shadamehr stated. “So much for that theory. Wait until I tell him! It’s not every day I can prove that old man wrong. Now, my dear, one last haul up this ladder.”

  He paused at the bottom, wondered if he could make it. At least there was fresh air to breathe here. He drew in several deep breaths, then, clasping Alise firmly, placed his hands and feet on the rungs of the ladder.

  “‘Girding his loins, the gallant knight climbed her hair to reach the maiden fair.’” Shadamehr sang the old minstrel lay beneath his breath, trying to ignore the pain that was shooting through his legs. “How does one gird one’s loins. I’ve often wondered…”

  He paused, bit his lip, and sucked in another breath. Sweat poured down his face. His arms trembled, and his legs burned. He could see the top, but it was at least as far away as the moon. Maybe farther.

  “Whether my loins are girded or not, they hurt like the blazes,” he muttered. “I wonder if that gallant knight chap had this much trouble climbing her hair. Of course, he was going to see the maiden fair. He wasn’t hauling her up a ladder, so that probably made the difference.”