Journey into the Void Page 4

  He settled the Grandmother in her chair, thinking as he did so that the normally feisty elder pecwae was unusually subdued. Every so often, the Grandmother lifted the agate-eyed stick, turned it this way and that. Then, looking grim, she would shake her head and the stick at the same time.

  Some of the patrons were gawking at the pecwae and the Trevinici. Shadamehr’s people studiously avoided looking at them and did what they could to distract the attention of the rest. The man at the bar rubbed his nose again, and this time gave a loud sneeze.

  The Trevinici did not sit down but stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his dark gaze fixed on the two pecwae.

  “Bashae,” said Ulaf, “come with me—”

  “Look, it’s Jessan!” cried Bashae. He waved his hand. “Over here, Jessan!”

  Jessan entered the room, extremely pleased and relieved to see his friends; so pleased that his usually stern expression relaxed into a smile. He halted a moment to stare in astonishment at the strange Trevinici. He was about to greet this fellow warrior, then recalled his urgent message. Jessan turned aside, spoke in a low, urgent tone to Ulaf.

  “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

  Ulaf nodded and the two moved back toward the door.

  “I have just left Alise and Shadamehr,” Jessan said. “The baron has been wounded. Alise wants you to come right away.”

  “Wounded?” Ulaf repeated, shocked. “Is it bad?” It must be, he thought, for Alise to send for him.

  “He’s dying,” Jessan said bluntly. “He’s in the back room of a tavern down that way.” He jerked his thumb. “Alise is with him, but I don’t think there is much she can do for him. He is in a very bad way.”

  “Oh, gods,” Ulaf said, feeling his own life drain out of him.

  His first impulse was to dash off immediately, but he forced himself to think the situation through rationally. He had the pecwae under his care, the pecwae and the Sovereign Stone. They were his responsibility, and he couldn’t abandon them. He glanced at the man at the bar, who returned his glance with an urgent look and an even louder sneeze. Jessan, meanwhile, had gone back to staring at the Trevinici.

  “Jessan,” Ulaf said. “Do you know that man?”

  “No,” said Jessan. “I’ve never seen him before. By his markings, he belongs to a tribe that lives far from my tribe, somewhere near Vilda Harn.”

  “That’s strange,” said Ulaf, “because he claims to know you. He told the pecwae that you sent him to find them. He used your name to try to lure them out of the city.”

  Jessan’s brow furrowed. “Why would he say that? I’ve never seen him before. I’ve been with Baron Shadamehr.”

  “Jessan,” said Ulaf swiftly, “I’m going to tell you something that you won’t like to hear, and you must remain calm. You can’t react. I think that Trevinici is really a Vrykyl.”

  Jessan stared at him for a moment. His eyes darkened, his frown deepened, but he said nothing.

  “Don’t expose him,” Ulaf cautioned. “Not in here. I believe he’s after the Sovereign Stone, and he won’t hesitate to kill everyone in this place to get hold of it.”

  “What do we do?” Jessan asked.

  “You go over and talk to the Trevinici. Look at how nervous he seems. He knows something’s up. Allay his suspicions.”

  “And then what?”

  “All chaos is going to erupt in a moment. When it does, you grab the Grandmother and Bashae and hustle them out of here. Take them back to Alise and Shadamehr.”

  “What about the Vrykyl? He’ll try to stop me.”

  “Don’t worry about the Vrykyl. I’ll deal with him. Your only concern is the pecwae. Understood?”

  Jessan gave an abrupt nod and walked over to talk to the strange Trevinici. Ulaf lingered a moment, expecting the worst and preparing to deal with it. Jessan knew what he was about, however, and the two were soon conversing. Bashae munched contentedly on bread and cheese and listened to the two warriors. The Grandmother sat staring into space, her mouth gaping slightly, her gaze glassy-eyed and vacant.

  Ulaf didn’t like the looks of her. The thought came to him that perhaps she was having an apoplectic fit, as sometimes occurs with the elderly; but, if so, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He pushed his way through the crowd, heading for the bar. As he walked, he nonchalantly lifted the penny whistle that he wore on a silver chain around his neck, brought the whistle out into plain sight. He toyed with it, but didn’t put it to his lips.

  Reaching the bar, Ulaf took his place next to the man who had been rubbing his nose.

  “What news, Guerimo?”

  “There was trouble in the palace. Shadamehr and the Dominion Lord had to jump through a window. Now there are battle magi after him!”

  “Battle magi!” Ulaf groaned.

  “They’re probably on their way here now. They know this is where he holds court when he’s in the city. Do you know where the baron is? We need to warn him.”

  As Ulaf listened, he kept his gaze fixed on the pecwae and Jessan and the false Trevinici.

  “Strange as this may seem,” Ulaf said, “we have worse problems. I need to create a diversion.”

  “The usual?” Guerimo grinned.

  “The usual,” said Ulaf.

  Jessan had made the decision to leave New Vinnengael before he had ever reached the Tubby Tabby. He’d thought it all out on his way to the tavern, which he’d managed to locate more by accident than design. He would retrieve the two pecwae and go back to their homeland, to a place where he could see the sun and breathe the air. Once there, he was certain he would be able to think things through and find again the answers that he seemed to have lost along the way.

  In Jessan’s former life—the life he’d lived before he had set out upon this journey with the Sovereign Stone—he’d been a child. In this life, he had left childhood behind. He had fought and vanquished a powerful foe. He had taken his warrior’s name—Defender. He had been faithful to his promise to the dying knight, Gustav. He had visited strange lands, met strange people. He’d come to admire some of them, come to loathe and fear others. He had learned much, or so people kept telling him. On thinking it over, however, Jessan realized that they were wrong. In his previous life, he’d had answers to everything. Now, he had only questions.

  He needed to be rid of this city, where he started out in the right direction, but always seemed to take a wrong turn and wind up in a blind alley or a dead end. He could not see the sky for the tall walls, he could not feel the sun for the shadows they cast, he could not breathe the air for the stench.

  His arrival at the tavern, with its confusion of heat and noise and bright light, confirmed him in his decision. Nor was he particularly surprised to hear that the strange Trevinici was a Vrykyl. In Jessan’s other life, he would have scoffed at such a notion. In this life, he was suspicious of everything and everyone. He knew that evil could lurk in a friendly form and he hated the knowledge.

  He was glad to see Bashae and the Grandmother, glad to see them safe and glad to see that they looked as lost and friendless and forlorn as he felt. One obstacle remained and that was the Sovereign Stone. They had fulfilled their promise to the dying knight, Gustav. More than fulfilled it, in Jessan’s opinion. Bashae had tried to give the Stone to Damra, then he tried to give it to Baron Shadamehr. Neither would accept it, leaving the enormous responsibility to Bashae. Looking at the small and frail-seeming pecwae, ringed round by large, ham-fisted humans and shadowed by the Vrykyl, Jessan burned with anger.

  “This Stone is their worry. Let them take it,” Jessan said to himself. “We have done our part. We have done enough.”

  Bashae scooted over on his chair, offered Jessan half of the seat and more than half of the bread and cheese.

  “I’m glad to see you, Jessan,” Bashae said. “I was worried about you. Fire Storm said you’d been arrested.”

  Jessan looked intently at Fire Storm, who was watching him warily. Was this man truly a Vrykyl?
Jessan couldn’t tell. Fire Storm looked as a Trevinici warrior should look, right down to the fringe on his leather breeches.

  “I am glad you came to the aid of my friends, Fire Storm,” Jessan said. “They are not used to the dangers of a city. But I am curious as to why you claimed to know me, when this is the first time we’ve met.”

  Jessan felt that was a natural question, one that either a Vrykyl or a Trevinici would expect him to ask.

  Fire Storm’s tense expression relaxed. “I must admit that I exaggerated the truth, though not perhaps as much as you might think. The fame of Jessan and his quest has spread among our people.”

  “It’s my quest, too, you know,” Bashae pointed out, offended. “We’re in this together, Jessan and I. And the Grandmother.”

  “Of course,” said Fire Storm politely. “My mistake.”

  He might be telling the truth, Jessan conceded. My people would have shared the story of the dying knight and those who set off to take his “love token” into eleven lands with every other Trevinici they met. But that doesn’t explain what Fire Storm is doing here in New Vinnengael—a long way from our homeland.

  On the other hand, no Trevinici warrior ever stoops to flattery. He is much more likely to insult you than fawn over you.

  “Bashae,” Jessan said blandly, “I need to use the privies. Come along with me, so that you don’t get lost again.”

  “I’m not the one who managed to get myself arrested,” said Bashae, indignant. Switching to Twithil, he went on to describe just exactly what Jessan could do with himself in the privies.

  Twithil being a very descriptive language, Jessan couldn’t help but grin. He gave Bashae a look, nodded ever so slightly at Fire Storm.

  Bashae slid a sidelong glance at the Trevinici. The pecwae’s right eyelid flickered.

  “All right, Jessan. I’ll come,” he said.

  “I will come, as well. Strange customs these city people have,” Fire Storm added with a shrug. “Building houses for people to crap in.”

  Jessan was about to say that he’d changed his mind, he didn’t need to go that badly, when the Grandmother gave a screech that nearly lifted the hair off his head. Glaring at Fire Storm, the Grandmother struck him in the chest with the agate-eyed stick.

  Ulaf heard the Grandmother scream, an eerie, primal sound like the shrill scream of the mouse caught in the hawk’s claws or the rabbit pierced by an arrow. The awful sound sliced through the noise of the tavern, caused a startled serving maid to drop a mug, and stopped the conversations of every person in the room. Shrieking in fury in her own language, the Grandmother struck the Trevinici, Fire Storm, in the breast with the agate-eyed stick.

  The stick shattered in her hand, broke asunder. Agate eyes rolled and bounded across the floor, but no one paid them any attention. The Trevinici began to undergo a hideous transformation. The leather breeches and leather tunic he wore disappeared. The reddish hair and the stern, unsmiling face of the Trevinici warrior dropped off, the flesh rotting, revealing a horribly grinning skull. Armor, black and fell as the Void, flowed over his body. A black helm slid over the bony skull. Black gauntlets covered skeletal hands.

  I was right, Ulaf thought. The gods help us!

  The people in the tavern sat for a moment in stunned silence, then pandemonium ensued. Few knew what this evil creature was, but all knew that it was born of the Void and that where it walked, death and destruction followed. Some tried to flee, others tried to hide. Everyone cried out or screamed, leapt up or shrank down, fell over chairs or tried to dive under tables. Shadamehr’s people looked at the Vrykyl, then at each other, then at Ulaf.

  He had a split second to make a decision. He was competent in magic, but he could never hope to fight the deadly Void magicks of a Vrykyl.

  “Throw things at him!” he roared above the chaos. “Keep him occupied!”

  Ulaf brought the words of the spell he’d been planning to cast to mind, spoke them aloud. The magic tingled in his blood. He pointed at the floor beneath the Vrykyl’s feet and magic flowed from him. The floorboards began to heave and buckle. The Vrykyl lost his balance, crashed to the floor.

  Shadamehr’s people picked up crockery, bowls, plates, bottles, jugs, whatever came to hand, and hurled them at the Vrykyl. Plates smashed on the black breastplate, ale sloshed over his helm. The crockery barrage would not do him any harm, but it might rattle him, keep him from casting his own magic.

  Ulaf was not a tall man. He couldn’t see above the heads of the crowd, most of whom were on their feet, either fleeing or fighting. He had lost sight of Jessan in the chaos, couldn’t see what was happening to him or the pecwae.

  Ulaf dared not waste time searching for them. Commending them all to the gods, he ran behind the bar, thrust open a door and dashed up the short flight of stairs to the second floor. He crashed through another door and ran out onto the roof. Several patrons were already in the streets, shouting for the guards. Men-at-arms would be no match for the Vrykyl. Ulaf searched the darkness, straining his eyes.

  And there they were. Six battle magi in full regalia—the most feared wizards in New Vinnengael, perhaps on the continent of Loerem. Only the best and strongest and most disciplined wizards were chosen by the Church to become her champions. Skilled in wielding both steel and magic, they were not only formidable wizards, but among the best swordsmen in the military. They fought as a unit, pooling their magical skills to forge spells that had the power to decimate a regiment.

  A white aura surrounded them, for they were using their magic to light their way through the dark city streets. The magical light glinted off their swords and helms and their chain-mail halberds, illuminated the tabards of their high office that they wore over their armor. They were thorough in their search, taking their time, inspecting every building.

  “Vrykyl!” Ulaf cried aloud. Investing the word with the wings of magic, he sent it flying off. “Vrykyl!” he said again. “The Tubby Tabby!”

  He waited a tense moment, then had the satisfaction of seeing the heads of the battle magi jerk up, see them whip around, searching for the source of the voice that seemed to explode in their ears.

  “Hurry!” Ulaf urged them.

  The battle magi didn’t need the urging. They were already running through the streets.

  Ulaf turned and dashed back down the stairs. He had gone about halfway when he heard an agonized cry—the shrill, high-pitched cry of a pecwae.

  SHADAMEHR CAME SLOWLY TO CONSCIOUSNESS. HE KNEW NOTHING except that he felt weak and nauseated. He was lying flat on his back on a hard, cold surface, with flickering yellow light glowing somewhere above him. He wondered what had happened to him, and started to try to remember. Fear stopped him. He was afraid to go back there. Afraid to remember. Something horrible had happened. The shadow of the horror lay across his heart, and he did not dare try to look into the past.

  A strange and unpleasant warmth suffused his body, as though the blood had been taken out of his veins, heated in a cauldron, then poured back in. A sickening, metallic taste burned in the back of his mouth and it made him gag. His stomach roiled and cramped. He retched, but not having eaten since breakfast, there was nothing in his stomach to purge. He lay back, shivering and weak.

  Memory returned, unwanted, unbidden. He reached out to pick up the young king, to save him from the Regent, who had been taken over by a Vrykyl. He had his hands on the child, was lifting him off his feet. Terrible, searing pain flashed through his body. He looked into the child’s face and saw a skull. He looked into the child’s eyes and saw the Void.

  The young king of Vinnengael was the Vrykyl.

  Shadamehr could feel again his sense of helpless horror and revulsion, but he couldn’t remember much else, for the ice-cold fire of the wound had started to spread through his body.

  As for where he was now, he couldn’t have said if his life depended on it.

  “And maybe it does,” he mumbled, trying to push himself up to a sitting position. “The Vrykyl w
ill be searching for me. I know his secret. He can’t let me live. Ugh! Blast!”

  Shadamehr collapsed back onto the floor, lay there gasping, chill sweat running over his body. He heard a moan; murmured, broken speech. Shadamehr’s vision was blurry, his eyes dazzled from staring into the lanternlight. He turned over, managed to prop himself up on one elbow, searched for the voice.

  He let out a shivering breath. “Alise!”

  She lay next to him, her hand—limp and motionless—on the floor. She seemed, in her last moments, to have reached out to him.

  His own fingers trembling, he brushed aside the vibrant red curls that trailed over her face. His breath caught in his throat.

  Alise was a beauty who made nothing of her beauty. She scoffed at the notion that she was beautiful and would laugh heartily at the sonnets and songs written in her praise, much to the discomfiture of many an earnest young swain. She had a sharp tongue, a temper to match her fiery hair, a quick wit, and she used all these as a porcupine uses its prickles to hide a loyal, compassionate heart.

  Her beauty was gone, destroyed. Lesions split the soft skin of her cheeks, oozed blood that trailed down her neck. Hideous pustules covered her forehead and one eye, which was swollen shut. Her lips were cracked and blackened. The hand, reaching to him, clenched in pain, the nails digging into her flesh. She moaned again, a sob of agony.

  “Alise!” Shadamehr gasped, appalled. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

  He knew the answer the moment he asked the question.

  “Oh, gods!” He shut his eyes. “I did.”

  He lifted her hand, unclenched the stiff, cold fingers and pressed her hand to his lips. Tears burned his eyelids.

  Shadamehr was not a magus, but he knew magic. A magus named Rigiswald, who been his tutor, had once tried to teach Shadamehr a few rudimentary spells. Not only did Shadamehr prove inept at magic, it affected him in a perverse way. Any spell he tried to cast, even the most mundane, ended in disaster. Shadamehr himself emerged unscathed from carnage, but others were not so fortunate. After a week of suffering, which included a concussion and a sprained ankle, Rigiswald burned the spellbooks and forbade his pupil even to so much as think a word of magic.