Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  “No! Don’t! It’s cursed. The knight himself said we should destroy it. Bashae!” He appealed to the pecwae, who had taken the reins in his hand and was leading the horse out of the woods. “Bashae. Tell him. Warn him. He mustn’t—”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t listen to me,” Bashae said. “Now that you mention it, that armor did make me feel sort of unhappy and frightened. But don’t worry. My grandmother will know how to remove the curse.” He tugged on the horse’s reins and the beast picked up speed.

  Wolfram wished desperately that Gustav would regain consciousness. The knight would surely insist that the armor should be destroyed and perhaps with his authority he could convince Jessan to leave it behind. But Gustav had sunk into a deep sleep and nothing the dwarf did or said could waken him.

  Wolfram looked back over his shoulder to Jessan tying the corners of the saddle blanket over the armor, making a bundle of it. He slung the bundle over his shoulder and started out after them.

  Wolfram shuddered so that the tremor went through his body and into the horse, who shied nervously, causing Bashae to issue a sound scolding.

  Day was dawning. Rose-red streaks vied with purple and saffron to light the sky. A beautiful sunrise, presaging a fine day. Jessan watched the colors deepen and glow, felt a corresponding glow within. He had long dreamed of this—his return from his first journey away from his village. For once in his life, his dreams had fallen far short of reality. He made certain to give proper thanks to the gods, as he gave them his morning greeting.

  When he judged that they were about a mile from their village, he took over the leading of the knight’s horse, sent Bashae on ahead to make the Grandmother aware that her services would be needed, give her time to prepare a fitting place to house the wounded knight. Bashae readily agreed to the undertaking, not sorry to have the chance to be the first to astonish his people with his remarkable tale.

  Although Jessan would relinquish to his friend the glory of imparting astounding news, he himself would enter the village in triumph, bringing with him his very own knight with amazing powers, his very own dwarf, and armor of a quality that he trusted confidently not even Uncle Raven had seen before now. The village would be talking of him for years on end. His was a tale that would be handed down to his children’s children.

  Bashae sped off, his feet kicking up small puffs of dust as he ran along the narrow dirt trail which led from the Trevenici encampment to a nearby, meandering river. Pecwae can run extremely fast and maintain their speed for long distances—a trait that had undoubtedly contributed to their survival in a hostile world. He would reach the village long before the plodding horse. He would tell his tale and they would all come running from their farming and other occupations to hear the news. He could hardly wait and he went over and over in his head what he was going to tell them.

  Arriving in the village, Bashae grabbed hold of the first elder he could find and blurted out his story, his words coming so fast that they clogged up his tongue. The elder Trevenici understood very little of what the pecwae was jabbering about, but he gathered that it must be important. Grabbing a ram’s horn, he blared out the warning that would bring his people from their labors. This time of year, the field workers would be tending the newly planted potatoes and onions. Hearing the horn call, the Trevenici threw down their spades and ran back to the village in excitement. They were not alarmed. The horn’s call meant interesting news. Drumbeats sounded when the village was under attack or when someone died.

  “What is that racket?” the dwarf demanded peevishly. He had been dozing and now he blinked his eyes, looked around. “Where’s Bashae?”

  “I sent him on ahead to prepare the Grandmother for our coming,” Jessan replied. “She will have all ready for the knight when we arrive.”

  “That’s good,” Wolfram said, grunting. “Though I doubt there’s much can be done for him.”

  “The Grandmother has performed many wonders of healing,” Jessan said. “She is much honored among our people. I would advise you to say nothing against her.”

  He cast a stern glance at the dwarf, hoping that would settle him, but the glance lost much of its effect because Wolfram wasn’t looking at the young man. The dwarf’s gaze was fixed on the bundle Jessan carried slung over his shoulder.

  “What are you going to do with that armor, young man?” Wolfram asked, his tone tense, urgent. “Here would be a good place to bury it. Bury it deep. Deeper than you bury the dead. If as you say we’re close to the village, I’ll take the knight on in. You can stay to deal with the armor.”

  “So you can return and dig it back up and sell it,” Jessan said coolly.

  Wolfram sighed deeply, looked away.

  Jessan smiled, pleased to think he had guessed and thwarted the dwarf’s nefarious scheme.

  His entry into the village was a triumph.

  A Trevenici village consists of a collection of dwellings made of hard-baked clay and logs with thatch roofs built in a circle around a central point—a ring of stones, the Sacred Circle, placed there in solemn ceremony by the first people to establish the village.

  Dedicated to the gods, each stone has a special significance. The circle grows as members add to the stones’ numbers, placing stones to mark special occasions such as marriages, deaths and births. Once the circle is established, no one is permitted to step inside, for it is believed that the gods frequent this sacred area and that they would be offended if mortals trespassed. So holy is this site that not even the village dogs will enter it. They go out of their way to avoid it.

  In the old days, it was said that any animal or person who violated the sanctity of the Sacred Circle was put to death. The one time the violation of the Circle had occurred among Jessan’s people, the harsh sentence was not carried out, though there were many who argued in favor of corporal punishment. Eventually the elders decided against it, in view of the fact that, judging by the answers the person gave in her defense, she was incapable of understanding the severity of her crime.

  The homes built near the circle house the elders, the founding members of the village. When children grow up, they build their own dwellings behind those of their parents. Thus the village expands outward generationally. Trevenici homes are snug and well-built, a contrast to the ramshackle dwellings of the pecwae, located a short distance from the Trevenici. Pecwae structures are made of anything that comes to hand when a pecwae takes a notion to build a dwelling place—skins, branches, rocks, mud or a happy combination of all of these. Fond of living out-of-doors, friendly to all sorts of weather, even the most inclement, the pecwae are generally content to live and love in the open, seeking refuge in caves during the coldest months or when danger threatens. This settlement of pecwae probably would not have built dwelling places at all, but they were strongly encouraged to do so by their Trevenici neighbors.

  The village of Trevenici and pecwae had been on this site for almost fifty years. All of those who had first settled here were now dead. Their dwellings, occupying the first circle around the Sacred Circle, were now used as granaries, meeting places, or houses for the sick and infirm. Four irregular rings of houses expanded outward from that inner circle. This was a thriving village, located in a propitious area, for Dunkarga was always at war with someone and relied heavily on Trevenici mercenaries to swell their ranks. And if Dunkarga was ever accidentally at peace, their kinsmen and fierce enemies, the Karnuans, could be counted on to hire any mercenaries currently unemployed.

  The people of the village gathered around the outside of the Sacred Circle, their traditional meeting place. The elders stood at the north end of the circle, where the first stone was always laid. The Trevenici people spread out behind them, holding children on their shoulders in order to see. Blooded warriors stood in their own group. There was a full contingent of these, for Jessan’s arrival was the second important event to happen that day. The first was the return of the warrior Ravenstrike from the capital of Dunkarga. At the sight of his uncle standing
among his friends, his dark eyes warm with approbation, Jessan felt his heart swell with pride.

  Bashae stood there, as well, in a place of honor before the elders, pointing and explaining and telling his tale. Near him stood the Grandmother. Her position alongside the Trevenici elders was unusual, for it is rare that pecwae are so honored by being permitted to join the elders of the Trevenici. But the Grandmother was an unusual pecwae.

  She was taller than average. In her youth, she had stood almost five feet in height. Age had shrunk her, but even now she was still among the tallest of her people. Her face was wrinkled and wizened so that it resembled a walnut and it was difficult to find her mouth amidst all the other lines. Her bright, clear eyes and thick white hair were her distinguishing features. Her name had been long forgotten, even by herself. She had been known for years as Grandmother Pecwae. She did not know how old she was, except that she was older than anyone in the village. She remembered when the first sacred stone was laid. And she had been a grandmother even then.

  She had buried all twelve of her children. She had buried twenty of her grandchildren and two of her great-grandchildren. Bashae was a great-great-grandchild and her favorite of them all, for he was the only one to have a serious turn of mind, like her own, and who took an interest in healing.

  Most pecwae wore little in the way of clothing, just enough to keep from shocking the sensibilities of the Trevenici. Grandmother Pecwae was different in this regard as well. She wore a chemise made of fine-spun wool and, over that, a long, full wool skirt that tied around her waist. Both skirt and chemise were decorated with thousands upon thousands of colorful beads, made of all kinds of substances—tiny vertebrae from fish, bone, shell, stones, wood and precious metals. Long strands of beads adorned her skirt, each strand ending with a stone set in silver. Turquoise were the most numerous, but other stones included rose quartz, red jasper, leopard jasper, amethyst, lapis lazuli, opal, bloodstone, tiger-eye, azurite, malachite, and more beyond reckoning. Her skirt was so heavy with the stones and beads that it was widely believed she relied on the magic of the stones to help her bear its weight. The beads flashed in the sunlight, the stones swung and clicked together rhythmically when she walked.

  Jessan entered the village in triumph, the reins of the horse in his hand, the heavy bundle of armor on his back. He gave the elders a nod in place of a salute. He bowed to Grandmother Pecwae and grinned at Bashae, who came to take his place beside Jessan, as was the pecwae’s right, for he had also shared in this enterprise. Jessan slung the bundle onto the ground. The armor rattled and made a metallic clunking sound that drew curious looks from the warriors. Jessan then made a proper salute to the elders and to his uncle, who nodded and raised his hand in return.

  Raven shifted his gaze to the wounded man in the saddle and slightly frowned. Jessan thought he knew what his uncle was thinking.

  “The man doesn’t look like much now,” Jessan admitted, wishing that the knight was still wearing the wonderful, magical armor. “He is hurt and he is very old. But he fought with courage and skill. He fought on foot, against an opponent who was mounted and better-armed. His name is Gustav and he comes from Vinnengael. The dwarf says that he is a…a—” Jessan paused, trying to think how to translate it into Tirniv. “A lord of a dominion.”

  Jessan kept a close eye on his uncle, hoping Raven would be impressed.

  “A Dominion Lord?” Raven asked the dwarf in Elderspeak.

  “A Dominion Lord,” said the dwarf. “From Vinnengael.”

  “One of their most honored,” Jessan added, thinking this reflected well on him.

  “What’s a Dominion Lord doing here in our lands?” Raven wondered, incredulous.

  Jessan took in a deep breath, about to further amaze them with his tale of the shimmering light in the lake through which the two knights had most unexpectedly appeared, but he was interrupted.

  “Enough talk! You men, take him down off the saddle before he falls off.” Grandmother Pecwae issued orders. “Carry him to the healing house. He doesn’t look good,” she added in an aside to Bashae in Twithil, “but we’ll see what we can do.”

  Several warriors hastened to do the Grandmother’s bidding. Bashae stood near, worried and anxious and proprietary. Accustomed to dealing with the wounded, the men slid Gustav from his horse and, holding him gently in their arms, six of them bore him slowly and solemnly to the healing house that stood near the Sacred Circle. Bashae walked at the knight’s side. Grandmother Pecwae walked with stately mien behind, her skirt swinging, beads flashing, stones clicking.

  Jessan was eager to show his uncle the gift he had brought him, but he had to find some way of ridding himself of the dwarf, being still convinced that Wolfram wanted the armor.

  “This is my dwarf,” Jessan said, exhibiting Wolfram.

  Raven and many of the warriors nodded wisely; well-traveled, they had encountered dwarves before. But most of the land-tillers and all of the young unwed females stared at the dwarf in surprise and wonder that was highly gratifying to Jessan.

  Raven came forward to put his arm around his nephew, showing all the village his pride in his kin.

  “The name is Wolfram,” said Wolfram, sliding nimbly down off the back of the horse. “I’m a friend of the knight.”

  “Then you will want to go with him to the healing house,” said Jessan. “The Grandmother may have questions only you can answer.”

  “I might be in the way,” said Wolfram, his gaze flicking to the bundle Jessan carried.

  “You will not be in the way, Wolfram,” Raven added. “Your prayers may be of value to intercede with the gods on his behalf.” Raven gestured to a friend. “Escort Wolfram to the healing house.”

  The dwarf had no choice now but to do as he was told. He cast another lingering glance at the bundle of armor, then trudged reluctantly after the warrior toward the lodge where they had carried Gustav.

  The elders gathered around Jessan, along with the warriors and other members of the tribe. Bashae had told his version of events. Now was time for Jessan to tell his.

  He launched into his tale, repeating much of what Bashae had said. He confirmed the appearance of the strange shimmering light in the lake, the light that had opened to disgorge two men on horseback.

  “The dwarf said it was a Portal,” Jessan explained.

  “I have heard that rogue Portals exist,” one of the elders said. “If this is one, we should explore it, find out where it leads.”

  “The knight can tell us,” said another. “We should lay claim to this Portal for our village. I have heard that the Karnuans have grown very wealthy from the fees they charge to travelers entering their Portal.”

  “That is because their Portal leads to the great empire of New Vinnengael,” a woman’s voice said. Her voice was low and rough and came upon them unexpectedly. Absorbed in Jessan’s story, no one had seen or heard her approach. “Your Portal probably leads to some cow pasture. Besides,” she continued, her tone mocking, “what good is a door in the middle of a lake? You will drown half your travelers before they enter.”

  The woman stepped into the circle of listeners. Her name was Ranessa, a birth name, though she was in her mid-twenties. She was the sister of Ravenstrike, Jessan’s aunt. Those near her eyed her askance and moved away from her, so that they would not come in contact with her. She was not ill-looking, or rather would not have been if she had taken some care about her appearance. Her long, thick black hair was uncombed, flew wildly about her head, straggled down into her face. Her brows were black and heavy and formed a straight line across her forehead, giving her a severe and stern expression. Her eyes were a peculiar shade of brown with a red cast to them. Her skin was alabaster white—a stark contrast to the sun-bronzed Trevenici.

  Ranessa bore no resemblance at all to her elder brother and in civilized places there would have been whispers about her fathering. Such doubts would never occur to the Trevenici, for that would have been to impugn the honor of the family. Som
etimes such oddities occurred, such as those born with marks on the skin or shrunken limbs. The gods had their reasons for these happenings, reasons that they did not see fit to make known to men. Ranessa was not shunned for the fact that she looked different or that she was sharp-tongued and ill-tempered. She was shunned for the fact that one morning the village had awakened to find the nine-year-old girl asleep in the very center of the Sacred Circle.

  According to Ranessa’s story, she had wakened from a dream in which she was flying through the sky like a bird. The dream had been very real and very wonderful and when she woke from it, she had cried because it had not been real. Thinking that she might truly be able to fly, she had left her parents’ dwelling place and gone to the house of healing that stood near the Sacred Circle. She had climbed up onto the roof, spread her arms, and launched herself into the air. She had landed flat on her belly inside the circle of stones. The fall had been painful, knocking the breath from her body. But the worse pain was the knowledge that her dream had been a lie. She had wept bitterly, never thinking about where she was, and had cried herself to sleep.

  Some in the village had wanted her put to death, but the elders, after listening to her tale, had judged her to be crazy. No one in the village was allowed to harm her, but from that day to this, they all avoided her.

  The elders looked exasperated and uncomfortable. Jessan and his uncle exchanged glances. Ranessa was their responsibility.

  “You should not be out in the hot sun, Ranessa,” Raven said kindly, taking her by the hand. “Let me walk you back to your dwelling.”

  Ranessa lived on her own. She had moved out of her parents’ house after her father’s death. Her brother had offered her a place in his dwelling, but she had scornfully refused and he had built a house for her. She lived there alone, leaving it only to go on long, rambling and seemingly aimless walks that would sometimes last for days. She would always return from these half-starved and irritable, with a sneer on her lips as though she knew quite well that many had hoped that this time she would leave them for good and that her return was a cause for disappointment.