Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Bashae nodded in understanding. No one ever woke anyone unless it was a most dire emergency, for fear that the person wrenched unexpectedly from the sleep-world might not be able to find his way back to this world. Such a person, caught half in the sleep-world and half in this world, would be most confused. This was what had happened to Jessan’s aunt Ranessa, so the Grandmother said.

  Worried about the knight, Bashae set out for the house of healing.

  Wolfram had an easy job, trailing Ravenstrike. The suspicion that he might be surreptitiously followed would never occur to the honest and uncomplicated mind of the Trevenici warrior. He never once glanced back. Wolfram kept to the shadows of shrubs and bush more out of force of habit than necessity.

  The dwarf had, of course, understood every word that had passed between Ravenstrike and his sister, just as he had understood much of the conversation he overheard between Raven and Jessan.

  Wolfram had taken an early dislike to the sister, a dislike tempered by a certain grim amusement. He found it ironic that the girl, who was clearly as mad as a marmot, was the only one who could see the evil currently at work in the village. His amusement was replaced by alarm, however, when he noted that the silver bracelet grew warm whenever he was in the mad woman’s presence. He couldn’t imagine what interest the monks could have in a crazy person. He had none, certainly, and he planned to keep his distance.

  He trailed along after Ravenstrike, planning to see what he’d done with the armor. The bracelet on his arm tingled pleasantly, so that Wolfram figured that he was doing something right.

  The storage cave was located about a mile from the village, far enough so that it would not be discovered by raiders and close enough to access at need. The cave was well-hidden. Wolfram would have never found it on his own. Even when Ravenstrike was standing right in front of it, the dwarf still couldn’t spot it and was concerned to find that he’d lost sight of the Trevenici, who appeared to have vanished into thin air.

  Poking around the rocks, searching for tracks and traces, Wolfram discovered the entrance quite by accident. His weak ankle gave way and his boot slipped. He sat down heavily, slid on his backside along a smooth rock face and crashed through a screen of tree limbs cleverly woven to conceal a large hole in the ground.

  Amidst splintered branches and dried leaves, Wolfram fell about four feet through darkness, landed on a hard-packed surface with a startled yelp and a thud.

  So much for stealth. Wondering just how many bones he’d broken, Wolfram looked up into the grim face of the angry Ravenstrike.

  “Oaaah!” the dwarf moaned. His eyes rolled up. His head fell back with a thunk. He lay very still.

  He heard the Trevenici squat down beside him. He felt the man’s hand on his arm. Fingers kneaded his skin and suddenly pinched him, hard. The pain was intense and the supposedly unconscious dwarf let out a howl. Wolfram sat up, glaring.

  “I am accustomed to dealing with malingerers in the army,” said Raven. “What do you mean by following me?”

  He was speaking Tirniv. Wolfram blustered. “I don’t know what you’re saying. Speak a civilized tongue, can’t you?”

  “I think you know,” Raven said, still in Tirniv. He was a persistent bastard. “Why would you follow me if you didn’t know where I was going?”

  “I was lost,” Wolfram said, sulkily, still in Elderspeak. He patted his hands over his body, decided that he hadn’t broken anything. “My foot slipped and I fell into this blasted hole. I’m not spying on you, if that’s what you think.”

  He glanced around nervously, hoping to find the exit. The Trevenici would be extremely protective of their valuables. Most likely the penalty for a stranger stumbling upon this cache was death.

  “I’m hurt,” he added in a pitiful whine. “I think I broke something.”

  Raven’s large hands clasped hold of each armbone and legbone in turn. Wolfram gasped and groaned at every touch. The Trevenici was not gentle and if no bones were broken now, Raven might remedy that. No bones were broken, however. The Trevenici brushed off his hands and rose to his feet. He looked down grimly at the dwarf.

  “I’m thinking you chose a very convenient place in which to get lost,” Raven said, continuing to speak Tirniv. “You are not hurt. Get up.”

  “I guess nothing’s broken, after all,” Wolfram said and stood up. He backed away as far from Raven as he could, all the while searching for a way out. “Well, I’ll leave you to whatever it is you’re doing in this hole…”

  “You can’t escape this way,” said Raven. “The exit is behind me.”

  Wolfram’s eyes involuntarily shifted to a place behind Ravenstrike. Too late, he realized his mistake. He tried to cover it.

  “Is that the way out?” He pointed.

  Raven was tight-lipped. “Where did you learn our language?”

  Wolfram gave up. He’d already sentenced himself to death. They couldn’t very well kill him twice.

  “I get around,” he muttered in Tirniv. “I didn’t want to let on that I knew how to speak your language. I know it’s sacred to you. I respect that.”

  “I can’t imagine that there is anything you respect, Dwarf,” Raven returned. “I believe that you came among us deliberately to spy on us. Jessan said that you were the one who proposed accompanying him and Bashae to the camp. What I can’t figure out,” he added dryly, “is why. What did you think you could find in our village? Gold? Silver? A cache of precious gems? Or valuable armor, perhaps?”

  Wolfram breathed a bit easier. He wasn’t out of this hole yet, so to speak. But at least Raven hadn’t killed him outright. So long as Wolfram had use of his tongue, he trusted he could fend off disaster.

  “Turquoise,” growled the dwarf. “I came in search of turquoise. The pecwae told me his grandmother could sing it out of the rocks.”

  “Turquoise?” Raven was astonished. “Why, it’s not worth anything.”

  “Not here, maybe,” Wolfram stated, “but in Tromek lands, the elves will pay dearly for it. As for the armor”—he shuddered and the shudder was not faked—“batter it and burn it and bury it and then pray you’ve done enough to rid yourself of it.”

  “Or perhaps give it to you,” Raven suggested slyly. “Let you deal with it for us…”

  “Not to me!” Wolfram reared back, hands raised in warding. “Not to me!” He shook his head. “I won’t have anything to do with it. I don’t care what you do to me.”

  This response was obviously not the one the Trevenici had expected. Raven rubbed his chin. He was clean-shaven, like all Trevenici men. He eyed the dwarf in perplexity.

  “The armor is magic, then?” he asked.

  “The worst kind of magic,” Wolfram answered fervently. “Void magic. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”

  Raven’s face darkened. “I know it is the magic of death.”

  “Death, pain, suffering.” Wolfram shook his head. “Your sister is right. It will bring evil upon your people. You have to get rid of it.” He looked at the warrior intently, took a step forward to see his face better. “But then, you already know that, don’t you? You knew it was evil the first time you laid eyes on it.”

  “I…felt there was something wrong with it,” Raven admitted. “But what could I do? My nephew gave it me as a gift. To refuse it would have hurt him.”

  “Better that sort of hurt than the kind the armor could bring down on you,” Wolfram said.

  “Why? Tell me what sort of creature wore it? What must I fear from it? It’s nothing more than metal…”

  “Metal that is not made of the iron of the earth,” Wolfram said. “Metal that was not fashioned in any forge in this world. The metal of that cursed armor came from Death’s forge and Death himself wielded the hammer. Ask the knight. Ask Lord Gustav, if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you,” said Raven slowly. “Or rather, I believe what I feel in my heart. In truth, I came here to destroy the armor…” He glanced at the dwarf with lowered brows. “But wh
at do I do with you?”

  “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll find my own way back to the village. Just show me the way out—”

  “After you know the way in? I don’t think so. I don’t want you paying a return visit. Nor do you need to know what all we have stored in here.”

  Reaching out his hand, Raven seized hold of the dwarf’s slouch hat and pulled it down over his eyes.

  “Hey! What the—!” Wolfram roared.

  Raven grabbed hold of the dwarf’s groping hands, trussed them securely behind his back, using the dwarf’s own belt to hold them.

  “My breeches’ll fall down!” Wolfram protested.

  “I’ll hold them up,” Raven replied.

  There came the sound of striking flint, the smell of pinetar and the whoosh of flame. The dwarf could see the glimmer of orange light through a hole in the felt hat. Raven took a good grip on a handful of material at the back of the dwarf’s pants and gave Wolfram a gentle shove forward.

  “I can’t see!” Wolfram moaned, stumbling. “You’re going to drop me in a pit!”

  “It would serve you right if I did. But I won’t. Here, now! None of that. Stand up and walk or I’ll drag you like a sack of potatoes.”

  Wolfram walked, guided by Raven’s prodding and pushing from behind. He knew when they’d reached the larder, for he could smell lavender, basil and other herbs, the musky smell of potatoes, a strong odor of apples, and blood from freshly killed meat hung to age. Raven shoved him to the left. They walked at a slant, downhill, for a short distance and then Raven came to a halt so suddenly that he jerked Wolfram off his feet.

  “Ho!” Wolfram yelled. “Watch it—”

  “Shut up!” Raven’s voice was tense, taut.

  “What?” Wolfram demanded in alarm. A Trevenici warrior was not easily daunted. The dwarf squirmed to free his hands and tried, simultaneously, to shake the hat from his head. “Cut me loose, damn you! Cut me loose!”

  Raven’s hand plucked the hat from his head, his hand gripped the dwarf hard by the shoulder.

  Torchlight flared. Disoriented and blinded by the sudden light, Wolfram blinked his eyes and looked all directions at once, fearing every sort of monster known to inhabit caves from klobbers to bone crushers. Raven held him fast and finally the dwarf was able to see well enough to distinguish a large bundle on the cave floor. Recognizing the saddle blanket Jessan had used to wrap up the armor, Wolfram stared, blinked again, and took a step backward, only to bump into Raven.

  The blanket was covered with splotches of some dark substance.

  “What is that?” Ravenstrike demanded, holding the torch so that the light played on the splotches.

  “How should I know?” Wolfram said and tried vainly to fall back another few steps. The warrior’s rock-solid body blocked the way. “What are you doing?” He gasped in horror. “Don’t touch it!”

  Raven had drawn near to the blanket, hand outstretched. At Wolfram’s warning, the Trevenici hesitated. Curiosity was too strong. Gingerly, he took hold of a dry corner of the blanket and pulled it back. The fabric clung to the splotches, like a bandage being removed from an oozing sore.

  “It looks as though…” Raven hesitated, repulsed. “As though it is bleeding!” He bent nearer. “And look at this.”

  He pointed to the bodies of several small rodents lying stiff and rigid near the bundle of sacking.

  Wolfram coughed, choking. The armor gave off a peculiar stench, acrid and bitter and oily. He found it difficult to breathe. The dwarf muttered every charm against evil known to his people and he threw in a couple he’d learned from the orks for good measure.

  “Leave it alone. Don’t touch it. The mice touched it and look what happened to them! Come on!” Wolfram gestured. “Let’s get out of here. Quickly!”

  “I can’t leave it,” Raven said, turning a dark glance on the dwarf.

  “And what will you do with it?” Wolfram countered. The blotches were spreading, even as he watched. Some of the oily substance had leeched through the cloth, stained the rock.

  “Tie it to a rock and sink it in the river,” Raven said grimly.

  “And who swims in the water of the river?” Wolfram demanded, his voice rising. “Who eats fish from the river? Who hauls river water to the crops?”

  “You are right,” Raven said, thinking this over. He looked helpless, baffled. “I have fought in countless battles. I have faced death in many terrible forms and never blenched, but this…This clenches my gut and twists inside me like a meal of tainted fish. I cannot leave the armor where it is. Perhaps if I burned it—”

  “The smoke,” said Wolfram. “Poisoning the air.”

  “I will bury it.”

  “And poison the ground.”

  Raven clenched his fists. “Is my sister right? Is this poison? Will this evil bring death to my people?” He glared at Wolfram. “You know something about this Void magic! Answer me!”

  The dwarf stared in revulsion at the bundle. He shook his head. “I know only what I have told you. But there is another who can advise you. The knight. He fought the Vrykyl. He warned that the armor should be destroyed. We’ll ask him.”

  “If he yet lives,” Raven added.

  He cast one last, grim glance at the bundle, then turned swiftly to leave. Wolfram had to scramble to keep up.

  “You’re not going to blindfold me?”

  “There is no longer need,” Raven replied shortly.

  Wolfram understood. It wasn’t that Raven trusted him now. The Trevenici people would move all their goods from this accursed cavern and never come near it again.

  “Hey, Jessan!” Bashae yelled out. He was near the house of healing, just about to enter, when he saw his friend walking on the other side of the Sacred Circle.

  Jessan carried several pieces of leather in his hands. Bashae ran around the Circle to join him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find you,” Jessan said, halting. He looked ruefully at the swatches of leather. “I am making breeches to wear to Dunkar but I am all thumbs. I have broken two needles and I was coming to see if you had any I could use.”

  “You were coming to see if I’d ask Palea to sew them up for you,” Bashae said, grinning. “Otherwise why bring them along? Don’t worry. She’ll do it. I’ll take you to her. But first, I must visit our knight. You should pay your respects to him. Or say good-bye,” he added in softer tones.

  “I don’t have much time,” said Jessan, glancing in the direction of the house. His face grew solemn. He thought of the brave man who lay inside. Compared to him, Jessan had all the time in the world. “I can spare a few moments. I will come.”

  They walked around the Sacred Circle and came to the house of healing. They paused at the front, uneasy in the presence of death.

  “Should we call out?” Jessan asked in a low voice.

  “Better not, in case he’s sleeping,” Bashae returned. “We’ll just slip inside quietly and see how he’s doing.”

  Bashae put his hand on the blanket that hung over the door. He pushed it aside. Moving softly, silently, he entered the dwelling first. Jessan came immediately behind.

  “Ah,” said the Grandmother. “The chosen.”

  Adevout and faithful man, Gustav did not question the gods’ choice, but he did feel that perhaps the gods could have used better sense. Why had the gods chosen to send two youths on a mission of such importance, especially when any number of older, trained and experienced warriors were at hand?

  “Chosen? Chosen for what, Grandmother?” Bashae asked, understandably confused.

  The Grandmother cast a glinting glance from beneath red-rimmed puckered eyelids at Gustav. The knight gazed long at the two young men who stood respectfully, silently before him and it was then that he began to understand the wisdom of the gods.

  Whoever was searching for the Sovereign Stone, whatever intelligence belonged to those eyes that plagued his dreams, would be looking for those older, trained and experienced warriors an
d might never notice callow youths.

  There were other reasons, too. When he had been the age of these two youngsters, Gustav had been an adept thief on the streets of New Vinnengael. He had used his youth to his advantage, pleading an innocence which in reality he had lost around the age of six.

  Bringing the Sovereign Stone to the Council would be a mission fraught with danger for Gustav, but that same mission might not be difficult at all for these young men, who would certainly never be suspected of being in possession of a lost artifact of such immense value. He would not need to tell them the true nature of what they carried. All they would be required to do was to take a nondescript looking knapsack to the elven realms and deliver it to a certain person.

  Gustav had proof of their courage. Both young men had acquitted themselves well in the battle with the Vrykyl. They had acted with quickness, dispatch and common sense by bringing him to their village, or so the Grandmother had told him, and he had no reason to doubt her. Still, the young lack experience and the wisdom of years. They are wont to act in haste, learn bitter lessons later.

  “Chosen for what, Grandmother?” Bashae repeated, his brow furrowing. “I don’t understand—”

  “Hush!” she said peremptorily.

  The Grandmother turned to Gustav. “Is it to be, Sir Knight?”

  Gustav looked at each young man intently, delving to the heart. He had come to be a good judge of character during his seventy years and he was satisfied with what he saw. Here was courage and loyalty, no question about that. As to the rest, he either had faith in the gods or all he had said and done these last years of his life was hypocrisy.

  “The gods have chosen well,” he said quietly.

  “I think they have,” said the Grandmother, though her eyes narrowed as she looked back on the young men. She had heard the knight’s sigh and guessed what he was thinking. Slapping her knees, she motioned the two to step forward. Bracelets clicked and jangled on her thin arms.

  “Come here, both of you. Sit down.” She gestured to a place in front of her. “Listen to my words.”