Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

Bashae did as he was told, moving with alacrity. Jessan hung back. “I would like to, Grandmother,” he said, “but I am leaving tomorrow with Uncle Raven to travel to Dunkar and I have much to do. I came only—”

  “You have more time than some of us,” the Grandmother said snappishly. “Time enough to listen to an old woman. Sit down, Jessan.”

  The young man had been raised to respect his elders and he had no choice but to obey. He did not sit, however, but squatted on his haunches, ready to jump up and leave the moment he was dismissed.

  “Lord Gustav has a request to make,” the Grandmother said. “This will likely be his dying request,” she added sternly in Twithil, the language of the pecwae. “He will not live to see another sunrise.”

  Jessan’s attitude became more respectful. Bashae edged closer to the dying knight. Solemn and wide-eyed, he put his strong, sun-browned hand over Gustav’s pale and wasted hand.

  “We are ready to carry out your request, Lord Gustav,” said Bashae gently. “What is it you want us to do for you?”

  Jessan sat silent, but he indicated with a brief nod that he was attentive.

  Gustav smiled. “I thank you both. I know that I am dying. Do not grieve for me. I have lived a good, long life. I achieved all I wanted to achieve. The gods have blessed me and now, even at my end, I am further blessed.”

  He drew in a shivering breath, clamped his lips over a gasp of pain. The Grandmother wiped the chill sweat from his forehead. When the agony had passed, he continued speaking.

  “I do not grieve for myself, but there is one person who will grieve for me.”

  “Your lady wife?” asked Bashae softly.

  Gustav smiled again as the image of Adela came to his mind. Her face eased his pain. She waited for him beyond the pale, growing more real to him the nearer he drew to her. He would be very glad to go to her, to give up this burden, to be free of the agony. But not yet…Not yet…And these young ones would not understand.

  How could he describe his relationship with Damra? A Dominion Lord like himself, she had been his friend for a long time, despite the disparity in their ages. She was the elder in years, but still young by elven standards. He was the elder in wisdom and experience. They had met in New Vinnengael, during a meeting of the Council. She had been interested in his quest, interested in the Sovereign Stone. She had invited him to visit her in the elven realm.

  An image of Damra’s simple house—beautiful in its simplicity, like all elven manors—built into the side of a mountain peak, came to his mind. It was in her house he had sought refuge in those terrible days after Adela’s death. There, with Damra’s help, Gustav had found the will to go on with his own life.

  “Yes,” Gustav said, trusting that both Damra and the gods would forgive him for his misrepresentation, “she is my lady love.”

  “She must be very old,” said Bashae.

  “Yes, she is old. Older than I am. But strong and beautiful, still.”

  Bashae was polite and nodded. Jessan obviously thought the old man was babbling. The Trevenici shifted restlessly, eager to race off on his own errands.

  “She is an elf, you see,” Gustav added and that brought raised eyebrows and looks of astonishment, even from Jessan. “Elves live longer than we do and the infirmities of age come to them far more slowly than to us. I have a token that I want to give her in remembrance of me. A love token. I need trusted messengers to carry it to her in my name.”

  He glanced at the Grandmother, who nodded firmly. Gustav shifted his gaze to the two young men. “I prayed to the gods to send me a messenger. You two are the ones the gods have chosen.”

  Unprepared for this startling development, the two young men stared at him, neither of them fully grasping nor comprehending the import of his words. Then the meaning hit Bashae like a blow on the head. He gaped and pointed his finger at his own small chest.

  “Me?” he said.

  “And Jessan,” said the Grandmother.

  “What?” Jessan leapt to his feet. He looked from the knight to the Grandmother and back. “But I can’t. I must go to Dunkar with my uncle to become a soldier.”

  “His is a request made by the dying,” the Grandmother said sternly in Twithil.

  “I am sorry,” Jessan said, uncomfortable but steadfast. He took a step backward, edged toward the door. “I would like to help, but I must go with my uncle.” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “There are many trained warriors, older warriors, who would be honored to do the knight’s bidding.”

  “But, Jessan!” Bashae cried, bounding up to face his friend all in the same excited move. “He wants us to go to the elven realms! The elves, Jessan! Us! You and me! All by ourselves!” He paused, turned back to the Grandmother. “And you sanction this, Grandmother? You think it is all right if we go?”

  “The gods have chosen,” said the Grandmother. “What we mortals think does not matter.”

  “There, you see, Jessan? What an adventure! You must come! You must!”

  “You don’t understand, Bashae,” Jessan said in a stern voice; his dark brows furrowed. “All my life, my uncle has promised me that he and I would be warriors together. I have wanted nothing else since I was old enough to remember.” He shifted his frown to the Grandmother. “The gods chose Bashae, perhaps. They did not choose me.”

  Turning on his heel, he walked swiftly from the house of healing.

  “Be easy,” said the Grandmother to Gustav and to Bashae. “The gods have mixed the dough. The yeast has yet to work.”

  Gustav drew in a ragged, pain-filled breath. “But my time dwindles.”

  “Easy,” the Grandmother repeated gently and bathed his forehead. “The hands of the gods are kneading the bread, even as we speak. Bashae, go make ready for the journey. You will require food, water, warm clothes, and a blanket. Make haste. Return here at sunset.”

  “Am I to go alone, Grandmother?” Bashae asked, somewhat daunted by the task.

  “Have you no faith in the gods?” the Grandmother returned sharply.

  “I guess so,” Bashae said slowly. “But Jessan’s awfully stubborn.”

  The Grandmother scowled so fiercely at this that Bashae deemed it was time to depart.

  Gustav rested his hand on his knapsack, a knapsack identical to the one the Vrykyl had thought she’d shredded. He had used the magic of the knapsack to recreate it from the bit of leather he’d salvaged. The Sovereign Stone remained hidden inside, undetected by the Vrykyl. By Gustav’s own command, the knapsack had been placed near him when he was first brought to the house of healing. He had never let the knapsack from his sight. If he slept, the knapsack was the first object he sought when his eyes opened.

  He looked at the Grandmother. He needed privacy, but he could not in honor ask her to leave him when she had devoted so much time and care to him.

  Rising to her feet, her beaded skirt swirling and clicking around her bony ankles, the Grandmother said, “The stiffness of old age. I must walk it off or it will set in for good and they will have to carry me around like a child. I have set water close by here, if you thirst.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother,” Gustav said. “You are a wise lady. A very wise and noble lady.”

  “Me! A noble lady! Ha! That’s a good one!” The Grandmother gave her deep chuckle. Pausing at the entryway, she turned her head. “I will tell the dwarf you want to speak to him.” She gave a bobbing curtsey that seemed very spry and departed.

  Gustav no longer questioned her ability to know his thoughts almost better than he did. He was leaving the realm of the physical, drawing nearer every moment to the realm of the spirit. What he would have laughingly questioned a month ago seemed perfectly plausible now.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain that brought tears to his eyes, Gustav said softly the word, “Adela!” and, fumbling only slightly at the buckles, he opened the knapsack.

  Gustav woke from a troubled dream of seeking eyes to find two pairs of real eyes regarding him intently. The dwarf was here
, as was a Trevenici warrior. Gustav slid his hand beneath the blanket that covered him, reassured himself that the Sovereign Stone was safe and well-hidden.

  “Water, please,” he gasped, coughing.

  Wolfram quickly moved to lift the water basin to the knight’s lips. Gustav could not drink it, however. He shook his head. The dwarf, with a look of concern, let a trickle run down the knight’s throat, daubed water on the knight’s parched lips.

  “Thank you,” Gustav said, breathing easier. He turned his gaze upon the warrior who stood near the entrance, not wanting to put himself forward until recognized. “You are Jessan’s uncle?”

  Raven gave a respectful nod and drew nearer deferentially.

  “You know what I have asked of Jessan?” Gustav said.

  “Yes, the Grandmother told me,” Raven replied. He squatted down beside the knight. “She also told me what Jessan said. He did not mean to be disrespectful. I apologize for him.”

  Raven paused, obviously trying to think through his words. “At any other time, I would not have understood the gods’ choice to make this journey. I would have said they were mistaken. I worry about Jessan’s youth and inexperience, not in regard to his courage or his honesty. But”—Raven was clearly uneasy, kept glancing at Wolfram—“something unexpected has occurred. Something beyond all my knowledge and understanding. I begin to think that perhaps the gods know what they are about, after all.”

  “What has happened?” Gustav looked from the dour face of the dwarf to the dark-avised face of the warrior.

  “You tell him,” said Raven, drawing back into the shadows, but keeping his eyes fixed on Gustav, watching every change and nuance of expression.

  “It’s this way, my lord,” said Wolfram, hunching nearer. “You recall the accursed armor that fiend from the Void was wearing?”

  “Yes, why, what of it? It was destroyed, wasn’t it?”

  Wolfram shook his head dolefully. “Not for lack of trying, my lord. But the young man was set on keeping it. Brought it back to the village, a present for his uncle.” He jerked his thumb at Raven.

  “Gods’ sanctity!” Gustav tried to sit up, but he was too weak. “A terrible mistake. The armor must be destroyed. It must!”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Wolfram dryly. “We’re all agreed on that point. But, the question, is—how?” Lowering his voice, he bent low over the knight to whisper. “The armor’s started to bleed, my lord. Bleed or leak or something. Liquid black as pitch and greasy, like lamp oil. And deadly, too.”

  “We found the corpses of two rodents who’d ventured near it,” Raven said, his tone heavy. “Perhaps they drank it. Perhaps they simply stepped in it. Whatever they did, they were dead.”

  “Which means, lord,” Wolfram continued, “that we can neither burn the armor nor drown it nor bury it. Not without the likelihood of deadly poison contaminating everything around it. So what is to be done?”

  “You must take it away from this village,” said Gustav. His voice was strong and firm. The danger had kindled a last spark in his fading eyes. “Far away.”

  “Aye, that much is clear. But then what, my lord? Wherever it goes, it carries this curse with it!”

  Gustav thought a moment, then gestured for Ravenstrike to come closer. “Jessan said that you were intending to travel to Dunkar. Is that true?”

  “Yes, my lord. I am a soldier in the army of King Moross. I travel back to Dunkar tomorrow to return to my duties. My leave is almost over. If I do not return, they will count me a deserter.”

  “Return, by all means,” said Gustav. “There is a Temple of the Magi in Dunkar, I think.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Take the armor to the High Magus. He will know what to do with it. Take it in secret. Show it to no one. Discuss it with no one.”

  “The High Magus!” Raven breathed deeply in relief at the thought of handing this deadly problem over to someone else. “Of course! He is very powerful in magic, so my commander says. I will take it to him and ask him how to remove the curse from our people. As for Jessan, he will go on this mission for you, a mission that takes him north in the opposite direction, far from the armor. Who knows but that the curse has some sort of fatal hold on him? This mission will allow me to withdraw my promise to him with honor and will allow him to leave the village in honor. Truly,” Raven said reverently, “the gods are wise.”

  “If they were so blamed wise, why did they allow the boy to cart off the armor in the first place?” Wolfram muttered, but he made certain that neither of the other two heard him.

  Gustav shuddered. His strength was giving out. His eyes closed in exhaustion. Yet, he had energy enough to reach out a wasted hand, catch hold of Wolfram as he was about to leave.

  “I must…speak with you,” Gustav said so weakly that the dwarf understood the words only by reading the man’s lips. “Alone.”

  Raven departed. Wolfram remained behind, though reluctantly, it seemed.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “You are in the employ of the monks of Dragon Mountain—” Gustav began.

  “Not actually in their employment, my lord,” Wolfram quibbled. “Seeing as how I travel a good deal, I bring them little tidbits of news now and again.”

  “Yet I have seen you there on more than one occasion,” Gustav said.

  “They make it worth my while, my lord,” Wolfram said slyly.

  “Indeed.” The knight smiled. “I have need of a messenger to the monks, Wolfram. You are the obvious choice—”

  “My lord, I would do anything for you, indeed I would,” Wolfram said solemnly, scratching at the bracelet on his arm, “but I have already been given an errand and I—” He paused. “What’s that?”

  With much effort and at the cost of some pain, Gustav reached beneath his blankets and drew out a silver box, decorated with gemstones. Wolfram eyed the box suspiciously, not offering to take it.

  “I need someone to carry this box to the monks,” said Gustav.

  “Ah, now!” Wolfram rubbed the side of his nose with a finger. He still made no move to touch the box. “And what might be inside this box?”

  “The contents are secret,” said Gustav, “and may be revealed only to the monks.”

  “The journey to Dragon Mountain is long and travel is dangerous these days, my lord,” Wolfram observed. He frowned. “Particularly for those who have ought to do with those who have run afoul of the Void.”

  “I understand,” Gustav said gravely. “And I will see to it you are well compensated. I have left instructions inside the box for the monks to distribute all my worldly wealth to the bearer of this box.”

  “And all your worldly wealth would be—”

  “Land in New Vinnengael, all my chattels and houses on said land. And the contents of a strongbox hidden in the castle. My seneschal knows the location and he has the key. Also inside this box is my signet ring. Thus the seneschal will know that whoever comes bearing that ring comes from me.”

  Wolfram looked at the box and his eyes glittered, but he still made no move to take it. “Answer me this, my lord. Was the foul creature that attacked you seeking you or was it seeking that box? I’m thinking,” he added, stroking his mustaches, his gaze narrowing, “judging by the magnanimity of your offer, that it was the box first and you as bearer of the box second. And that whoever bears the box runs a great risk. Am I near the mark?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Gustav replied. “You will be in danger if you accept this charge. I don’t deny it.”

  “From those creatures the Vrykyl?”

  “I cannot say. I do not know if more of them exist. If they do, I trust and hope we have thrown them off the trail.”

  “And these two young ones,” said Wolfram craftily. “You’re sending them off on another mission. Does their journey have ought to do with this box?”

  The dwarf’s shaft had lodged squarely in the black. So near the center that Gustav knew a lie would not be believed.

  “You are the
killdeer with the broken wing,” he said at last.

  “Meaning danger follows me and leaves the young alone.”

  “You are being paid well to run the risks,” Gustav observed.

  Wolfram turned the matter over again in his mind, as he turned the bracelet on his arm. “Your estate? It’s a large one?”

  Gustav’s lips quivered. If he’d had strength enough, he would have laughed. As it was, he said, “Yes, it is a large one, Wolfram the Unhorsed.”

  The dwarf did not take kindly to this title. He eyed the knight, then leaned forward to whisper hoarsely, “Has this ought to do with your mad…” He coughed, embarrassed. “Your quest, my lord?” he amended.

  “The reward is very rich,” said Gustav.

  Wolfram spent another moment in thought, then reached for the box.

  “My lord, I am yours to command.”

  “As you see, the box is sealed,” Gustav said, handing it over to the dwarf. “The seal must not be broken. That is a prerequisite. The note inside says that if the seal is broken, the deal is off.”

  “I understand, my lord,” said Wolfram. He studied the box, turning it this way and that. “Pecwae work, if I’m not mistaken.” Holding the box to his ear, he shook it. “Sounds empty.” He shrugged. “You can trust me, my lord. I’ll see to it that it reaches its destination safely.”

  Wolfram thrust the box into his shirt front. He was about to ask a few more questions, poke and pry and try to trick the knight into revealing something more about the box and its mysterious contents. But Gustav’s eyes closed. His breathing was shallow and labored. His strength was spent and his life nearly so.

  Wolfram’s face grew solemn. Every man who looks upon the deathbed of another sees his own, so the elves say. Dwarves believe that in death, the spirit enters the body of a wolf and so continues on.

  “May the Wolf receive you,” the dwarf said softly, resting his rough and callused hand briefly on the hand of the knight. Clutching the box to his breast, Wolfram left the house of healing. He very nearly bumped heads with the Grandmother at the entrance.

  “He’s asleep!” Wolfram said in a loud whisper.