Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  He arrived at the palace and was not kept waiting, but was brought straight to the king. Moross sat on his throne in great state, attended by his ministers and members of the nobility. One and all, with the exception of the Seraskier, they expected the herald to state that he was from Karnu. Moross had his answer prepared, defiance to hurl into the teeth of the Karnuan king, who was, in fact, a distant cousin.

  The herald entered with the same jaunty smile. He had been deprived of his sword and shield and boot knife. King Moross stared hard at the device of the phoenix on the tabard and glanced at his ministers, who shrugged. This was not a Karnuan device, at least that anyone recognized.

  Advancing, the herald made a perfunctory bow. With elaborate ceremony, he drew forth a scroll, unrolled it, and began to read.

  From Prince Dagnarus, son of King Tamaros of Vinnengael to His Most Serene Highness, etc., etc. Moross, King of Dunkarga.

  I, Prince Dagnarus, as a son of Dunkarga, am grieved to see the state of war that exists between those who should be clasping each other by the hand and terming each other brother. This civil war has plunged a once great nation in ruin and made of Dunkarga, a land once proud and puissant, a shabby beggar in the streets of the world. I, Prince Dagnarus, propose to end this ruinous war and to raise Dunkarga once more to the level of strength and prosperity that will make all of Loerem look upon Dunkarga with jealous eyes and fear in their hearts.

  The following are my terms: My troops and I will be permitted unopposed entry into the city. I will be named Seraskier and will be given command of all Dunkargan troops and the Dunkargan war fleet. The present king, my cousin, will continue to rule. I am to be consulted in all important decisions. In return, the city of Dunkar will be spared the ravages of war. Those citizens who support me will prosper. Those who oppose me will be given a chance to improve their opinion of me. If these terms are not accepted, my armies will launch their assault at dawn tomorrow. In that instance, the city and its people can expect no mercy.

  King Moross listened in bemused amazement. Dagnarus. Who was Dagnarus? He could remember no Dagnarus who had any claim to Dunkarga. And yet there was something familiar about the name…He glanced about at his ministers, who looked offended and outraged, but also frightened. Seraskier Onaset was grim.

  The herald fell silent, stared expectantly at the king. King Moross knew what his answer must be, but he did not intend to make it arbitrarily. In particular, he needed to talk to Onaset, who had made a sign to him.

  “We will take this under consideration,” said King Moross, cold and imperious.

  “Do not consider long, Your Majesty,” said the herald. “My lord is not a patient man and if I have not returned by sundown, he will begin the assault.”

  The ministers muttered angrily at being given this ultimatum and by the free and easy, sneering manner in which it was delivered.

  Moross silenced them with a glance. He announced that the herald would have his answer when he was prepared to give it and not before. He then ordered that the herald be made comfortable and given food and drink. The herald bowed, turned on his heel, and departed. Moross was immediately surrounded by clamoring ministers, their voices raised in shrill and bellowing protestations that not so much as a single pebble from a Dunkargan alleyway be handed over to this bandit. Moross caught Onaset’s eye. The Seraskier made a most emphatic sign that he needed to speak to the king in private. Moross dismissed the ministers, who expressed their support for His Majesty, and then departed. Their vociferations could be heard even after the great golden doors were closed with a resounding boom.

  “Well, Seraskier?” King Moross asked. “What are we to make of this?”

  “Did you note the name ‘Dagnarus,’ Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, of course, I did,” King Moross returned. Now that they were alone, the king dropped the royal “we,” spoke man-to-man to his Seraskier. “I have been trying to think—”

  “Prince Dagnarus, second son of King Tamaros of Old Vinnengael.”

  “Ah, yes.” King Moross was relieved. “That is where I have heard it before. So that is how he claims to be a son of Dunkarga and my cousin. As I recall, Dagnarus’s mother was Emillia, daughter of King Oglaf.” Proud of his knowledge of his lineage, he was nettled that he had not recognized the name. “She was his second wife. Dagnarus was the one who reputedly brought down Old Vinnengael, if we are to believe the old legends. Quite appropriate that this bandit has taken that foul name. I suppose he could be some sort of great-great-grandson,” Moross continued, musing, interrupting Onaset who had sought to break in. “If I recall my history, the original Dagnarus could have populated a small village with his by-blows.”

  “What if this is the original Prince Dagnarus, Your Majesty?” Onaset asked. “As he claims.”

  King Moross looked severe. “Really, Seraskier, this is no time for levity—”

  “Trust me, I am not joking, Your Majesty,” said Onaset. “According to history, Prince Dagnarus was a Void worshiper. He was cursed by the gods, made Lord of the Void. He was said to be powerful in Void magic.”

  “Prince Dagnarus died in the destruction of Old Vinnengael,” said Moross.

  “His body was never found, Your Majesty.”

  “What are you saying, Onaset?” King Moross demanded impatiently. “That we are being attacked by a two-hundred-year-old Void lord?”

  “I am saying, Your Majesty, that we may be under attack by the power of the Void. I urge Your Majesty to take this into account in your decision making.”

  “So you would have me surrender?” King Moross was astonished.

  “I did not say that, Your Majesty—”

  “I would be ruined. The people would be furious. You said yourself that this enemy will find it impossible to take this city—”

  “Recall your history, Your Majesty. Old Vinnengael was a city ten times larger than Dunkar and ten times better fortified. And it fell to the power of the Void.”

  “They might cast some sort of evil spell on us?” King Moross asked uneasily. “Can they do that?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty. I don’t know that much about Void magic, thank the gods. I do find it regrettable that the High Magus chose this time to leave. His advice in this matter would have been invaluable. Perhaps we could send a messenger—”

  King Moross shook his head. “Impossible. I was sent word that he boarded a ship this morning and they sailed with the tide.”

  “You did not speak to him?”

  “No, his departure was quite sudden.”

  “The High Magus sets sail at the first sign of this enemy,” Onaset said. “Perhaps his sudden departure is his advice, Your Majesty.”

  Moross shook his head, but said nothing. Clasping his hands behind his back, he began to pace. “What a terrible decision, Onaset. If I go to war, I doom my people to the horrors of war and if I surrender I open the city to an army of Void monsters. We know that they have human slaves. What is to stop them from enslaving us all? Can I trust the word of a man who holds a knife to my throat? No, no, Seraskier. I will not even consider it.”

  He halted in his pacing, turned to Onaset. “Am I making the right choice?” he asked, almost pathetically.

  “I believe so, Your Majesty,” Onaset replied. “But we should seek assistance and advice from the magi of the Temple, those who remain.”

  “Yes, of course.” King Moross paused a moment longer, then gave a sigh and straightened. “I will send this herald about his business. Arrogant wretch. Make what preparations you need to make to face the dawn attack, Seraskier.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Onaset bowed.

  “And gods’ fortune to us all,” the king added.

  “We will need it, Your Majesty,” Onaset said.

  In their camp, the Trevenici were also making preparations, although not the kind that the Seraskier would have approved. The Trevenici were making preparations to leave Dunkar.

  The Trevenici warriors were never required to
remain in Dunkar long. The Karnuans constantly sent raiding parties into the disputed no man’s land that lay between Dunkar and the Karnuan city of Karfa ’Len and it was the Trevenici’s duty to drive them back. Raven had been planning to lead his troop to take up patrol duty in the region this very week.

  The Trevenici liked this assignment, for it left them free to roam the land, sleep in the open, show their courage in battle. Well-trained soldiers, the Karnuans were a superb military force. Fighting Karnuans meant that a Trevenici warrior had a chance to gain glory in battle and raise his standing in the tribe, not to mention the bounty money paid by the Dunkargans for Karnuan heads.

  Raven arrived back at the Trevenici camp to find his people gathered together, taking stock of the situation. Heads turned at the sight of Raven and seeing his dark expression and lowering brows, one of their questions was answered.

  “I take it they wouldn’t let you leave,” said one.

  Raven shook his head. “The Seraskier has given orders that the gates are to be closed, no one in or out.”

  “Of course, he has to do that,” said another disparagingly. “Else the entire Dunkargan army would head for the hills.”

  “I say we fight our way out,” said a third, brandishing her sword.

  “Fight! Hah!” another cried. “All we’d have to do is rattle our swords at them and they’ll fall down and piss themselves.”

  “What about our tribes? Those monsters came from the west. Maybe they’re already moving on our people,” said another.

  “I want to get out as much as any of you,” Raven said and, at the sound of his voice, thick with weariness, and the sight of his haggard face, everyone knew that he spoke the truth. “But fighting is not the answer. On my way back, I heard that the enemy sent in someone to parley. You know Dunkargans. They’ll talk for days. This night, we go over the wall.”

  “The walls will be heavily manned this night of all nights,” one pointed out.

  “And all eyes looking west,” Raven answered. “We will go over the east wall.”

  “There is a full moon tonight.”

  “That is bad,” Raven admitted, “but it cannot be helped.”

  “We will not have our horses—”

  “Better we go on foot anyway. The enemy would hear the sound of hoofbeats.”

  “The Dunkargans will accuse us of being cowards, Ravenstrike. They will say we fled in the night.”

  Raven shrugged. “We know the truth, Sparrow Song. Does it matter to us what city dwellers say?”

  No, it did not. Everyone agreed on that. After further deliberation, all decided that they should adopt Raven’s plan. In the discussion, not one mentioned the fact that after they escaped the city, they would need to make their way either through or around the enemy lines. To the Trevenici, this was the least of their problems. They had never yet met a foe, not even the Karnuans, that any of the warriors considered a worthy opponent.

  As the Trevenici made their plans to escape the city, Onaset made his plans to defend it. He ordered his soldiers to light the fires beneath the cauldrons of oil and water. He formed parties of willing civilians into brigades with orders to soak down with water any building made of timber or those with thatched roofs. Fortunately there were not many flammable buildings in Dunkar, for most buildings were made of stone or a mixture of sand, water and crushed limestone. He sent soldiers to quell a riot at the docks, where terrified citizens were trying to flee the city in boats and ships. When their captains began charging outlandish sums, people decided to take matters into their own hands and tried to steal the boats.

  Onaset had the great satisfaction of declaring the port under martial law, stating that all shipping would be needed for the current emergency. He sent his soldiers on board, rounded up the wealthy passengers—the only ones who could afford to pay for their salvation—and marched them off to help in the city’s defense.

  Onaset went to his supper late that night. He ate alone in his quarters in the barracks. He was not married. He did not think it fair to a wife to have a soldier for a husband. Servants did the cooking for him. He sat down to a bowl of curried lamb stew, ate a spoonful and, while chewing, went over what remained left to do before dawn brought chaos and terror and death to the city of Dunkar.

  The realization that he had been poisoned came to Onaset with the terrible burning pain that was like a fire in his vitals. Furious, appalled, fearful not for himself, but for his city, Onaset rose to his feet and tried to call out.

  The pain increased. His throat closed. His heart seized, beat wildly, then stopped.

  The Seraskier pitched forward onto the table, dead.

  The flames of torches and bonfires were bright splashes against the purple black darkness. Torches burned up and down the walls. The fires beneath the cauldrons were kept stoked throughout the night. A red hot glow came from the giant braziers where they were heating refuse from the blacksmith’s shop—iron scraps, bent nails, old horseshoes—to shower down on the enemy. Nervous soldiers patrolling the walls were shadows passing in front of the flames, shadows that blended into the night when they walked on.

  Beyond, in the prairie itself, more fires burned—campfires. When the herald rode out the city walls and word reached the enemy that King Moross had refused the terms of surrender, the enemy soldiers moved closer to the city. Their numbers were incalculable, some estimated as many as ten thousand. The voices of the creatures came clearly to those on the walls, for the monsters were constantly talking or shouting at each other. Their language appeared to be comprised of grunts and clickings and crackling sounds, with explosive sizzling pops like wet wood blazing. Their harsh voices heard coming across the distance were unnerving, alien, strange and unknown.

  There was no sleep for anyone in Dunkar that night. Excited, terrified, its citizens clogged the streets, spreading rumors that grew more fearsome with each telling. Captain Drossel had a difficult time walking the streets and wished that he had thought to wear his cloak over his uniform. He couldn’t go three steps without some frantic civilian spotting him as a member of the military and latching onto him, begging him for news or to confirm the latest rumor.

  Drossel shook them loose with an impatient, “King’s business!” and continued on, cuffing or shoving those who were too persistent. He was going to be late and while that annoyed him—he was a meticulously punctual person—it didn’t much bother him. His men weren’t going to go anywhere or do anything without him.

  Commander Drossel was forty years old, a Dunkargan by birth, born and raised in the capital city. He had joined the army at an early age, not out of a sense of loyalty to his country—he cared damn little about his country—but because he had heard that with cunning and a certain amount of cleverness, a fellow could do quite well for himself in the Dunkargan military. One had only to avoid the temptation to be a hero, for that could get a fellow killed. Drossel had survived in the army for more than twenty years by not being a hero. He took care to fight when his superiors were watching, took care of himself when they weren’t. He had risen through the ranks by a judicious mixture of bribery and treachery. Everyone knew it, no one thought the worse of him for it. That’s just the way things are done in the Dunkargan army.

  He had turned to the worship of the Void fifteen years earlier after a love affair had gone bad. He had been walking the streets of Dunkar, his mind toying with the idea of poison in order to avenge himself on the little whore. With this in mind, he entered an alchemist’s shop and told the proprietor he wanted something to kill rats.

  Guessing at once the nature of the rat in question, the proprietor had asked a few questions and at length suggested a potion that would have a much better effect. The cost was dear, both in terms of his purse and his own hide, for Void magic takes a bit of one’s life essence to work and causes pustules and lesions on the skin. Drossel was able to cover the worst of these with the flowing shirt the Dunkargans wore. He had never been a good looking man, being small and wiry in sta
ture, dark-complected, with black hair and squinting black eyes. The pustules on his face were hidden by his beard.

  The sacrifice had been worth it. The potion, slipped into her wine, had transformed the whore from a nubile and vain young beauty to a bony hag. The girl had known she had been cursed by the Void and she had guessed who had done it. She had tried to bring Drossel up on charges of being a Void worshiper, but he was a respected soldier and she was a whore and so no one believed her. Robbed of her looks and thereby her ability to make money, she had sunk lower and lower and was eventually found dead in the harbor.

  Pleased with the power of the Void, Drossel had been indoctrinated into some of its secrets by a Void practitioner. Knowledge of those secrets and a way with potions led him to where he was today, a high ranking officer in the Dunkargan army, doing all he could to secretly undermine that army in the name of Dagnarus, Lord of the Void.

  Drossel shoved his way through the panicked mobs, cursing them all heartily, and breathed a sigh of relief when he turned down a side street that was empty. The worst of the press was in the tavern districts, where people were accustomed to going for news. The merchant district, especially this part, was quiet. The shops had long been shuttered and those who lived above them had gone off to the taverns or to relatives to gorge on their fears.

  He gave a moment’s thought to what was in store for those clamoring in the streets and then shrugged the thought away. It wasn’t his concern. A man had a right to take care of himself. Certainly no one had ever gone out of his way to take care of Drossel. His thoughts went from the people to the fat purse filled with silver argents he had hidden in a money belt secured tightly around his waist.

  The street he walked was known as “Magi Street” due to the predominance of shops that catered to magi. The shops were closed, their windows shuttered and doors barred. The shop to which Drossel was headed was one of the more prosperous on the block. The shop had a whitewashed façade and green shutters and the customary sign of the mandala representing “Earth magic” that was found on almost all the magi shops on this street.