Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Drossel turned down the alley next to the shop with green shutters. At the far end of the alley was another door. This shop was not marked, but everyone in Dunkar knew what was sold here: wares for those who practiced Void magic. Such a shop would not have been tolerated in New Vinnengael. The Church would have acted swiftly to shut it down, maybe even arrest the owner or, at the least, exile her. In Dunkar, the shop was just another shop.

  The Dunkargan people did not like Void magic or Void magic users anymore than did the people of New Vinnengael, but Dunkargans held a pragmatic view of the matter. Dunkargans dislike anyone meddling in their affairs and consequently, they don’t feel the need to meddle in other people’s business. If a person wants to practice Void magic, it’s his affair, not the king’s—except to tax the shop owner—and certainly not the Church’s. If a man is caught harming another through the use of an object of Void magic purchased in Dunkar, the Dunkargans will stone him to death—after they collect the taxes on the object he purchased. This dichotomy in thinking makes perfect sense to the Dunkargans, if to no one else in the world.

  Drossel knocked three times on the door to this shop, counted to ten, knocked three more times. A panel slid open. An eye peered out.

  “You’re late,” said a woman’s voice.

  The panel shut and the door opened. A woman stood inside the door holding a lighted lamp. The room was small and crowded with cabinets and tables displaying wares dedicated to the use of Void magic. A pungent smell scented the air—that of the ointments used by Void mages to spread over the pustules and skin lesions caused by the use of Void magic.

  The woman gestured with the lamp for Drossel to come inside, shut the door behind him. She smelled of the ointment herself and he could see an oily patch on her cheek. Some believed the ointments worked, others did not, saying that those who did believe were fooling themselves. Drossel thought it eased the pain and the itch somewhat, but he couldn’t tell that it improved healing time.

  “Everyone is here,” the woman told him. “In the back room.”

  “It’s madness out there,” he said, as an excuse for his tardiness.

  “What did you expect?” the woman replied coolly, leading the way.

  Drossel had no answer to that. He might have said he really hadn’t had time to expect anything, since he’d only received his orders the previous night, but he kept his mouth shut. No matter what he said, he wouldn’t phase Lessereti. She’d only come back with some rejoinder to make him feel like a fool and since she invariably got in the last word, he’d learned early on that it was easier just to let her have it from the beginning.

  The woman named Lessereti was an avowed user of Void magic and the owner of this shop. Everyone in Dunkar knew of her and, although most would cross to the other side of the street rather than walk past her, those same people would not hesitate to call on her when they were in trouble. Lessereti was smart, careful and skillful in her work. She knew what jobs to accept and which ones to refuse, no matter how much money was in the offing. Thus she had managed to outlive many other Void magic-users in the city of Dunkar.

  When he had first met her, Drossel had thought Lessereti a comely woman. She was only part Dunkargan, that much could be told by the fact that her complexion was not dusky, but more the color of milk laced with coffee. Her hair was brown, not black, like most Dunkargans, and she had one brown eye and one blue eye. She was in her early thirties or looked it. She never referred to her age or where she came from and no one—certainly not Drossel—had the effrontery to ask her. She was well built and but for the pustules on her face and the single startling blue eye that seemed to be able to stare into the dusty parts of a man’s soul, she would have been considered attractive.

  Drossel had found her attractive, at first. That notion had been dispelled for him after five minutes conversation with her. Lessereti had no use for men, viewed them all with scorn. He would soon discover that men were not singled out for special treatment. Lessereti had no use for women, either. She detested all mankind, looked upon her fellow travelers to the grave as fools and dunces and never failed to find cynical amusement in their follies.

  “You’re not going with us tonight?” Drossel asked, for she was not dressed as were the others he could see waiting in the inner room—all wearing the uniforms of the Dunkargan military. Lessereti wore long, draping robes, useful for hiding the marks her trade left on her skin.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I would be immediately recognized and then where would you be?” The words “you great idiot” were not spoken but implied in her tone.

  Anger stirred in Drossel but he was careful not to show it. Captain Drossel was not afraid of anyone, with the single exception of Lessereti. Drossel had good reason to be afraid. He had been the one to drop Lessereti’s poison in the Seraskier’s lamb stew. Hiding in the kitchen, Drossel had witnessed first-hand Onaset’s death. So fast-acting was the poison that the man had died with that first bite of meat still half-chewed in his mouth.

  “So the Seraskier died like a lamb, did he?” Lessereti said, chuckling over her little joke.

  “All went as you said it would,” Drossel stated. “He had no time to cause a scene. He never even made a sound beyond a sort of startled gasp. The servant and I hauled him to his bed. The servant will tell anyone who comes looking for him that the Seraskier is asleep. When the attack comes, they’ll find him, but—”

  “—by that time it will be too late. You must make haste, Drossel. The servant has probably fled by now.”

  “I paid him enough—”

  “Bah! You can never pay anyone enough. Well, here they are.” Lessereti held the lamp high, motioned with her hand. “Stand up, gentlemen, stand up. Form into a line. You’re supposed to be soldiers.”

  Twelve men wearing Dunkargan uniforms shuffled about in the inner room behind the shop. Lessereti did not like to live on the upper levels, as did most merchants, but preferred to live on the ground floor where she could quickly exit the building if she had to. Most people thought Lessereti rented her shop, but, in truth, Lessereti owned this building and also the one next to it.

  Drossel looked each man up and down, making certain that all was correct and in order. He adjusted belts, smoothed folds, ordered one man to wipe the mud off his boots. They were not as good as he had hoped and he would have liked to have given them some training in impersonating soldiers.

  “Don’t worry, Drossel,” said Lessereti impatiently, “by the time anyone figures out they’re not what they seem, it will be all over.”

  “I hope so,” Drossel said and cast her a grim glance. “Anything goes wrong and we’re captured, it means my neck. And likely yours, as well, Lessereti. They won’t have to torture me to find out who gave me my orders.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Drossel,” Lessereti replied. “If this fails, you won’t live long enough to talk.” She glanced around at the others. “None of you will. I’ve already seen to that.”

  Drossel felt a cold qualm shiver his gut. He recalled her comment that “you could never pay anyone enough.” Lessereti was not one to make idle threats nor was she noted for her sense of humor. He looked askance at the other twelve men, but saw nothing in their faces to indicate whether they were fearful or not. Of course, they were all experienced Void magic-users, so perhaps this was a thing that was understood among them.

  “We had best get going,” Drossel said, his voice harsh to mask his uneasiness. “You, there. If you wear your sword like that, you’re going to trip yourself. Shift it more to the left.” He watched as the man struggled with the weapon. “It’s not good, but it’ll do, I suppose. Who’s the leader?”

  “Pasha,” said Lessereti, indicating an older man whose face was so deeply scarred that it no longer resembled a face.

  Drossel recognized Pasha. He had long served as a silversmith’s assistant. His facial scars came presumably from an accident with molten silver. Drossel now understood that the scars came from his liaison w
ith the Void.

  “He knows his business?” Drossel asked nervously.

  “Certainly,” Lessereti returned. “Do you know yours?” The single blue eye was brilliant in the lamplight. “I’m beginning to wonder, Captain.”

  “I know mine,” Drossel said. Fixing his thoughts on the bag of silver argents, he felt better.

  “Good,” said Lessereti. “You have only to take them close in. They will do the rest.”

  “And after that?”

  “You needn’t worry about them. They can take care of themselves.”

  “You put in a word for me?”

  “I did,” she replied. “Lord Dagnarus will be expecting you.”

  She lighted them out of her shop and into the alley. After they were gone, she shut and barred her door. Not a word of farewell, not a word to wish them luck.

  Drossel had planned to form his squad into two lines and have them march behind him, but one glimpse of his “soldiers” and he knew that would never work. Not only would they not be able to keep in step, he could never train them to walk with the stiff and upright stance that marked the military man.

  “Stay together,” he said. “With luck, we’ll look like a patrol just coming off duty. Keep your mouths shut. I’ll do the talking. Any questions? Good. Move out. You, Pasha, come tell me what you and this bunch plan to do once we get there.”

  Pasha began to explain. Listening, Drossel glanced back at Lessereti’s door, thinking she might be watching them.

  The door was shut. No chink of light could be seen coming from beneath.

  Drossel smiled ruefully at his notion. Lessereti didn’t give a damn what they did or what happened to them. She had made her own arrangements for the future and was probably in her bed by now, sleeping quite peacefully.

  * * *

  The city of Dunkar was surrounded by a double wall made of stone with a thick layer of sand and rock in between. The wall had two main gates, one facing west and the other facing the harbor. The Harbor Gate, as it was known, had not been closed for as long as the eldest person in the city could remember. The last time had been during the devastating war with Karnu, over one hundred and seventy-five years ago. Fearing an attack by sea, Dunkar had strengthened its harbor defenses, adding infamous fire-hurling catapults.

  The west gate, facing the Dunkar highway that led to the frontier outposts, was closed every night at sundown. The gate itself was massive. Made of iron, the two double doors were a marvel to all who saw them. The casting and mounting of the doors had required the combined efforts of all the blacksmiths in Dunkarga, as well as assistance from every magus with skills in Earth magic who could be persuaded to lend his arcane art. Earth magic continued to be required to keep the doors from rusting, only a minor problem, due to the dry climate.

  The doors were so heavy that a team of twenty stout men were required to close them and open them in what had become a daily ritual. Timed by beating drums and their own chanting, the men divided into groups of ten each and, putting their hands on the doors, shoved them shut at night and thrust them open in the morning. After the doors had been shut, the twenty men lifted an enormous iron cross bar and, grunting and straining, wrestled it into place across the two doors. Then, each man grabbed a huge war hammer and beat on the bar until it fell into the pinions that held it firm.

  They followed the same routine in the morning, removing the cross bar from the door and hauling it to where it stood during the day, resting on a hundred wooden trestles, watched over by city guards, who did little except keep children from playing on it and visitors from trying to scratch their names onto the iron.

  The iron gate had been closed immediately the enemy army had come into sight, the enormous cross bar lowered into place. No battering ram on Loerem could smash down those gates, though it were wielded by an army of orks, and not even dwarven Fire magic could set the iron doors ablaze, so the Dunkargans believed, and probably with good basis for their belief.

  The gate was normally heavily guarded, for the Dunkargans had little liking for foreigners, particularly those not of the human variety. The guard on the gate had been tripled with the sighting of the enemy. Drossel had never seen so many soldiers on duty all at one time.

  The soldiers had cordoned off the area around the gate and the city walls, keeping the streets free of civilians so that troops and supply wagons could have access. Drossel had feared having to shove his way through a panicked mob of civilians in order to reach his objective. Now he had only to shove his way through a panicked mob of soldiers. Despite the Seraskier’s efforts to improve matters, discipline in the Dunkar army was notoriously lax, with half its officers corrupt and the other half too incompetent to be corrupted.

  “You’re sure this is going to work?” Drossel asked Pasha.

  The group had halted by mutual and unspoken consent in the heavy shadow cast by a statue of one of Dunkar’s long-dead kings. Pasha stood regarding the gate with a frown that caused all the scars on his face to scrunch together.

  “There is more light than usual,” Pasha stated.

  “Is this a problem?”

  “It could be.”

  Glancing around at the group of Void wizards, Drossel saw nods of agreement. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he looked back at the gate. On a normal night, two torches burned on the walls near each of the two gatehouses, while a single lamp lit the interiors. This night, not only was there a bright, full moon and a cloudless sky, but all twenty wall sconces held a torch and several iron braziers filled with flaming charcoal had been brought in to stand near the gate.

  The light illuminated a scene of confusion, with soldiers coming off duty stopping to talk to those who were coming on duty. Those soldiers who had no duty at all and who should have been back at the barracks milled about in front of the gate or tried to climb up the stairs to get a look at the enemy. Officers barked orders that no one heeded.

  “There’s not a damn thing I can do about the light—” Drossel began, only to find that no one was listening to him.

  Pasha consulted with his fellows. They appeared to be hatching some sort of plan, for occasionally one or two murmured something in acquiescence. City bells began tolling the hour.

  Drossel nudged Pasha.

  “Midnight. It’s time.”

  Pasha’s eyes, deep set in the scarred face, were dark, calm. “We are agreed. We will proceed with the plan as I described it. You know what to do, Captain?”

  “Yes, I bloody well know what to do,” Drossel snapped. A veteran soldier who had done more than his share of killing—both on the field and off—he had not expected to be this nervous.

  “Then I suggest you do it,” Pasha said and he may have smiled; it was hard to tell for the scars.

  “Wait a minute. This isn’t going to work if there’s no one on the other side of the gate.”

  “The taan will be there, Captain, have no fear.”

  “Taan? No one said I was relying on taan! What if they’re spotted? What then?” Drossel was sweating. Accustomed to being in the lead, he didn’t like this, relegated to a bit part. “What if they’re seen?”

  “They won’t be,” said Pasha and he actually was at ease enough to sound amused. “The taan cast the same Void spells we do, Captain.” His mouth twisted. “Cast them better, from what I hear.”

  Drossel didn’t believe it. He’d been told about the taan and from what he’d heard, they were beasts. He was sorry he’d let Lessereti talk him into this scheme. There had been no mention of the taan playing a major part until now. No amount of silver was worth this.

  “How will these animals know when to act? How will we know they’re out there?” He shook his head. “I don’t like this. There’s too much left to chance.”

  “I would think twice about backing out, Captain,” said Pasha and he no longer sounded amused.

  “I never said I wanted out,” Drossel growled. “I’m just indicating where things might go wrong, that’s all. I’ll do my part, don’t worr
y.”

  Muttering imprecations against Lessereti under his breath, he turned his back on the Void wizards and began to walk toward the gate. The distance he had to cover was not far, perhaps the length of a long city block, but it suddenly seemed furlongs to him. He walked alone. Pasha had given Drossel a strict injunction not to look back, not to try to see what the Void wizards were doing. Pasha warned that this might draw unwanted attention to them, and Drossel knew this was true, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t trust them. He glanced over his shoulder.

  Having left twelve “soldiers” wearing white tunics that would reflect the moonlight and be visible in all but the deepest darkness, Drossel was considerably startled not to see a single one of them standing beneath the statue where he’d left them. He passed his tongue over dry lips. Although he knew the plan, the thought that he’d been left in the lurch was too overwhelming. Twisting his neck, he sent a piercing gaze into the shadows and then he saw them.

  The sight was unnerving and he wished he’d obeyed Pasha’s orders and hadn’t looked. The wizards’ flesh withered as if they had been caught in a bubbling cauldron. They gave their substance to the Void and the magic seemed to be rendering their flesh as was done in the stockyards, where the animal fat is melted into tallow. The wizards’ flesh melted into the Void. All that remained of the wizard was his shadow, a shadow cast by moonlight, a shadow that was gray and wavering and insubstantial, but could think and act like the man it had been.

  Eleven of the wizards had already performed the transformation. Pasha was the last. As the leader, he had waited to make certain the spells the others had cast had worked, that his magic would not be required to assist any of them or to deal swiftly with a problem should someone’s spell go bad, as occasionally happened. In that case, he might be left to dispose of a corpse, for Void magic was not merciful to those who mishandled it.