Jedash decided that the odds were in his favor and he traveled to Karfa ’Len in haste. He avoided the main road, for he had not fed in some time and when a Vrykyl does not feed, the undead being has difficulty concealing its true nature.
The city had closed its gates by the time Jedash arrived, but he had no trouble obtaining entry. Waiting until nightfall, he used the power of his Void magic to scale the outer wall. His hunger was by now immense, verging almost on panic, for he could feel the magic that held the rotting parts of his body together start to weaken. He killed the first soldier he saw, thrust the blood knife into the man’s heart. Jedash had a brief and fierce battle with the man’s soul, but at last it succumbed to Jedash’s will and he absorbed it into himself, strengthening the Void magic and assuaging his hunger.
He spent a difficult few moments answering to Shakur, who had been attracted to Jedash by the shared consciousness of the blood knife. Jedash assured Shakur that the two he sought could not escape him, not now.
Jedash disposed of the body by using a Void magic spell he had learned from taan shamans, a spell that accelerates decomposition of a corpse. The taan use such a spell to conceal from the enemy the numbers of their dead. Jedash found it useful in covering up his murders. Assuming the soldier’s form, he finished the hours of his watch. All that was left of the corpse was a pile of black, moist dirt.
Jedash posted himself on duty at the gate, remained there day and night. His gamble paid off, his hunch was rewarded. He watched in satisfaction as the dwarf rode up to the gate, sought entry into the city.
Jedash looked for the dwarf’s companion, the Trevenici female. Odd, but he had trouble seeing her. He was reminded of trying to look directly at the sun. It couldn’t be done. Every time he tried, he was forced to avert his gaze. He couldn’t understand it. Unlike the sun, the female didn’t burn his eyes. No blinding light emanated from her. She appeared to be a perfectly normal human female, yet he could not keep her in view.
Jedash was about to leave his post, descend from the wall, when he realized that she was aware of him. She was searching for him. He froze in place. He felt her close to him and then her attention shifted suddenly away from him.
Relieved, he waited until the two had crossed the bailey and entered the next postern. By that time, the alarm had gone up that the orks were attacking. Jedash cared nothing about orks. He welcomed the confusion that would make snatching the dwarf that much easier.
Jedash raced across the bailey. He had to push his way through the soldiers crowding the postern and when he did, he ran into the street only to find no sign of the dwarf or his strange companion.
Jedash stared about in bafflement. They could not have escaped him! Not this time.
Cursing, the Vrykyl plunged into the crowd.
Wolfram was lost. The last detour had proved a mistake. He turned down a street that he thought led to the harbor, only to find it wound around to the south. Boot Street lay well west of his position. He could guess by the blaring sounds of the conch shells that the orks blew in battle that they had managed to fight their way ashore.
The orks set more fires as they surged into the city. Clouds of smoke billowed into the air. At least, their ships had quit hurling the flaming jelly, probably afraid that they’d hit their own people.
Wolfram was bone-tired. His throat was raw. His arms were so weak from hanging onto the reins that they shook. He did not have strength to fight a child, much less an ork. When he found a water trough, he gave a great sigh of relief. He led the horses to the trough, let them drink, while he splashed the cool water on his head and laved his neck and rinsed the smoke out of his mouth.
Feeling better, he assessed the situation. The streets in this part of the city were almost deserted, the inhabitants having rushed off to fight the orks at the harbor. This was a commercial street, the shops were shuttered. Faces of children peeped out of the windows above the shops. Occasionally an adult left behind to guard the children looked out as well, trying to see what was going on.
Wolfram sat down on the edge of the water trough, stuck his feet into the cool water.
“What are you doing?” Ranessa demanded.
“Soaking my feet.”
“But…why have you stopped? Shouldn’t we be going?”
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head.
Ranessa glared at him, hands on her hips.
“Look, Girl, Boot Street, which is where we need to be, is hip deep in orks right now. If we went down there, we’d end up getting our throats cut if we were lucky or taken captive aboard an ork ship if we were not.”
“But we can’t just stay here!” Ranessa protested.
“Yes, we can,” said Wolfram, complacently swishing his feet in the water. “I know ork raiders, Girl. They’re here for three things: to do as much damage as possible, to steal as much loot as possible and to free all the ork slaves they can find. Once they’ve accomplished these goals, they’ll go back to their ships and head for home. We just have to wait them out, that’s all.” He glanced around. “This seems as good a place as any.”
Ranessa fidgeted and paced. Wolfram began to think he’d made a mistake. Ork voices, raised in gleeful howls or bellowing in pain, were coming closer, along with the clash of steel and officers shouting orders in Karnuan. The adults who had been looking out of windows came down to street level, stood in doorways, armed to the teeth, ready to defend their shops and their families.
One particularly gruesome cry caused Wolfram to flinch.
“Maybe you better go down to the corner of that street and take a look, Girl,” he said nervously, pulling his feet out of the horse trough. “I’ll stay with the horses.”
“I told you,” Ranessa returned, glaring at him.
“Told me what?” Wolfram demanded, but she was gone, running for a cross street about a block away. “Maybe, if I’m lucky, an ork’ll snatch her—”
Glimpsing movement out of the corner of his eye, Wolfram put his hand on the hilt of his short sword and turned around.
By the Wolf, he was jumpy. It was only a Karnuan soldier, walking down the street. Wolfram relaxed, looked away, keeping half an eye on Ranessa, who was at the end of the street, about a block distant. Never fully trusting humans, Wolfram glanced back at the soldier. The Karnuan’s walk was purposeful and his gaze was fixed on the dwarf.
Wolfram felt a twinge of unease, began to question the sudden appearance of this soldier. What was he doing here alone, away from his post? Away from the fighting? Ranessa’s warning came back to Wolfram and, though he had put little credence in her words at the time, they now seemed etched in fire.
It’s here. It’s following you.
Wolfram drew his sword.
The Karnuan’s walk quickened.
Wolfram’s hand on the hilt grew sweaty. The soldier was coming for him, that much was certain. Perhaps the Karnuans had decided to arrest all dwarves or perhaps this was something worse, the something that had been trailing them across the plains…
A blood-curdling horn blast sent Wolfram leaping sideways, his heart clogging his throat. Guttural voices mimicked the horn blast. A group of orks appeared at the end of the street.
The orks held flaming torches and enormous curved-bladed swords. Their hands were bloodied to the elbows, their faces covered with grime and soot and smeared with blood. One of them lifted a conch shell to his lips and gave another blast. Some of the orks began breaking shop windows, tossing their torches through the broken glass. Others, sighting the Karnuan soldier, brandished their weapons and howled their battle cries. Karnuan citizens surged out of their doorways, weapons drawn.
The Karnuan soldier stood between Wolfram and the advancing orks. The soldier scowled, glanced from the orks to the dwarf and back to the orks. The gleeful orks descended on the soldier, caught out in the open, alone. They figured him to be easy pickings. Other Karnuans ran to the attack, but there were only five of them to about fourteen orks.
Calculating th
at the orks would keep the soldier occupied, Wolfram took to his heels. He raced down the street toward Ranessa, who was at the other end. Hearing howls and curses in two languages and the clash of steel, he assumed that the Karnuans and the orks had by now been formally introduced. He glanced over his shoulder.
The Karnuan soldier was gone. He should have been between Wolfram and the orks, fighting for his life. He wasn’t there. The soldier had disappeared. An ork stood in his place. As Wolfram looked back at the ork, the ork looked at Wolfram and began to give chase.
Wolfram could not understand what had happened. He was so amazed that he forgot to watch where he was going. Tripping over his own feet, the dwarf went sprawling headlong onto the cobblestones.
The chill of death washed over him. Terrible memories of the Vrykyl came to his mind—of Gustav dying in torment, of the armor in the cave, oozing evil…
Wolfram leapt to his feet in a pounding heartbeat. He began to run as he was in the act of standing and he took off down the street.
His legs were short, the ork’s legs were long, and the dwarf had lost precious time in his fall. Wolfram heard the ork’s pounding feet right behind him. Wolfram sucked in a deep breath, let it out in a bellow.
“Ranessa! Help me! Hel—”
The ork seized hold of Wolfram, clapped a hand over his mouth and, with strength that was incredible even for an ork, he snatched up the heavy dwarf, hoisted him off the ground.
Ranessa stood at the end of the street that ran downhill, led to the harbor. She didn’t know anything about battles or military strategy, but even she could see that the orks were leaving the battle field. Their purpose accomplished, their raid successful, the ork captains sounded the retreat. The orks began to fall back. Disciplined, organized, they continued to set fires and grab up loot as they departed. They had with them freed ork slaves. The slaves still wore their chains, but they wouldn’t be wearing them for long.
“Ranessa! Help me! Hel—”
Hearing Wolfram’s cry, Ranessa turned to see an ork seize hold of Wolfram and lift him off his feet. The ork tucked the stout dwarf under one arm as easily as if he’d been a keg of ale and began to race down the street.
Rage swept over Ranessa. She didn’t think much of the dwarf, but he was her dwarf and he was going to lead her to the Dragon Mountain. And now this ork had ruined everything.
Her anger swelled. The form of the ork wavered in her vision and then the ork disappeared. In its place stood a knight helmed and armored in death.
Ranessa recognized the Vrykyl, recognized the curse Jessan had brought into their camp. The curse that had brought doom upon Raven and the rest of her people.
Ranessa yanked her sword from her sheath.
More than once, Wolfram had tried to persuade Ranessa to abandon the heavy sword. This failing, he had then attempted to teach her to use it, so that at least she wouldn’t cut off anything important to herself or to him. His teaching had proven only moderately successful. Ranessa was not athletic, nor was she particularly well coordinated. When she swung the sword, it was a toss-up whether she’d do more damage to herself or the enemy.
Ranessa let out a shrill scream that was like nothing that ever came from a human throat and ran straight at the Vrykyl, swinging the sword in clumsy, slashing arcs that came perilously close to gashing open her own thighs.
Jedash had not even seen Ranessa. All he cared about was the dwarf. Having fortunately killed an ork once, Jedash had shifted his image from Karnuan soldier to ork soldier. He was making good his escape, when he heard Ranessa’s shriek.
The Vrykyl stumbled to a halt. Amazed, fearful, he stared at the thing that confronted him. He had not expected this. Not expected anything close to this.
He was certainly not going to fight it. Turning, he started to retreat, only to find that the true orks had all departed. Jedash in ork form was the lone ork on the street. Swords glinting in the light of the fires, the Karnuan citizens advanced on him, determined to vent their fury on the only ork around.
In his true form, the Vrykyl would have made short work of the Karnuans. He might have stood a chance with Ranessa, but that would be a hard-fought battle, one he was not yet prepared to wage. Jedash flung the dwarf at the advancing Karnuans. The howling Wolfram bowled into them, knocked them down like skittles. Freed from this threat, Jedash departed in haste, cursing Shakur, who had sent him on this ill-fated mission without providing him with all the details.
Ranessa gave chase, her one thought to catch the Vrykyl and slay the evil creature. Her sword grew increasingly heavy, however, and very nearly slipped out of her grasp, for her palms were wet with sweat. She was not accustomed to running. Her legs hurt and she had a severe pain in her side and no breath left in her lungs. With a final parting shout, that was both a victory yell and a challenge, she came to a halt, stood panting in the street.
Flinging the heavy sword to the pavement, wringing her aching hands in relief, she walked back to where Wolfram and the Karnuans were endeavoring to sort themselves out. Ranessa reached out her hand to help the dwarf to his feet.
Wolfram took hold of her hand. She gave him a yank that nearly upended him.
“Thank you, Girl,” he said shakily. “You saved my life.”
“I did, didn’t I.” She was gleeful. “Although I wish I’d had a chance to hit it with my sword. Are you hurt?”
Wolfram shook his head. He had a few bumps, his weak ankle ached, his ribs were bruised where the ork-thing had seized hold of him and he had a long, deep scratch down his arm made by a slashing Karnuan sword.
The Karnuans eyed Ranessa suspiciously. Far from being pleased that she’d helped them out, they grumbled that she’d stolen their opportunity for revenge. Knowing Karnuans and how they think, Wolfram guessed that it would be only a matter of time before it occurred to the Karnuans to take out their anger on the other foreigners in town.
“I’m all right,” Wolfram said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Ranessa agreed. She’d spent time enough inside these walls. She wanted only to leave.
“That street leads to the harbor,” she said, pointing.
Wolfram was pleased and gratified to find their horses still standing near the trough. For love of the dwarf, the horses withstood their instinctive terror of the Vrykyl. Taking hold of the reins, Wolfram limped down the road, heading for Boot Street.
Ranessa walked alongside him. The silence between them was a comfort to them both. Their shared encounter, their glimpse into the horrible maw of the Void, their unspoken fears and terrors twined about them, bound them together.
“Where are we going?” she asked at last. “To see a cobbler?”
“Osim,” said Wolfram. “In Boot Street.”
“Looks like most of that part of the city is on fire. Your cobbler may be nothing but ashes.”
“Won’t matter,” said Wolfram. “It’s nothing to do with him, really. In the back of his shop are the public privies.” The dwarf grinned, his teeth white in his soot-covered face. “I don’t think it likely the orks set fire to those. Inside the privies is a Portal, one of the magical tunnels through time and space. That’s the real reason we came to the city.”
“Will this tunnel take us away from here?”
“Yes,” said Wolfram and he repeated it more emphatically. “Yes.”
“Good,” she said.
Wolfram noted something lacking.
“You dropped your sword, Girl,” he said, slowing his steps. “Do you want to go back and fetch it?”
Ranessa shook her head. “No, I don’t want it. The sword is too heavy for me. Too heavy for me to bear.”
The official title of the elf lord, Garwina of House Wyval, was the Shield of the Divine. He was either the most powerful elf in the land of Tromek or second most powerful, depending on who you asked. This morning, Garwina did as he did every morning; he knelt before the household shrine dedicated to his Honored Ancestor.
Every elven household, from the l
avishly furnished palaces of the Divine to the most humble hut of his most humble subject, has such a shrine. In the Shield’s palace, the shrine was huge, expensive, elaborate. An altar made of black lacquered wood inlaid with ivory and decorated with silver stood on a raised dais secreted in an alcove hung with beautiful silks. The silk, specially hand-woven and hand-dyed by Nimorean craftsmen, bore the emblem of the Shield’s house—a wyvern holding a thistle—embroidered in thread spun of gold.
On the table were arranged the possessions of the Honored Ancestor: his flute, his set of carved alabaster wine goblets, a silver pitcher taken in a raid from the castle of a Vinnengaelean lord, and other trophies and mementos, including his shield and his swords. A chair that matched the table stood behind it. Here the Honored Ancestor came on an almost daily basis to speak to his grandson.
Kneeling on the edge of the dais, the Shield lit the candles and made his offering—sugared wafers filled with honey and nuts. A favorite of the Honored Ancestor, the wafers had been made by the hands of his own wife, not those of a servant.
The Honored Ancestor appeared, a ghostly figure that wavered in the chair like candle smoke on a breath of air. The ancestor had died in his two hundred and sixtieth year of wounds suffered in battle. He wore the memory of his armor, in order to appear more intimidating. The old elf’s hair had been silver gray when he died, but he remembered it as the shining black of his youth. His face was thin and gaunt and pale, resembled the face of his grandson—a trait of the members of House Wyval. The natures of the two were also very much alike. Both were stern, implacable, proud and unyielding. Always before they had sided together.
They did not side together now.
The Honored Ancestor ignored the sugared wafers. His ghostly hand did not reach for his flute, as it so often did, for though he could not touch it, he could remember the feel. He did not glance at the swords, although the Shield had ordered them newly sharpened and polished. Keeping both arms folded across his chest, he glowered at his grandson.
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