Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  The Divine is the nominal head of the Church, although the priests have their own hierarchy. Unlike the human Church that combines religion and magic, the elven Church works hard to separate the two. The priests have no great power, but they are important in that they are the only people who can cross the strict boundary lines of elven society. A priest, no matter how lowly his birth, may talk to anyone. A peasant who believes that he has been wronged could not take his grievance to the Shield, for the peasant would not be permitted anywhere near the Shield. The peasant takes his grievance to the priest, who, even if he comes from peasant stock himself, can seek an audience with the Shield to relate to him the peasant’s woes.

  As a structure, the Shrine was not beautiful or imposing. It looked to be little more than a rock cairn with openings left among the stone blocks for windows and a larger opening that served as a door. The Shrine was one of the oldest structures standing on all of Loerem, for the earliest written histories of the elves speak of it as old even then. The rocks that form the walls of the Shrine are said to have been placed there by the hand of the Father and thus is it the holiest of holy sites in Tromek.

  Bright light glowed from the windows. The Shrine was open day and night to anyone who sought guidance and counsel. A number of the priests could be seen silhouetted against the light, clustered in the open doorway, peering out into the night. At the sight of her, they called out in alarm. Something was wrong.

  Not caring who saw her now, Damra broke into a run. She clasped hold of the pendant she wore around her neck. The armor of the Dominion Lord flowed over her. To reach the reliquary, she would have to pass through a grove of cedar trees, the first defensive barrier.

  Arriving at the cedar grove, she halted, stared in consternation. Broken branches lay on the ground or hung, snapped and dangling, from the main trunks. One entire tree was split in two, as if it had been struck by lightning, yet there was no charring visible, no smoke rose from the splintered wood.

  The air was tainted with Void magic. Damra could scarcely breathe, so thick was the miasma. The Wyred had placed powerful magicks on the grove to keep out thieves. The magicks had been shattered. The power of the Void had destroyed them.

  Gripping the handle of her ceremonial sword, Damra drew it, held it before her as she crept silently through the path of destruction created by her enemy. Having to watch where she placed every footfall, she had reason to bless the Raven Eyes that had been gifted to her by the gods. She reached the edge of the tree line, looked beyond to see the reliquary itself.

  A crystal globe hung suspended on a wire made of beaten gold attached to the top of a cage whose bars were made of steel intertwined with gold. Inside the globe, the Sovereign Stone gleamed in the bright silver light that radiated all around it. The cage stood in the center of a mirrored floor that reflected the cage and the glittering stone hanging above. So smooth was the mirror’s surface that the reflected objects were indistinguishable from the real. The mirrored floor extended outward from the cage for a radius of four feet.

  Woe betide anyone who stepped on that surface without care, for unless one knew where to walk (and it was said that only two people in the Tromek knew the secret route, the Divine and the Shield of the Divine), the thief would step from solid ground onto nothing, for the mirrored surface was an illusion created by the Wyred. The thief would fall into a deep pit lined with razor-sharp iron spikes, to die a horrible death.

  If one managed to safely cross the illusory floor, then one had to pass through the bars of the cage that were locked with seven locks (one for each of the seven major Houses) requiring the use of the seven keys—four keys held by the Divine, three held by the Shield. Then and only then could one reach the Sovereign Stone, held suspended in its crystal globe.

  The bodies of several guards lay sprawled on the ground around the reliquary. Some wore the armor of House Trovale of the Divine, others wore the armor of the Shield of the Divine. The battle had been a bloody one, desperately fought on both sides. Guards loyal to the Shield had been victorious, six of them remained standing, but none had escaped unscathed. One guard clutched his bloody arm to his side. Another’s face was slashed open to the bone. A third knelt beside a comrade, hastily tying a tourniquet around the man’s upper thigh. No soldiers loyal to the Divine remained alive.

  Damra could imagine the battle, imagine how vicious, how desperate it had been. Although loyal to different Houses, different causes, these men had served together for years. They must have become friends, comrades, some close as brothers. Then, in a single night of betrayal, some had turned on their friends, their comrades, their brothers. They had obeyed orders. Done their duty. None could reproach them, for duty to one’s House took precedence over friendship, love, even family. Yet Damra felt sickened at the thought.

  She watched warily, not rushing forward, taking in the situation. The guards appeared to be waiting for someone. They peered into the darkness. They were nervous, uneasy, hearing nothing but the accusing voices of the souls of their murdered victims. Damra began to be uneasy herself. The Vrykyl had blasted her way through the cedar grove. Where was she? Hiding in the shadows of the Void, watching, taking stock of the situation, even as Damra watched?

  Movement caught Damra’s eye. The soldiers raised their bloody swords, drew together for defense.

  A figure emerged from the shadows of the cedars opposite to where Damra stood. The figure was that of a woman. Beautiful, fragile, she made her way with delicate grace across the blood-soaked and trampled grass. The guards lowered their weapons and stood back to let her pass.

  Lady Godelieve scarcely noticed them. She looked neither to the left nor the right. Her gaze fixed upon the Sovereign Stone, glittering in its crystal globe.

  Damra’s first impulse was to rush from her hiding place, strike now, catch the creature in its weakest form. A Vrykyl can don its protective, magical armor as swiftly as a Dominion Lord, but Damra would have the element of surprise and that would count for something, particularly since the Vrykyl must believe her to be dead.

  Damra was about to act on this impulse, even though it meant that she would also be fighting the Shield’s guards. She gripped the hilt of her sword, shifted her weight forward.

  A hand closed over her wrist.

  Damra gave a violent start, turned her head.

  Silwyth stood beside her.

  “What—” she began in an angry, hushed whisper.

  The grip on her wrist tightened. The aged hand was exceptionally strong. His lips formed a single word, “Wait.”

  Damra calmed her wildly beating heart, relaxed her stance. She had no idea how he came to be here, how he had managed to keep up with her, how he had made his way past the guards, who would have slain a member of House Kinnoth on sight. There was more to this aged elf than appeared on the surface.

  The Lady Godelieve halted at the edge of the reliquary and summoned one of the guards.

  “Stand watch,” she ordered in her melodious voice.

  The guard bowed low. His remaining men took up positions around the reliquary, facing the cedar grove, their swords drawn.

  The Lady Godelieve walked around the rim of the illusory floor, looking closely at the edge of the stonework until she came to a certain point. Here, grasping the skirt of her robe that was stained with blood, she set her foot cautiously upon the smooth, mirrored surface. Finding safe purchase, she took another step and another and another, gliding across the mirrored surface as gracefully as a skater glides across shimmering ice. She reached the cage safely.

  She would not have the seven keys, but bars of steel and gold would not stop a Vrykyl who had blasted her way through a forest. Still, Damra expected that the cage would cause the Vrykyl some difficulty, impede her way, if only for a moment. Damra stared in astonishment to see the Vrykyl slide her hand right through the bars, as if the cage did not exist.

  Lady Godelieve lifted her head, looked up at the Sovereign Stone that hung above her. She gazed at it
a moment, then knelt down upon the floor of the cage and reached for the reflection of the Sovereign Stone that glittered beneath her feet.

  Only then did Damra see through the illusion. The Sovereign Stone did not hang suspended from the top of the cage. The Sovereign Stone was placed on a pedestal that thrust up from the bottom of the mirrored floor. The reflection was the reality, the reality the reflection. So powerful was the illusion that even when Damra understood how it worked, her eyes were still fooled and she had to struggle to reconcile what she saw with what her mind knew to be the truth.

  Damra glanced at Silwyth. The aged elf stared intently at the Vrykyl, his expression fixed, unwavering.

  “Was the living woman truly this beautiful?” Damra asked. Like the illusion, she was trying to reconcile what she saw with her eyes to what she knew with her mind.

  “More so,” he answered softly. “This is but a memory of her beauty.”

  A bitter memory, Damra thought, and turned her attention back to the Vrykyl.

  The Lady Godelieve knelt on the floor of the cage. Reaching down with both hands, she plucked the crystal globe containing the Sovereign Stone from its pedestal. She gazed at the Stone for long moments. She did not smile. Her expression was one of quiet, complacent triumph.

  “Now!” breathed Silwyth. “Take the guards, Damra. The Lady Valura is my responsibility.”

  Damra was about to argue that he could not possibly face down a Vrykyl, but then she saw the stooped body straighten. The hobbling gait changed to a swift run. Skilled, strong hands wielded the cane that had become a weapon. Silwyth was a blur of movement, a shadow darting across the bloody grass. One of the Shield’s guards caught sight of him. The guard’s shout alerted the others. The six began to converge on Silwyth.

  Damra’s silver armor shone with a holy radiance as she strode forth to do battle. The guards shifted their attention from Silwyth, who was little more than a dark blur, to this gleaming apparition, who seemed to come on them as a vengeful god. They stared at her in awe, as one thunderstruck.

  Damra was quick to take advantage of their amazement. “As you have been the betrayer, so you are betrayed,” she shouted. “You have been duped by a creature of the Void. Yield to me and I will spare your lives.”

  “I know her,” a guard snarled. “Damra of Gwyenoc. This very night, the Shield deemed her a traitor to the realm. Her life is forfeit.”

  He was already holding his sword, and now he drew from his belt a dagger. All the Shield’s warriors were expert in the use of two-handed fighting and these were among his most skilled soldiers. Five of them turned to seize her. A sixth chased after Silwyth.

  Damra was armed only with a short sword that was more ceremonial than useful. She had a more potent weapon. Damra had her Raven magic and the raven is known to be a bird of tricks.

  Suddenly the Shield’s guards found themselves facing three Dominion Lords. Two illusions of Damra sprang up on either side of the guards, flanking them. The sixth guard, who was about to lay hands on Silwyth, heard a voice in his ear.

  “Help me! I need your help!”

  The voice was the melodious voice of the Lady Godelieve, or so the man thought. He halted, looked around, only to find that the Lady Godelieve’s attention was fixed on the Dominion Lord, her beautiful face contorted in a scowl. He realized he’d been duped, but when he searched for his prey, the aged elf was nowhere to be found.

  Damra deftly shifted position so that the elven guard attacked one of her illusions. His slashing sword blow whistled through the air, the momentum of his swing carrying him off balance. Damra caught him from behind, struck him a blow that drove him face first into the ground.

  The illusions of herself were incredibly realistic, mimicking her in every way. One of the guards knew the moment his sword hit nothing solid that he battled air. He whirled about, saw Damra and an illusion of Damra and wasted a moment trying to figure out which was which. Damra’s foot slammed into his chest, sent him flying backward. Hearing harsh breathing behind her, she recovered from her kick, turned, swinging her sword. Her blade sliced beneath the guard’s armor at the waist and into his rib cage. Crying out in pain, he doubled over. She struck him on the jaw with the hilt of her sword, knocking him unconscious.

  Turning swiftly to find other foes, she saw that one had fled; probably gone to fetch reinforcements. Another stood watching her warily, his eyes darting from one Damra to another, trying to make up his mind which to attack.

  She searched for Silwyth, saw that he had reached the reliquary. He started to cross the illusory floor. Damra held her breath, expecting to see him plummet into the pit, but he had no difficulty. He crossed in the same place, in the same manner as had the Lady Godelieve. He crept up on the Vrykyl, who had her back turned. Valura kept watch on the Dominion Lord. The Vrykyl did not see Silwyth or hear him approaching.

  Silwyth did not see one of the Shield’s guards creeping up behind him. The guard knew the secret route, crossed the illusory floor with ease. Sword raised, he stood poised to stab the aged elf in the back.

  “Silwyth!” Damra warned him. “Behind you!”

  Silwyth turned, jabbed with the iron-shod heel of the cane to strike the guard in his midriff, below the breastplate. The guard lost his balance and tumbled, with a shriek, into the pit.

  Valura heard danger behind her. Turning to face it, she took on the fearful image of the Vrykyl.

  Damra could not worry about the Vrykyl or about Silwyth. Her shout effectively ended the illusion. The remaining guard moved warily to attack her.

  “Must you rely on magic, Dominion Lord? Fight with honor,” he jeered.

  “You are one to talk of honor,” Damra returned with scorn. “How many of the Divine’s soldiers did you stab in the back?”

  “The Shield proclaimed them traitors,” the guard said angrily, defensively. “Traitors have no honor, as you yourself have proven.”

  “Look at the Sovereign Stone,” Damra told him. “Witness the honor of the Shield.”

  “Another trick!” the guard snarled, but he was clearly shaken, unnerved. He had done his duty, obeyed orders, but he hadn’t liked this night’s treachery. He began to doubt.

  Damra lowered her weapon, stepped back. “Look,” she urged.

  The guard held his weapons ready. He shifted his gaze, intending to glance swiftly at the Stone and then return to battle. He saw the Vrykyl, its dark armor absorbing the silver light of the mirrored floor, as if seeking to destroy the light from the heavens.

  “Ancestors save us,” he gasped, staring. “What evil has come upon us?”

  “The perfidy of the Shield made manifest,” Damra told him.

  Calling upon the wings of the Raven, Damra lifted her arms and soared into the air. Hovering in front of the amazed guard, Damra kicked him in the teeth, smashed her foot into his face. He went over backward, blood spurting from his nose and mouth. Damra settled back to the ground.

  “Those with honor I fight with honor,” she told him, then turned to see how Silwyth fared.

  Valura had not heard the fighting, she had not heard the shouting of the Shield’s guards or the screams of the dying. She cared nothing about these mortals. They were as insects to her and whether they lived or they died was of no consequence. Her attention had been focused on the Sovereign Stone to the exclusion of all else. She held the crystal globe in her hands, stared, mesmerized, at the sparkling jewel inside.

  “I have the Stone, my lord!” she cried.

  Dagnarus’s elation, his triumph, his pleasure surged through her, bringing back memories of long ago, when it had been her flesh that had given him pleasure, when his love had brought her joy. The memories were bitter now, filled with pain, and yet she kept fast hold of them, for they were the last connection to what she had once been. She had been about to smash the crystal globe, seize hold of the Stone, when she heard Damra’s warning shout.

  “Silwyth! Behind you!”

  Silwyth! The name was part of Valura�
�s most painful memories. Silwyth, Dagnarus’s chamberlain, had connived at their illicit meetings. He had carried notes back and forth, brought her gifts from her lover. Silwyth had helped to deceive her deluded husband. Silwyth, who loved her for what she had been and pitied her for what she became.

  His pity. She had seen his pity every time she had looked into his eyes and she hated him for it, even after all these years. She could endure Dagnarus’s loathing of the thing she had become, though it hurt her as nothing, not even the pain of dying, had hurt her. She could not endure Silwyth’s pity.

  Valura’s gaze shifted from the Sovereign Stone in her hands to the aged elf. Silwyth stood behind her, balanced precariously on the stone steps that led across the illusory floor.

  Lady Godelieve disappeared, the illusion forgotten, abandoned. In its place stood the Vrykyl.

  Armor darker than the darkest depths of her hatred flowed over Valura’s skeletal body. Needle-sharp spikes jutted from her bony hands and from her shoulders. The hideous helm with its ravenous face of ever-hungry death covered her skull, lent eyes of fire to the empty sockets.

  Silwyth was ancient, decrepit, the face wrinkled and wizened almost past recognition. But she knew him, knew it was Silwyth. She saw the pity in his eyes.

  Valura flung the crystal globe to the platform on which she stood. The globe shattered. Amidst sharp, jagged shards of crystal, the Sovereign Stone lay gleaming at her feet. She paid no attention to the Stone; the prize was hers for the claiming. Drawing her sword, she sprang at Silwyth.

  Valura brought her weapon down with a swift motion that should have cleaved her foe in twain. The sword blade struck the stones with such force that sparks flew, the rock cracked. The blade missed Silwyth, who now stood behind her.