Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  “No, they won’t,” Damra said, trying to sound reassuring. “Arim the Kite Maker is strong and cunning. Someday I will tell you a story of how he survived far worse peril than this.”

  “He will be safe,” said the Grandmother, supremely confident. “I gave him my stone.”

  “Your stone, Grandmother?” said Bashae, suddenly troubled. “But you still have eight more, right? Nine for me and nine for Jessan and nine for you?”

  The Grandmother chortled. “Hah! As if I needed nine protecting stones. There were thirteen for you and thirteen for him”—she jabbed her finger at Jessan—“and one for me. And I didn’t really need it. He does.” She gave an abrupt nod in the direction Arim had taken. “Foolhardy, that one,” she said softly. “But he means well.

  “And I won’t hear another word about it,” the Grandmother snapped, glowering at Bashae. She shifted the glower to Damra. “Shouldn’t we be going? Or are we going to stand here and talk all day?”

  “Yes, we should be going,” said Damra, dispirited. She did not have much faith in the turquoise stone. “We have only a few hours to reach our destination before we find that army on our heels.”

  “Where are we anyway? A cave?” The Grandmother sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like a cave.”

  “We are inside one of the magical Portals,” Damra replied, shepherding her brood down the path.

  The Grandmother’s eyes widened. “A Portal,” she repeated to herself in Twithil. She raised the agate-eyed stick. “Take a good look, boys. You won’t see the like again.”

  “I can help your hand now,” said Bashae to Jessan. “I can’t set the bones, but I can ease the pain. We’ll have to do this while we walk, so try to hold steady.”

  Jessan cradled his injured hand, while Bashae removed some green and red stones from his pouch. Carefully, muttering to himself, Bashae placed the bloodstones in the palm of Jessan’s broken hand.

  “Does that feel better?” he asked, eyeing it with the air of an expert. “Look, the swelling’s going down. I’ll set the bones when we stop for the night. Try not to move it, if you can.”

  “It does feel better,” Jessan said. “Thanks.” He paused a moment, then he said, almost shyly, “I have my adult name. It came to me when I fought the Vrykyl.”

  “Do you?” Bashae asked, pleased for his friend. “What is it?”

  “Defender,” said Jessan gruffly.

  “It’s kind of plain,” Bashae said, disappointed. “Not like Chop-Their-Heads or Ale Guzzler. Do you think you might get a better one? Something a little more exciting?”

  Jessan shook his head. “I like this one.”

  “Well, all right. Should I call you Defender from now on instead of Jessan? It might take some getting used to.”

  “Not yet. The tribe has to decide if it is suitable.”

  “Good,” Bashae said, relieved. “In the meantime, keep a look-out for another name, just in case.”

  Jessan didn’t say anything to dash Bashae’s hopes. Jessan knew he’d found his name. What he had to do now was to live up to it. He looked down at the bone knife, still at his side. The knife had saved his life and nearly cost him his life. Involuntarily, his hand closed over the hilt and he felt once again the blade stabbing through the armor of the Vrykyl. He felt the knife squirm in his hand, felt the white hot fury of the Vrykyl. He felt his own life begin to seep away, flowing through the bone knife to fill the Vrykyl’s awful emptiness.

  Jessan shuddered, a shudder that began in his bowels and spread throughout his body. He was sorry he remembered it and in that moment he knew that he would never forget. Every time he looked at the blood knife, he would hear the Vrykyl’s words, The curse stays with you. As do I.

  Damra pushed them mercilessly, permitting only the briefest halts for rest and to try to hear what was going on behind them.

  Hearing nothing, she urged them on.

  The Portal’s defenders still held, but they would not hold it for long. The illusions ended. The Wyred fought their own battles in the Inner Ring. The elves had abandoned the gate, retreating back into the towers that stood in the Outer Ring. Once inside, the elves retracted the walkways that led from the towers to the walls and sealed up the doors that were located some six feet above ground level.

  The elves who were holed up in the towers gained a brief respite. The taan did not immediately attack them. Lyall could not figure out why, at first, then the answer was obvious. The enemy commander had them trapped like rats. He had no need to bother with them. They could do him no harm. He held the Outer Ring and he sent his troops pouring through the gate and into the Inner Ring. Elven archers manned the murder holes, fired at the creatures as they moved past in a solid mass, thousands of them. The elves might hit one or two or twenty, but what was that? Like trying to drink the ocean dry a drop at a time. The archers were running short of arrows and Lyall ordered them to cease fire. They’d need what remained for the final assault.

  He understood the enemy’s plan clearly. Move the main body through the Portal. Leave behind a small force to mop up.

  Lyall sat with his back against the wall, an apt pose, he thought to himself. He was wounded, but then so was every elf in the tower. The floor was slippery with their blood. He watched one warrior die before his eyes. The soldier made no sound, he did not groan, did not speak. Lyall hadn’t even known the man was wounded until he looked over and saw the dead man’s eyes frozen in his head.

  “Sir!” One of the men roused him. “You should come see this.”

  Lyall rose stiffly to his feet, grimacing in pain, and limped over to the slit in the wall.

  The warrior pointed. Several of the taan had broken away from the main body of the army and were walking toward the tower. They did not wear armor, but were clad in black robes. Some sort of strange ceremonial headgear covered their hideous faces.

  “Shoot them,” said Lyall immediately. “Don’t let them come near.”

  He stepped back to allow the archers to come forward. The elves fired their precious arrows, taking their time, hoping to make every shot tell.

  One taan shaman reached up a taloned hand and caught an arrow in mid-flight, plucked it out of the air. An arrow struck another taan in the chest, only to disappear in a flash of fire. The elves continued firing and an archer hit her mark. A shaman fell backward, clutching at an arrow in his throat, strangling on his own blood.

  “An argent to the archer!” called out Lyall.

  The elves cheered, but the cheering didn’t last long. The surviving shamans paid no attention to their fallen comrade. Halting their advance, they raised their voices in an eerie-sounding wail. The elves increased their fire in order to try to stop the spell-casting, but had little success. The creatures were oblivious to the arrows, oblivious to the danger. One took an arrow in the thigh, but never missed a beat.

  The elves waited tensely for the spell—earthquake, cracks in the stone, walls turning to mud. Such were the magic spells humans used.

  Nothing happened.

  The elves began to laugh. One said it reminded him of children playing at being wizards. Another said it reminded him of lizards playing at being wizards and that drew an even bigger laugh. Lyall smiled, but he did not join in the mirth. These creatures, hideous and bestial as they might appear, were in deadly earnest. There was a malevolent intelligence in the voices and in the eyes that was truly frightening.

  Lyall felt a sudden tightness in his chest, as if he couldn’t get enough air. He drew in a deep breath and was forced to work at it. He had to struggle to draw in another. Around him, his soldiers gasped for breath. They stared at him and at each other with dawning horror in their eyes.

  The magic was sucking the air from the tower.

  Lyall’s chest burned. Starbursts stung his eyes. His soldiers slumped to the floor. Hoping to find air, Lyall staggered toward one of the slit windows. He could not make it. He sank to his knees. Pressing his hands against his chest, he gasped, panic-stricken, for the air he kne
w would not come.

  “I hope it has been worth it…” was the last thought in his mind.

  * * *

  Several miles distant, high on a hilltop that overlooked the Portal, a thousand elven foot soldiers and a hundred mounted knights stood at the ready, watching, waiting. The elves wore armor that had been dipped in black paint. They carried a banner draped in black cloth. The trappings of the knights’ horses were black. Their swords were sheathed in black, their spears and arrows were tipped in black. Soldiers and officers wore masks of black silk over their faces. Their hands were wrapped in black, their boots muffled in black. Theirs was a ghostly force, aligned with night’s shadows. Those few taan scouts who had stumbled upon them were terrified, for to them it seemed that the darkness came to life.

  The taan called out, “Hrl’Kenk, Hrl’Kenk,” naming their ancient god of darkness. The elves had no knowledge of that, nor did they care what the taan said. The elves made short work of the creatures, ended the taans’ cries by slitting their throats.

  The elves had an excellent view of the Portal, of the fall of the Portal. They had a good view of the immense army of taan that poured into the Portal, their numbers so vast that they were beyond counting. The elves watched the enemy kill the pitiful few elves left to defend it. They watched the taan establish their defenses, then form into orderly ranks and march through the Portal. This took hours and by the time the last few started marching through the battered gate, dusk had fallen.

  Smug in victory, General Gurske had not given any thought to attempting to repair that gate.

  The elven officer, a young man, but already tested and proven in battle, smiled to see the great iron doors hanging off their hinges.

  “So Grandfather said it would happen.” His voice was grim. He did not take his eyes from the Portal.

  “Do we ride?” asked his lieutenant. She found it hard to watch brave men die, even those who belonged to the House of her enemy.

  “Not yet, but soon,” said the commander. “We will let the main body of the army get well inside the Portal first.”

  “How many has he left to guard it, do you suppose?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Not many,” said the commander. “A few hundred. No more. All humans.”

  “Are you certain?” The lieutenant was skeptical. “We have heard that this Dagnarus is an able commander. Surely he would leave a large number to defend his only means of retreat.”

  “He will need all the troops he has with him and more to mount an assault against the city of New Vinnengael. That is his true target. And why not? Dagnarus imagines that he is safe, that there is no enemy within a thousand miles of him. For so the Shield has promised him.”

  The elves waited, continued to watch the Portal. Night stole across the land, the stars came out, the moon rose. Where this morning there had been the grating, clashing sounds of battle, now came the sounds of men celebrating their victory. The humans lit fires in the courtyard. The elves could see the soldiers silhouetted against the flames, coming and going with bottles in their hands. They heard drunken laughter.

  Elven scouts returned to report that the humans had thrown some timbers across the broken gate to try to bolster it. A few guards walked the walls, bottles in their hands.

  “They think themselves safe,” said a scout.

  The commander mounted his horse, a black destrier that he had bought in the human lands where he had been exiled for a hundred years. He turned to face his troops. Rising up in his stirrups, so that all could see him, he lifted his voice so that all could hear.

  “We ride this night to restore the honor of our House.”

  Lifting his hand to the black mask that covered his face, the young man ripped off the mask, proudly revealed his tattoo, his lineage. He held his mask high in the air.

  “Kinnoth!” he shouted.

  “Kinnoth!” came the shout back.

  Every elven warrior took hold of the mask of shame concealing the tattoos that marked him as belonging to that disgraced House and tore it off.

  The standard bearer removed the black cloth from the banner of House Kinnoth. The wind caught hold of the banner and it rippled in the night air. The elves were heartened, for the wind is known to be the breath of the gods.

  The young officer motioned to his squire, who brought forth a cloth and a bucket of water. The commander dipped the silk mask into the water. Raising the wet silk to the heavens, he then washed the black paint from his breastplate. The emblem of House Kinnoth gleamed white in the moonlight. This done, he held his hand poised high in the air, the black mask fluttering from his fingers. He dropped the mask and spurred his horse. He rode in the vanguard, his knights followed, charging down the hill. The foot soldiers came surging after. They sang no song, they shouted no battle cry.

  Many elves of House Kinnoth would die this night, but they would die with honor, for the first time in two centuries.

  Damra and her companions emerged from the Portal into the eastern fortress that guarded it. She was tense and nervous, not knowing what to expect—more questions, certainly, or perhaps a battle with the guards of House Wyval. She did not expect to find the Portal deserted.

  No guards remained inside the vast fortress. The magic that had defended the Inner Ring had been lifted. No soldiers walked the ramparts. Everything was in disorder and disarray—papers still burned in the fire pits, half-eaten was food left on the table. Evidence that the elves had departed in haste. Either the Shield had ordered them to leave or they had made that decision themselves, on hearing reports of the army that was then marching through the Portal.

  The silence of the empty fortress was unnerving. Damra did not linger. She and those in her care must put as many miles between them and the approaching army as possible.

  She had hoped to borrow horses, but no horses remained and it was at that point she very nearly gave up. She was exhausted, as were the human and the pecwae. The Grandmother was gray with fatigue. She stumbled as she walked. Bashae yawned and blinked like an owl in the sunlight. Jessan made no complaint, but twice Bashae had been forced to put more healing stones on the young man’s hand to help ease his pain.

  “We cannot go much farther,” Damra said to herself. “Yet we have to. We dare not stay here.”

  The eastern end of the Portal was located in the side of a mountain. A broad highway led from the fortress that surrounded the Portal to a valley below, not far from the headwaters of Arven river, where the elves had built a large harbor. Commerce in and out of the Portal traveled by boat.

  Damra trudged wearily along the highway, wondering if it were actually possible to fall asleep on one’s feet. She had about come to the conclusion that it was, when Jessan jostled her arm.

  “What?” Damra lifted her head.

  Jessan pointed. Four elves had ridden out of the woods. They did not approach, but remained at the edge of the highway, watching her, waiting for her to come level with them.

  Damra eyed them warily. Were these the Shield’s men? She recognized the ritual masks, but those didn’t tell her much about their allegiance, for one was from House Tanath, another from a minor House, Hlae, and two more were from another minor House, Sithma-Oesa. Any of those Houses might be allied with the Shield.

  Cautiously, hand hovering near her sword hilt, she continued on her way. Coming near, she was about to give the requisite polite greeting and keep going, but one of the elves urged his horse out from the woods to block her path. She had no choice but to halt.

  “Dominion Lord,” he said, addressing her in respectful tones. “You and your friends have come a long way. You must be hungry and tired. Our master extends an invitation for you to rest and refresh yourselves at his manor.”

  Damra was too exhausted to take the time for polite nothings. She pointed behind her. “An army of creatures the likes of which have not been seen in this world is coming through that Portal. Do you know that?”

  “Yes,” the elf said, “so we heard from the sons of
cowards of House Wyval who fled with their tails tucked between their legs. All the more reason you should take advantage of our master’s hospitality.”

  “Who is your master?” Damra asked.

  “The Baron Shadamehr,” the elf replied.

  The elves had not brought extra horses, but two elves offered theirs, saying that they had orders to stay behind, to see what this famous army might do. Damra wondered how they planned to remain alive long enough to report once they’d seen the army, but they did not seem concerned. She concluded that they must have some other means of transportation hidden away in the forest—hippogriffs, perhaps.

  Mounting the horses, they rode to the harbor, where they boarded long boats. Damra knew nothing of the journey. Lulled by the lapping of the water and the knowledge that for once she was not expected to be in control of the situation, she fell asleep.

  She woke to another ride overland and then a climb up the steep slope of a cliff-face known, she was told, as the Imperial Escarpment. Above her, she saw a castle, a towering structure of gray rock that seemed to float among the clouds, for it was built on the highest point for miles around.

  “What is that place?” she asked.

  “Shadamehr’s Keep,” was the reply.

  As Damra rode nearer to Shadamehr’s Keep, Ulaf—once known many months ago as Brother Ulaf—was wandering about the bailey of the Keep, searching for his lord and master.

  “Where is Shadamehr?” Ulaf demanded of everyone he met.

  “I haven’t seen him,” was the invariable answer.

  At last, Ulaf found a stable-hand, who made a vague gesture in the direction of the Keep. “I saw him go in there, but that was hours past. He came round to the stable, asking for all the rope we had on hand.”

  “Rope?” Ulaf repeated, puzzled. “What did he want rope for?”

  The stable-hand shrugged and grinned. “You know his lordship.”