“Indeed,” said Ulaf, his pulse quickening. He remembered quite vividly the captain riding into the Temple of the Magi and handing over the accursed armor of a dead Vrykyl. Now here was this young man, his nephew, who had been attacked by a Vrykyl in the elven Portal. All just a bit too coincidental. “We heard the city of Dunkar fell to a mighty army, perhaps the same army that threatens us. Have you any word of your uncle?”
Jessan shook his head disconsolately. “No, I know nothing of him. He will be fine, though,” the young man added, lifting his head proudly. “He is my uncle.”
“He would be proud of his nephew, I think,” said Ulaf. “From what the Dominion Lord said, you fought the Vrykyl bravely and those creatures are truly terrifying. But then, that wasn’t the first time you’d seen one, was it?”
Jessan cast Ulaf a sharp, suspicious glance.
“I say that only because your uncle spoke to me of some black armor he was carrying. Did he fight a Vrykyl?” Ulaf asked innocently.
Jessan seemed in two minds whether to answer or not. Finally, he said grudgingly, “It was the knight fought the Vrykyl. The Vinnengaelean.”
“We helped,” Bashae chimed in.
Ulaf was startled to hear the pecwae speak. He hadn’t even been certain that they understood Elderspeak.
“Did you? That was very brave,” said Ulaf. “What happened to the knight?”
“He died,” said Bashae. “The Vrykyl wounded him and not even the Grandmother could help him. The knight was very old, though.”
“His soul was saved,” said the Grandmother. “The Void tried to claim him, but failed.”
“I am glad for that, at least. What was his name?” Ulaf asked. “Perhaps I might have known him.”
This was the wrong question, for some reason. The two pecwae went back to looking deaf and dumb. Jessan did not answer.
They continued on in silence, Ulaf trying to think of how to return to the topic, when Jessan halted and swung about to face him.
“What did he do with it? Did he have it with him?” Jessan demanded.
“Have what?” Ulaf said, not understanding. “Are you talking about the knight?”
“My uncle,” Jessan returned impatiently. “The armor.”
“Oh, of course. Don’t worry,” said Ulaf, seeing the fear in the young man’s eyes, “he rid himself of it. He left it at the Temple for the magi to handle.”
Seeing the young man’s relief, Ulaf said nothing of the Vrykyl who had gone to seek out Captain Raven.
For long moments, Jessan was unable to speak and when he did, he uncharacteristically said too much.
“I am thankful,” he said at last, gruffly. “I gave the armor to him. I didn’t know it was cursed. Like this—” His hand strayed to his left side, but he suddenly seemed to recollect himself. His hand dropped. He turned away. His voice altered. “My friends and I are hungry. You said there would be food.”
“Yes, this way,” said Ulaf.
Even though Jessan had halted his movement, Ulaf had seen what the young man had been about to reveal. Ulaf knew it for what it was.
“A blood knife, my lord,” Ulaf told Shadamehr. “He carries it with him. Not openly. It’s in a leather sheath, but there was no mistaking the handle.”
Shadamehr mulled this over. “They meet an elderly knight and help him fight a Vrykyl. The uncle ends up with the Vrykyl’s cursed armor and takes it to the Temple of the Magi in Dunkar. This young man carries a Vrykyl knife and subsequently winds up in the elven kingdom traveling with a Dominion Lord through the Portal where they are attacked by a Vrykyl who tries to capture them alive. You see, of course, where all this is heading?”
“No,” said Ulaf, feeling obtuse. “I don’t.”
“Don’t you?” Shadamehr smiled. “Well, maybe I’m wrong.”
“How do you know the Vrykyl was trying to take them alive?” Alise demanded.
“Because otherwise he would have simply slain them from a distance with a well chosen word or two, not risk his skeletal remains to duke it out with a Dominion Lord. She doesn’t like me, you know,” Shadamehr added plaintively.
“No one likes you,” said Alise coolly. “I should think you would have realized that by now.”
“Bah! Give her time and you’ll have her eating cake from your hand. Twenty minutes should do it,” said Ulaf.
“You’re both mocking me,” said Shadamehr. “My feelings are hurt and you mock me. There sits Rigiswald, looking severe. He thinks I’m being frivolous…”
“I’m thinking about those ten thousand taan warriors,” Rigiswald said, glaring. “Give them a day to move through the Portal, another day to regroup and start their march.” He pointed a well-manicured finger at Shadamehr. “They’ll be eating supper here the evening after and all you can do is prattle on about some elf female not liking you.”
“From what we know of the taan, it’s far more likely that they’ll be eating us for supper the day after,” said Shadamehr. “Still, you do have a point, you annoying old man. We better decide what to do about these taan. Do we flee screaming into the night or stay and fight?”
Looking around at the others, at their grim and gloomy faces, Shadamehr smiled, slapped his knees and said, “Personally, I’m for staying and fighting. I have those new ballistae the orks designed for me. I’ve been hoping for a chance to try them out and this will be a splendid opportunity.”
“Oh, do be serious for once in your life,” Alise cried angrily. Rising to her feet, she walked over to the window and stood looking out to the north, in the direction of the elven Portal.
“I am very serious, Alise,” said Shadamehr. “From all reports we’ve received, Prince Dagnarus’s target is New Vinnengael. According to our history lessons Rigiswald has been teaching us, Vinnengael has been his target ever since he gave his soul to the Void. To reach New Vinnengael, Dagnarus will have to get past us first. Either he throws his entire army against us—”
“He won’t do that,” said Rigiswald tersely. “Might as well send in a giant to swat a gnat.”
“I agree, Old Man. Dagnarus will have to commit a sizeable portion to fighting us, though, for he doesn’t dare leave us here to cut off his path of retreat in case things go wrong for him in the city. Every taan fighting here is one less taan fighting in New Vinnengael. And he’s going to need every one of those ten thousand to take the city.”
“Unless he has some treachery in the works,” said Ulaf. “Like what happened at Dunkar.”
“Treachery takes intelligent people to work it and I fancy he’ll have a problem finding anyone bright enough in the court of New Vinnengael to be treacherous,” said Shadamehr. “So, let’s plan out how to deploy our troops. We’ll evacuate the noncombatants—”
“Stop it!” Alise shouted, turning to face him. “You’re being crazy. Suicidal. Throwing away your life—”
“But think of the wonderful song it will make, my dear,” Shadamehr interrupted her. He paused in thought, tugged on his mustache. “Except that nothing much rhymes with Shadamehr.”
“Cavalier,” suggested Ulaf.
“Yes, that might do. The Most Lamentable and Untimely but Immensely Heroic Death of Baron Shadamehr the Cavalier—”
Alise slapped him across the face. She slapped him hard, so that the sound resounded around the room and left him with a bright red imprint of her palm. Gathering up the skirts of her robes, she ran out the door, slammed it shut behind her.
“I’m not having much luck with women these days,” said Shadamehr, putting his hand to his stinging cheek.
“Maybe she didn’t like the rhyme,” said Ulaf.
“Everyone’s a critic. I’ll have to have a talk—”
There came a soft knock at the door.
“Come in, Alise. I forgive you!” sang out Shadamehr.
The door opened, but it wasn’t Alise.
“My lord?” Griffith looked in hesitantly. “Could we have a word with you? We would not bother you, but it is importa
nt—”
“Come in, come in. I was just about to send for all of you,” said Shadamehr.
The two elves entered, bringing with them the Trevenici youth and the two pecwae. They had all of them heard the altercation, but the faces of the elves and the Trevenici were impassive, unreadable. The pecwae were clearly overawed, stared around in amazement at the high ceilings and ornate furniture and glittering tapestries. Pausing inside the door, the elves bowed to the assembled company. Shadamehr and Ulaf bowed to the elves. Rigiswald did not. He sat in his chair, ignoring them all.
“You said you were about to summon us, Baron?” Damra stated in Elderspeak. “May I ask why?”
“How very frank you are for an elf,” said Shadamehr admiringly. “Right to the point. Very well, I will be equally frank with you, Damra of Gwyenoc.” He shifted his gaze to Jessan and Bashae. “Which one of your friends is carrying the Sovereign Stone? My first thought was the Trevenici youth, but the longer I consider the matter, the more I tend to think that Lord Gustav gave the Stone to the pecwae.”
Damra’s jaw sagged. She stared at him in unblinking astonishment, then cast a reproachful glance at Jessan. He glared back at her.
“No, please, none of that,” Shadamehr said to both of them. “Each of you has been true to his trust. But Jessan did let fall certain bits of information and it was not difficult for me to deduce the rest. An elderly knight, roaming alone, far from home in Trevenici lands. That could only be Gustav, the Whoreson Knight on his insane quest. I grieve to hear of his death, yet I am glad for him that he finally succeeded in fulfilling his lifelong dream.
“For he did succeed, didn’t he, Jessan?” Shadamehr turned to the Trevenici, noting, as he did so, that his injured hand had been wrapped in a neat bandage and that he could actually move his fingers. “Gustav found the human portion of the Sovereign Stone. The Vrykyl knew he found it. One sought to slay him for it, but the creature managed only to wound him before he killed it. Knowing he was dying, Gustav entrusted the Stone to a messenger to deliver it to you, Damra of Gwyenoc. Jessan and Bashae and the Grandmother”—he bowed to the elderly woman—“bravely and intelligently completed their dangerous task. They brought the Stone to you and now you are responsible for seeing that it arrives safely in New Vinnengael.
“That has not been an easy task,” Shadamehr continued, not allowing anyone to interrupt, “for the Vrykyl are bent upon recovering the Sovereign Stone for their lord Dagnarus. That is the reason the Vrykyl came after you and your charges in the Portal. I admit I’m a bit confused about why the Trevenici here is hauling about a blood knife, but I’m sure that can be explained.”
Damra and Griffith exchanged glances. Griffith lifted an eyebrow, as if to say “I told you so.” Jessan said something in Tirniv. The Grandmother gave a loud snort and thumped the butt-end of her stick on the stone floor, said something back to the two young men, also in Tirniv.
Ulaf translated, said softly, “The young man says that you are obviously a wizard and not to be trusted. The old lady says you are not a wizard, just a weasel.”
“Weasel?” Shadamehr whispered, taken aback. “Are you sure?”
“Among the pecwae, the weasel is considered an animal of high intelligence,” said Ulaf with a smile.
“Oh, well, that’s better, then. My relations with the fairer sex are improving it seems. At least one of them likes me.”
Shadamehr smiled benignly at the Grandmother.
Damra said a few words softly to her husband, then turned back to Shadamehr. She spoke defiantly, cold-eyed, her hand on the hilt of her sword.
“Obviously, Baron Shadamehr, it would be pointless for us to deny this. Our question is this. What do you intend to do now that you know?”
“Whatever you want me to do, Damra of Gwyenoc,” said Shadamehr quietly. “You plan to take the Sovereign Stone to New Vinnengael to give it to the Council of Dominion Lords. I will be of as much help to you or as little as you require.”
Damra’s expression softened. She glanced sidelong at her husband and her companions.
“I see. I had not expected—” She fell silent, thoughtful.
“Twenty minutes,” Ulaf whispered.
Shadamehr smiled, but said nothing. He kept his eyes on Damra and on the two young men, Jessan and Bashae. Other than Jessan’s first remark about wizards, neither of them had yet spoken a word. They were leaving it to the Dominion Lord to do the talking.
“It is not quite as simple as you describe, Baron Shadamehr,” Damra said finally. “Bashae carries the human portion of the Sovereign Stone. I carry the elven portion.”
Now it was Shadamehr’s turn to look astonished.
“Od’s bodkin!” he exclaimed, almost reverently. “Any particular reason, or did you just happen to fancy it?”
Damra paled in anger. Hastily, her husband said something to her in Tomagi.
She glanced at Shadamehr, said stiffly, “My husband says that you meant no offense. He tells me you make a jest of everything, Baron Shadamehr—”
“Shadamehr, please. The ‘baron’ part doesn’t suit me. Makes it sound as if I should be forty pounds overweight, have gout and wear a great gold chain around my neck. And I’m really harmless, truly. Ask anyone. Well, almost anyone…Now do tell me your story and I promise to behave. We’ll start with you, Jessan. By the way, congratulations on holding your own against a Vrykyl. Few men I know have been as brave or done so well, myself among them. The first time I met a Vrykyl,” Shadamehr added with blithe matter-of-factness, “I ran like a rabbit. If you didn’t take your adult name from that encounter, you should have.”
Jessan flushed, suspicious, yet intrigued by this strange man, who did not mind telling he’d run away in the face of a daunting enemy. Trevenici admire courage, and that includes the courage it takes for a man to reveal something detrimental to himself.
Shadamehr brought up chairs. He sat down, stretched out his legs as if he were in a tavern, with all the time in the world and nothing more important on his mind than the quality of the ale. “Now, tell me about Lord Gustav. Did you see his battle against the Vrykyl? I say that only because you carried away a prize—the blood knife. Tell me about that encounter.”
Trevenici are generally only too happy to talk about a good fight. Jessan could see nothing wrong in this and he was glad to be able to talk about the knight’s heroism. He began to speak, short and succinct at first, then gradually warming to his tale. Bashae forgot himself and spoke up, adding his part. The Grandmother chimed in, telling how the gods had chosen both young men to go on the journey, one to carry the Stone and one to guard it. At that, Shadamehr seemed a bit restless, squirming in his seat. But in general he was an attentive and interested listener, asking questions to draw them out, and soon all of them found themselves telling him more than they had ever intended.
They handed off the story to the elves. Damra told her tale, reluctant and halting, obviously uncomfortable about discussing elven politics with humans. Shadamehr asked several questions of her. To her amazement, he spoke fluent Tomagi and his questions indicated that he knew a great deal about the current elven political situation. He held the Divine in immense respect, and he did not mock the elves, as did many humans. Damra relaxed and was soon amazed to hear herself talking to him as if she had known him all her life.
“Well done, Damra of Gwyenoc,” said Shadamehr approvingly at the end of her story. “A hard decision, but I think you made the right one. Garwina has lowered the Portal defenses to permit Dagnarus entry, undoubtedly in return for promised considerations. I’m certain Dagnarus agreed to relinquish the Portal once he has achieved his goal of capturing New Vinnengael. Unfortunately, when the time comes, Garwina will find Dagnarus reluctant to give the Portal back—”
A knock came on the door. “My lord!” called out a voice.
“Yes, what is it?” Shadamehr demanded, irritated at the interruption.
A head poked in the door. “My lord, our scouts report that the taa
n troops at the eastern end of the Portal are not marching as we feared they might. They’re setting up camp on the banks of the river.”
“Probably waiting to establish their supply lines. Unless—” Shadamehr turned to Rigiswald. “You don’t think Dagnarus plans to sail down the river, do you?”
Rigiswald scowled, considering. “The taan hate water and fear it. They don’t even like to get their feet wet. I doubt if there are any who can swim. Still, they worship Dagnarus as a god. Who knows what he could force them to do?”
“Taan?” Damra was confused. “What are these ‘taan’?”
“The creatures that you saw entering the Portal. They fight for the army of Prince Dagnarus. From what information we’ve been able to glean, they come from a world on the other side of a Portal—”
“Continent,” said Rigiswald sourly. “A continent. Not another world. Preposterous to even consider such a thing.”
“Continent, then,” said Shadamehr with a wink. “Now, then—”
“A desert continent,” Rigiswald continued sententiously. “That’s why they can’t stand water.”
“Thank you,” said Shadamehr. “Now then, this gives us more time than I thought we had. What else, Rodney?” he asked.
“The scouts have retreated, my lord. They said it was too dangerous.”
“Wise people. Nasty sort, the taan. Don’t want to get too close. Anything else? Carry on, then.”
The seneschal departed. Shadamehr turned back to the elves. “What are your plans, Damra of Gwyenoc?”
“We must reach New Vinnengael—”
“Yes, the faster, the better. And you can bring word of this army to the King, who probably knows nothing of the fact that he’s about to be attacked by ten thousand monsters—”
He stopped speaking. Bashae was saying something to the Grandmother in Twithil.
“Is that their language?” Shadamehr said softly to Ulaf. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“Nor have I, my lord.”
“Sounds like a collection of crickets, doesn’t it?”
The Grandmother responded tersely, shrugging her shoulders. Bashae looked at Jessan, who cast Shadamehr a glance that was intense and scrutinizing. At last, slowly, Jessan nodded his head.
Guardians of the Lost Page 60
