Shadamehr had maintained an interest in magic, though he was careful not to try to cast it himself. He and Alise, Ulaf, and Rigiswald often held lengthy discussions concerning magic, including Void magicks.
Void magic could not heal a dying man, but it could save one by transferring some of the life essence of a Void magus into the dying man’s body. The spell was dangerous, for in saving the victim, it could kill the spellcaster.
Shadamehr put his hand on Alise’s neck. He could barely feel a pulse. She was in terrible pain, for she cried out, and her body wrenched and twisted. The pain could not rouse her from the deep darkness in which she struggled. For his sake, she had given herself to the Void, and the Void was laying claim to her.
Alise was going to die. Unless he did something, found help for her, found some way to stop the Void from dragging her away from him, she was going to die.
She was going to die, without ever knowing that he loved her.
Shadamehr gritted his teeth and, through an enormous effort, managed to lift his arms, reach up, and seize hold of the top of a barrel. He paused a moment, gasping for breath, then, with another effort, he pulled himself upright. He stood hunched over the barrel, shaking and shivering uncontrollably.
He managed to focus his bleary eyes long enough to find the door. It seemed miles away. He didn’t know where he was, for he had no recollection of coming here. He could hear nothing. No sounds came from beyond the door. Now that he thought of it, he seemed to remember hearing someone banging on the door and calling out, but that had been eons ago.
He tried to call for help, but the shout came out a cracked yelp. He let go of the barrel, took a step, took another step. His head throbbed. The room began to tilt and wobble. His stomach heaved, his knees buckled. Feeling himself start to fall, he tried desperately to save himself by grabbing for the barrel. He upended it, sent it crashing to the floor, along with himself and the lantern.
Fortunately he did not set fire to the cellar. The lantern’s flame went out, drowned in lamp oil.
Shadamehr cursed himself and his weakness and his failure, which was going to cause him to lose the one person he would have given up his life to save.
“You should have let me die, Alise,” he said.
Managing to crawl back to her, he took her hand in his own, kissed her hand, her dear, tortured face. He gathered her in his arms, cradled her head on his chest, and held her shivering, chilled body pressed against his.
“You should have let me die. No great loss,” he murmured. “Nothing but a conceited, heedless, reckless fool, who meddles in affairs that aren’t any of my concern simply for the sheer fun in meddling.”
He rested his cheek against her soft hair.
“Oh, I tell myself I’m doing good. I’m benefiting mankind, and maybe I have managed to do that, now and then. But I do it only because it is fun. It is an adventure. Always an adventure. Just like this mess we’re in now. What a bloody, stupid, reckless thing to try to do—save the young king from a Vrykyl. I put the lives of my friends in peril. I put our mission to save the Sovereign Stone in jeopardy. All for my own selfish thrills. If I had just given it a rational moment’s thought, I could have figured it out.
“The king suddenly dead. His son the last person with him. Nobody would suspect a child, of course. Nobody suspects now that the boy is anything other than he appears to be. And who would believe me if I told them? Who will believe a profligate adventurer, who never spoke a serious word in his life? A man who was granted the right to become a Dominion Lord and refused, not because I was protesting the politics, not out of any philosophical compunctions or any moral convictions. The truth was that I refused because, plain and simple, I didn’t want the responsibility.
“Alise, Alise,” he whispered, holding her close. “If I were a Dominion Lord, I could save you. I could have saved myself. Through my own damn, selfish laziness, I have lost the only thing I ever held dear. And you will leave me never knowing that I love you. For I do love you, Alise,” said Shadamehr, kissing her gently. “You are my lady.”
She had ceased to moan. Her body was growing colder, her breathing labored. Holding her close, he breathed each breath with her, as if he could breathe each breath for her.
“If you die, Alise, I do not want to live. If you are not part of life, I have no care for this empty gift you have given me. But though I have no care for life myself, I will not waste it. I will make you proud of me, Alise. I will. I swear it to the gods.”
THE VRYKYL JEDASH FOUGHT TO RETAIN THE ILLUSION. FIRE Storm returned for an instant, but by then people were screaming and pointing. He realized that his mask had slipped and people had seen through his disguise. He abandoned the useless Trevinici illusion, called upon his magic. The Void protected him, covered him in its own black armor, gave him deadly magicks and the power to wield them.
The power of the Void affects not only the mind, but the heart. The Void’s weapon is fear. The Void’s shield is terror, its armor despair. The best and bravest find it difficult to battle the Void, for it forces a person to battle two foes simultaneously—the terror within and the horror without.
The pecwae stood frozen, helpless. The Vrykyl made a grab for the two, and he nearly had the Grandmother, when some bastard cast a magical spell that caused the floorboards to lurch and roll. He lost his balance, stumbled backward, and crashed up against the wall.
“Throw things at him!” a voice yelled, and the tavern’s patrons began their crockery assault.
Plates and bowls smashed against the Vrykyl’s armor, mugs struck his helm. The missles could not harm him, but they were an irritation, kept him from thinking clearly so that he could cast a spell of his own.
The air around Jessan grew chill and dank as the air in a burial mound. He smelled the sweet, sickening stench of decay. Fire Storm’s face dissolved. The illusion of flesh vanished, revealing the reality of a hideously grinning, gap-toothed skull.
Jessan had only one weapon, the Blood-knife. He had fought a Vrykyl before and, though he had very nearly died, he remembered that this small bone knife had done a great deal of damage to the undead creature. Jessan grabbed hold of the Grandmother and thrust her behind him, putting himself between her and the Vrykyl, who was floundering amid smashed bowls and coagulating stew. A badly aimed mug struck Jessan in the back, between his shoulder blades. He hardly felt it.
“Where is Bashae?” he yelled, glancing over his shoulder.
The Grandmother shook her head.
Keeping one eye on his foe, Jessan searched about frantically for the pecwae. He shouted his friend’s name, but if Bashae answered, Jessan couldn’t hear him above the roars and hollerings and screams erupting all around. The Grandmother pulled violently on his leather breeches. She jabbed a pointing finger. Jessan followed it and saw Bashae, crouched, trembling, beneath the table, his eyes level with those of the fallen Vrykyl.
Bashae was trapped, fenced in by chairs and table legs. A span of only a couple of feet separated him and the Vrykyl. Jedash covered that distance in the space of a heartbeat.
Frantic as a cornered animal, Bashae tried desperately to escape. He might have managed it, for pecwae are lithe and nimble, their bones supple as willow branches. Dragging the knapsack with him, Bashae slithered backward, scrambling to fit his body between the rungs of a chair leg.
The Vrykyl seized hold of the knapsack’s leather straps.
For many months, Bashae had been the guardian of the Sovereign Stone. He might not have known that when he started out, but he knew it now. The knapsack was his pride, his responsibility. The knapsack had taken him on a wondrous journey, taken him places and shown him sights that few pecwae had ever seen. He’d come to feel beholden to the knapsack and possessive of it. Bashae was horribly afraid of this ghastly creature of death and despair. He wanted only to get away from it, as fast as possible. But he was going to take the knapsack with him.
As the Vrykyl tugged on the knapsack. Bashae gave an angry and in
stinctive tug back and managed to jerk the leather strap out of the Vrykyl’s clutching grip. Bashae wriggled backward and was soon lost amid a tangle of table legs, human legs, and human feet. The Vrykyl could not follow.
Furious, he clambered to his feet. Lifting up the table, the Vrykyl hurled it into the crowd. He found Bashae, crawling beneath another table. The Vrykyl made a lunge for the knapsack, which was tangled up with the pecwae, and caught hold of both of them. The Vrykyl gave a violent tug on the knapsack that nearly tore off Bashae’s arm.
The leather strap broke loose. Bashae felt it give. Turning, he seized hold of the knapsack, kicked wildly at the Vrykyl.
Jessan tried frantically to reach Bashae, but the Vrykyl was between him and his friend, and chairs, tables and panic-stricken patrons were between Jessan and the Vrykyl. Jessan hurled aside chairs, knocked down anyone who got into his way. He had a fleeing glimpse of staring eyes and wide-open mouths, but they had no meaning, were as leaves blown away on the winter wind of fear for his friend. Jessan cried out a challenge, hoping desperately that the creature would forget about the pecwae and turn to face this new foe.
The Vrykyl had only one thought, and that was to retrieve the knapsack. He paid no more attention to Jessan than to a mewling kitten. The Vrykyl dug his taloned nails deep into Bashae’s body. Blood flowed down Bashae’s rib cage. He cried out in pain, writhed in anguish. The Vrykyl grabbed hold of the knapsack and hurled the screaming pecwae to the floor.
Like Jessan, the Grandmother had also been trying to reach Bashae. Blocked by the crowd, she dropped to the floor and crawled toward him. When the Vrykyl hurled Bashae to the floor, the Grandmother flung her body protectively over his and glared up defiantly at the Vrykyl.
The Vrykyl drew his sword, prepared to slay both of them and take his prize. He raised the weapon. The Grandmother snatched up one of the agate eyes and threw it into the Vrykyl’s helmed face.
The agate eye burst with a flash of pure white. The magical light was horrible. Flaring inside Jedash’s head, the light illuminated the Void, leaving the Vrykyl naked and exposed to the gods. He could feel his undead spirit start to shrivel in their blessed gaze.
Coming up behind the stunned Vrykyl, Jessan plunged the Blood-knife into the Vrykyl’s back.
The slender, fragile-looking knife sliced through the Void armor, penetrated the Vrykyl’s corrupt and rotting flesh. Born of the Void, the knife began to shred the Void magic that held together the Vrykyl’s existence.
Pain that burned like hot, molten metal seared through Jedash, as the Blood-knife weapon severed the dark threads spun of death that bound the Vrykyl to this existence.
Screaming in fury, he whipped around to face his new attacker.
Jessan tried to recover the Blood-knife, but his sweat-wet fingers slipped off the handle. The bone blade remained embedded in the Vrykyl’s black armor.
The Vrykyl thrust his hand through the black armor of his breastplate. He groped about inside his own cadaver and, with a howl of agony, seized hold of the Blood-knife embedded in his decaying flesh and ripped it out.
The Vrykyl had what he’d come for. He had the knapsack, and he was certain that inside was the Sovereign Stone. He crushed the Blood-knife in his black-taloned hand and hurled the remnants at Jessan. His prize in hand, the Vrykyl headed for the door.
The shards of the bone knife struck Jessan. Those that hit flesh drew blood, but Jessan paid them scant attention. Bashae lay in a crumpled and bloody heap on the floor. The Grandmother knelt over him, her face wet with tears and with blood, speaking the ancient pecwae magical spells of healing, her words broken by her sobs.
Fury, white-hot, exploded in Jessan’s brain, burning away all instinct for self-preservation. He had one goal, and that was to retrieve the knapsack his friend had fought with such uncharacteristic valor to keep.
Jessan caught hold of the leather strap that dangled from the Vrykyl’s hand. With a strength born of rage and anguish, Jessan wrenched it loose. Astonished, the Vrykyl tried to recover his prize. Jessan jumped backward, to escape the Vrykyl’s furious swiping hand, and fell over a chair. He crashed to the floor.
Clutching the knapsack to his breast, protecting it with his body, Jessan tried to stand, but he was starting to grow dizzy. The floor began to tilt and twist underneath him. His bare arms and legs burned with pain, and he was horrified to see that wherever the remnants of the bone knife had struck him, the bits had turned into hideous black leeches that were devouring his flesh.
“Jessan!” Ulaf shouted and his voice seemed to come from a great distance.
Knowing he was trapped, guessing he was about to die, Jessan flung the knapsack as far from him and the Vrykyl as he could manage, flung it in the direction of Ulaf’s voice.
The Vrykyl roared in anger and made a desperate grab for the knapsack, but it flew far beyond his reach. The Vrykyl struck at Jessan. The sharp talons of the Vrykyl’s gauntlets raked across Jessan’s back.
The pain struck to the young man’s very soul. His body jerked, he cried out in agony, and collapsed onto the floor at the Vrykyl’s feet.
The leather sack landed with a dull plop on the floor in front of Ulaf, who made a diving grab for it. He thrust the sack with its precious contents inside the folds of his loose-fitting shirt.
By now, most of the patrons had exited the tavern, leaping through windows or battling each in an effort to escape out the front door. Those left behind were Shadamehr’s people and the tavern’s owner, trying gamely to assist in the battle.
The battle magi had arrived, but they didn’t immediately storm the tavern. A voice outside the window could be heard calling out commands. The leader of the battle magi deployed his troops to the front and the rear, posting his people at all the exits with orders to keep the Vrykyl inside the tavern, prevent him from escaping. Heavy booted footsteps thundered overhead. Magi with Air magic skills had flown up onto the roof. They were on the second level, and they’d be coming down the stairs at any moment, prepared to attack the Vrykyl from the rear, while others fought him from the front.
The Tubby Tabby was about to become a swirling storm of magic. Vrykyl were known to be the most powerful and most heinous of all Void creatures. The battle magi could not allow him to escape, for he would immediately change form, and they would lose him among the city’s populace. Faced with this powerful threat, the battle magi would not be overly concerned about inflicting casualties on a few unlucky tavern-goers, two pecwae, and a wounded Trevinici.
Lifting his voice, Ulaf shouted, “Everyone get out! Now!”
His comrades didn’t need to be told twice. They had guessed what was about to happen, and most were already hastening for the nearest exit. The tavern owner rose from behind the bar. He gaped at the Vrykyl, his face white as a fish’s belly. He turned pleading eyes to Ulaf.
“Your family is safe!” Ulaf yelled, racing toward Jessan. “Get out now! Go, go!”
“My tavern!” the man cried pitifully.
Ulaf shook his head. “Go! Get out!”
The Vrykyl’s fell voice rose in a chant. Ulaf recognized the cold, dark words of Void magic. He had no idea what spell the creature was about to cast, but he knew its effects would be dire.
Jessan lay on the floor, his body covered with blood. He was conscious, gasping and writhing in pain. Nearby, the Grandmother was feverishly placing stones on Bashae’s limp body.
Two battle magi, a man and a woman, appeared in the doorway. Both wore plate and chain mail that glittered silver in the firelight and swords at their sides. Striding fearlessly into the room, both of them cried out words of magic, their voices blending as they cast the same spell simultaneously.
“Foul creature,” the woman called out. “Return to the Void that spawned you!”
She pointed at the massive fireplace on the north side of the building and made a summoning motion with her hand.
An arc of flame leapt from the fireplace and soared across the room, flaring so near Ulaf th
at the searing heat singed his bangs and eyebrows.
The fire smote the Vrykyl, dancing across the surface of the Vrykyl’s armor as if it were black oil. Flames swirled around the Vrykyl in a vortex that set the wooden furniture to blazing. Smoke filled the air.
Ulaf let go of his spell. His weak magic wouldn’t be needed now. The Vrykyl was in good hands. The knapsack containing the Sovereign Stone was safely in Ulaf’s possession. His priority was to rescue the pecwae and the Trevinici, take them far away from both the Vrykyl and the battle magi.
Ulaf made his way through the smoke to Bashae and the Grandmother.
“Jessan!” he called. “Jessan! Over here!”
Jessan lifted his head, gazed blearily in Ulaf’s direction. Gritting his teeth, Jessan staggered to his feet. He cast a wary glance at the Vrykyl, but the creature was preoccupied, fighting to preserve his heinous existence.
Ulaf pressed his sleeve over his mouth to protect himself from the thickening smoke. He dropped to the floor, where the air was clearer, and crawled toward the two pecwae. The battle magi chanted their spell. Swirling fire enveloped the Vrykyl, raced along his arms, flared from his hands. Flames cloaked him in a fiery cape, his head seemed helmed with fire, but the flames did not consume him, because there was nothing to consume. Fire could not cause him any real harm. The Vrykyl turned to face his enemy.
Darts forged of the Void shot out from the breastplate of his black armor, tore through the smoke-filled air and struck the female battle magus in the chest. The tabard she wore dissolved, the cuirass melted. She gave a strangled gasp, staggered backward, and slumped to the floor.
Well disciplined, her companion did not miss a single word of his chant, but continued his spell-casting. Footfalls clattered on the stairs. An explosion from the rear warned Ulaf that the battle magi were coming in from the back.
Journey into the Void Page 5
