Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  The orken captain took all this in, stared at them long and hard.

  “You know my name,” he grunted. He frowned, seemed to think this suspicious.

  “Yes, Captain Kal-Gah,” said Griffith politely.

  The ork captain, who stood seven feet tall and was built on the order of Shadamehr’s Keep, was hard to forget. Clad in leather breeches, he stood bare-chested in the teeth of the chill wind blowing off the river. His huge underslung jaw jutted forward, two protruding lower fangs gleamed in the lanternlight. His voice boomed in the night’s stillness as though he were roaring over the howl of a gale. His eyes were small, but his gaze forthright and intense. He had shaved his head to reveal some remarkable tattoos. All that was left of his hair was a scalp lock that trailed down his back in a tar-covered braid. A large conch shell hung around his neck, suspended on a length of twined leather.

  “We were introduced by Baron Shadamehr at his castle,” Griffith continued. “Your shaman, Quai-ghai, also knows me. She and I had a most fascinating discussion about certain Air magic spells she was interested in learning from me.” Griffith glanced about. “If she is here—”

  “She is on board ship,” said the captain. “She sleeps. We sail with the morning tide. Where is the baron?”

  “We don’t know,” Damra replied. “We thought he might be here—”

  “He’s not,” said Captain Kal-Gah.

  Damra and her husband exchanged glances. “There was trouble at the palace—”

  Kal-Gah grunted again. “I am not surprised. The omens were bad. Very bad. So bad that I might have raised anchor and left with last evening’s tide, but I gave the baron my oath. I would not have stayed even then, but the moon is on the wane, which makes oath-breaking unlucky. Then again, I might have stayed anyway. I like the baron. He thinks like an ork.”

  He eyed the elves. “So you want to board my ship.”

  “Yes, Captain, if—” said Griffith.

  “I will have to consult the omens,” Captain Kal-Gah stated decisively. “The shaman is asleep. She will wake in the morning. Until then, sit there.” He pointed to a coil of rope.

  Damra and Griffith again exchanged glances.

  “Captain,” said Griffith, “there are soldiers looking for us. As I said, there was trouble. We are elves in a city of humans—”

  “Disappear,” said Kal-Gah, waving his hand. “Turn yourself into smoke, or whatever is you do.”

  “I would, Captain,” said Griffith, “but I am very tired, and I’m not sure I have the strength. Please—”

  “You demean yourself, my husband,” Damra snapped, shifting to Tomagai, the language of the elves. “Don’t beg him. This was a mistake from the beginning. There is nothing for us to do in human lands. We should return to Tromek. I will take the Sovereign Stone to the Divine. It is what I should have done in the first place. We will go north into the mountains, travel to Dainmorae. I have some money, enough to purchase two horses.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Griffith.

  Hearing the exhaustion in his voice, she regarded him anxiously, raised her hand to touch his cheek, which was pale and wan. “Can you keep going a little longer?”

  “I can manage,” he said with a smile. Capturing her hand, he kissed her fingers, then, holding fast to her hand, he turned to the ork. “I thank you, Captain Kal-Gah, but we have decided to—”

  “Wait!” The captain had been staring out at his ship. He raised his hand, cutting off Griffith’s words. “Look there.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “There!” The ork jabbed his finger. “The birds!”

  Two seagulls, attracted by the lanternlight, were flying among the rigging, probably searching for food. One bird settled on the jibboom. The captain looked from the seagull to Griffith.

  “Ah,” said Kal-Gah.

  The other seagull landed next to the first. The captain looked from the seagull to Damra. “Ah,” he said again.

  The seagulls perched there, ruffling their feathers. An ork advanced, lantern in hand, and offered food that was graciously accepted. One bird lifted its head, craned it backward, and let out a raucous caw.

  Captain Kal-Gah lowered the sword. Deftly flipping the enormous blade as if it were an eating knife, he thrust the blade into his wide leather belt. “The omens are good. You can both go aboard. I will tell the crew you are coming.”

  He lifted the conch shell he wore around his neck, put it to his lips, and gave a bellowing blast. One of the crew members waved his lantern back and forth in response.

  Captain Kal-Gah jerked his thumb at a shore boat moored to the dock. The six crewmen were asleep, slumped over the oars. Some twitched and grumbled at the conch shell blast, but continued to slumber. It took the captain’s shouts and the first mate’s oaths and kicks to wake them. Yawning prodigiously, they sat up and peered around, bleary-eyed.

  “My boys can sleep through anything,” the captain stated proudly. “Help these lubbers aboard,” he told his crew, speaking Pharn ’Lan.

  The orks obeyed with alacrity. Two strong orks grabbed hold of Griffith and, before he knew what was happening, they swept him off his feet and tossed him bodily into the boat. Two more orks caught him as he landed and hustled him to the back, plunked him down unceremoniously on a benchlike seat, and grunted orders to stay there.

  Damra drew herself up stiffly. “Thank you, Captain,” she said, “but I can manage on my own.”

  The captain grinned, shrugged, and motioned his crew to stand back. Damra walked down the pier, looking at the boat that floated in the water below, and suddenly she was not so certain of herself. The boat rose and fell with the waves, and at the same time, it rocked back and forth, bumping against the sides of the dock. She would have to jump down into it, and she must time her jump just right or fall into the water. Damra was not afraid of drowning. She was a good swimmer. But she would look extremely foolish, and elves are very sensitive about their dignity.

  She hesitated on the pier, watching the boat bob up and down, seeing the leering grins of the ork sailors gazing expectantly up at her. Then she heard her husband’s voice reciting the words to a spell. The wind caressed her, soothed her, and lifted her up in its strong arms. Damra floated on her husband’s magic and drifted down into the boat as lightly as a feather falling from a seabird to land gently among the amazed orks, who fell all over themselves and each other to get out of her way.

  The first mate howled in dismay, but Captain Kal-Gah only laughed.

  “The elf has the wings of a gull, as well as the beak and the squawk,” he chortled.

  Since the beak reference was to Damra’s rather prominent nose, it was just as well she did not understand the language. All the crew members chuckled obligingly—the captain had made a joke, after all—but their chuckles had a halfhearted sound.

  The captain himself released the rope that held the boat to the dock, then went back to waiting and watching for Baron Shadamehr.

  The orks bent to the oars before Damra had a chance to make her way through the press of bodies. The boat shot out from the dock so swiftly that the motion threw her off-balance. She lurched forward, stumbled into her husband’s arms. He lowered her safely onto the bench beside him.

  “Thank you, my dear,” she said, huddling thankfully into his embrace, adding remorsefully, “I’m sorry I was cross with you back there.”

  “We’re both tired,” he said, holding her close. “Tired and hungry. And I could not bear to see you hauled out of the river like a drowned cat.”

  “Speaking of being hungry, I don’t like to think of what we’ll find to eat on board,” Damra said with a shudder. “Whale blubber, like as not.”

  “Orks don’t eat whales, my dear. They consider the whale sacred. I believe that bread is a staple of an ork’s diet.”

  By the time the elves reached the ship, however, neither of them was thinking of food. Being a landlocked people, elves have never had any need for boats or ships. They are fair swi
mmers, but not good sailors. Even the gentle motion of the waves in the river made Damra queasy, and Griffith, being tired, was in worse shape than his wife. He was heaving up his guts before the boat reached the ship.

  The orks rolled their eyes in amusement at the landlubbers, who were sick in waves that would not have rocked a babe to sleep. The orks said nothing, however, fearful that the strange elf might summon some magical wind to snatch them up and carry them off.

  Damra was as sick as Griffith by the time they reached the ship. She had only a vague awareness of being hoisted aboard and being led, staggering, to a small cabin that smelled of pitch and fish. Her stomach roiling, she collapsed on an uncomfortable bed beside her groaning husband. An ork crew member thoughtfully left them two slop buckets, then shut the cabin door and departed.

  Damra had never been so sick in her life. She did not know it was possible to be that sick. She lay on the wooden-plank bed, which pitched and rolled and lurched and rocked, and wondered when death would come to claim her.

  “I hope it’s soon,” she muttered, reaching for the bucket.

  The door banged open.

  “Elves, is it?” boomed a voice from the darkness.

  Damra flinched, her nerves jangled.

  A lantern flared right in her eyes, blinding her. An ork face peered down at her. At the sound of the voice, Griffith lifted his head.

  “Quai-ghai!” he gasped. Then, with a moan, he sank back down on the bed.

  Orken women wear the same clothing as men. They have the same massive build, with buxom breasts and a slightly different manner of shaving the head.

  By her dour expression, this ork might be there to kill them. Damra sank back on the bed, too exhausted and ill to care.

  The ork stared hard at Griffith. Pursing her lips, she cocked her head. “I think I know you. You weren’t green the last time I saw you, though.”

  “I’m…seasick!” Griffith managed to blurt.

  Quai-ghai gave a bark that was apparently a laugh. “A fine jest!” she said, chuckling.

  Griffith groaned, and the ork’s laughter died. She eyed him suspiciously.

  “What is wrong with you, elf? If you have brought plague aboard ship—”

  Griffith leaned over the side of the bed, made use of the bucket. Rolling back, limp and shivering, he said, “I swear to you, Quai-ghai, my wife and I are seasick. First time…on a boat…”

  Quai-ghai bent over Damra, sniffed at her. The ork did the same for Griffith.

  “I never heard the like,” the ork said. “Seasick in a dead calm in the harbor. Still, you are elves. Wait here.”

  Turning, she left the room, banging the door again. Damra flinched, gritted her teeth. The ork had hung the lantern from a hook in the ceiling. The lantern swayed back and forth with the motion of the ship. Damra felt her stomach heave and shut her eyes.

  The ork returned with another bang of the door. She held a crockery bowl in one hand and a mug in the other and thrust the bowl in Damra’s face.

  “Eat this.”

  Damra shook her head, turned away in misery.

  Griffith propped himself up on one elbow. Taking the bowl from the ork, he eyed it warily. Inside was a thick, brown paste.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “A concoction made from the seeds of the thorn apple,” said Quai-ghai.

  “But that’s poison!” Griffith exclaimed, horrified.

  Quai-ghai shook her head. Golden earrings flashed in the light, as did a golden eyetooth. “Not if the seeds are distilled and mixed with the proper ingredients. The remedy is very old, a gift from the sea gods. Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—an ork is born whose own fluids are not in tune to the motion of the sea. Like yours, the fluids rise when the waves dip and dip when the waves rise. When that happens, he is sick, and we give him this.”

  She gestured at the gooey paste. “This settles the fluids. First you will sleep. When you wake, you will feel better.”

  Griffith continued to eye the paste dubiously. “I’m not sure—”

  “Oh, for the gods’ sake!” Damra gasped in Tomagai, snatching the bowl from him. “Being poisoned couldn’t be any worse than this!”

  She dipped a finger in the paste, brought it to her lips. The smell was not unpleasant, seemed to have a soothing effect. She nibbled a bit of the paste. Her stomach heaved, but she managed to gag it down.

  Griffith shared the paste with her. “At least when we die, we’ll be together,” he said to her.

  Quai-ghai handed them the mug of cool, clear water. She insisted that they drink it down, for, she said, the sickness drained their body of fluids. She stood watching them, the gold tooth thrusting up over her upper lip.

  “Either she’s waiting for us to drop dead or get better,” Damra said. “I can’t tell which.”

  Griffith did not answer. He had fallen asleep. Damra felt sleep steal over her, sleep so soft and heavy that it was like sinking into a thick, feather mattress.

  “Damra of Gwyenoc,” said a soft voice.

  “What is it?” she answered drowsily. “Who is there?”

  “I must speak to you. Can you hear me, understand me?”

  “I’m sleepy,” she mumbled. “Let me sleep.”

  “This is important. Time flows by swiftly. I must speak to you now or not at all.”

  The voice was familiar. Damra felt a thrill at the sound of it and the thrill roused her. She opened her eyes.

  The room was dark, for the elves were far belowdecks, and there were no windows. She could not see the speaker, but she knew his voice.

  “Silwyth?” Damra was more confused than astonished. The sickness dulled her mind, or perhaps the drug. Anything seemed possible, even the unexpected appearance of the old elf on an ork ship in the middle of the Arven River.

  A hand, strong and supple, closed over her wrist.

  “It is Silwyth,” he said.

  Lifting her hand, he guided her fingers to touch his face. She could feel the leathery skin, the folds and creases of the myriad wrinkles that were a testament to his age and the hard life he had led. She noted that his face was wet, as was his hand.

  She called to mind the last time she had seen Silwyth, in the house of the Shield of the Divine. He had saved her life, then, prevented her from eating the poisoned food given her by the Vrykyl, the Lady Valura. He had saved the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone from capture by the Vrykyl and placed the Sovereign Stone in her care. He had, by Griffith’s account, saved her husband’s life.

  All this he did, so he claimed, to try to make reparation for the sins he’d committed during the time he was servant to Prince Dagnarus.

  Feeling as this were part of a dream, not certain that it wasn’t, Damra said confusedly, “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  “As I told you in the house of the Shield, my life is devoted to following the Lady Valura. She meets on the other side of the river with her master, Lord Dagnarus. They discuss their plans for Tromek.”

  “Their plans? What are their plans?”

  “The Lady Valura has seduced the Shield, drawn him into the Void. He has become a Void worshipper, a fact he keeps secret from the living. He cannot keep such a loathsome secret from the dead, however. His own ancestors have repudiated him, will no longer come to aid him. Nor can he keep such a thing secret from the Wyred. They work against him. He has no need of them,” said Silwyth. “The Shield has the Void. Void cultists from Dunkarga and Karnu and Vinnengael work their foul magicks for him. Not openly, of course. Not now. That may soon change.”

  Damra shuddered, sickened, but not surprised.

  “He was ever an evil man, scheming and calculating,” she said. “The Void was already inside him.”

  “The Void is inside each of us,” said Silwyth. “Thus the gods warned King Tamaros, when they gave him the Sovereign Stone. Do not split it open, the gods said, ‘for inside you will find a bitter center.’ Yet, impatient and eager to bring this gift of the gods
to the world, he refused to heed their warning. Once I thought him arrogant, and I blamed his arrogance for the disaster that he brought down upon his realm, upon his own family. Now that I am older, I believe that he truly thought he was acting for the best. If there was pride involved, it was the pride of believing that he knew what was best.”

  Damra paid little heed to Silwyth’s words. It is the way of the old to ramble. She cut him short.

  “Who cares for this ancient history. What of the Tromek? What of my people?” she demanded. “What is happening to them?”

  “The Shield and the Divine wage war against each other. Their troops have met in two separate battles. Victory has not yet been determined, either way, but with each meeting, the Divine loses a little more ground. It is only a matter of time.”

  “What horror is this?” Damra was dismayed. “Are you saying that the Divine will lose this war?”

  “The Void is ascendant in the world,” said Silwyth. “The Void’s power is on the rise, as the power of the elements wanes. ‘The center is bitter,’ the gods warned Tamaros. So long as the Sovereign Stone remained intact, the Void was contained. When the Stone was split, the Void was unleashed. The Dagger of the Vrykyl surfaced after lying long hidden, and now the Void dominates. When the Shield wins—and he will win, for the Divine is not strong enough to stop him—he will hand Tromek over to Dagnarus, and the Shield will publicly worship him as Lord of the Void.”

  “This is monstrous!” Damra cried.

  “What is?” Griffith murmured sleepily. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sleep, dear one,” she said soothingly, sorry to have wakened him. “Nothing is wrong. Go back to sleep.”

  He sighed deeply and rolled over.

  Waiting until she heard his breathing even out, she said softly, “I must return to Tromek. I must bring the Divine the power of the Sovereign Stone—”

  “No!” Silwyth exclaimed. His hand closed over her wrist with bruising force. “Tromek is the last place you must go, Damra of Gwyenoc! Valura expects that you will do just this, and she plans to lie in wait for you. You have earned her enmity, Damra. Valura blames you for her failure to bring her lord both the elven and the human parts of the Sovereign Stone. She has vowed to kill you and drag your soul to the Void.