His long-range plans were very long-range. Dagnarus’s ambition did not stop with Vinnengael. The Shield of the Divine was under his control; the elven nation was practically his for the asking. All that was left was finally to subdue Karnu, then go after the orks and the dwarves and, once they were conquered—which they would be, when he had control of all four parts of the Sovereign Stone—he would rule over all of Loerem. Since his life span was extended every time he used the Dagger of the Vrykyl to steal another’s life, Dagnarus planned to rule Loerem for a very long time indeed.
All he required was the Sovereign Stone. Too long it had eluded him. He saw the gods at work, but that did not daunt him. Dagnarus wanted the Stone, had wanted it for two centuries, and he intended to have it. He’d devised a means of thwarting the gods. Even now his agents were working to bring the Stone into his grasp.
Prince Dagnarus returned to the Hall of Past Glories at the hour of sunset, which, with the overcast skies, was almost dark as midnight. He was greeted by barons and knights, merchants and the military, who formed a double line through which he walked, welcomed by their applause. The representatives of the Church stood huddled together, off to one side, surrounded by armed guards. The wizened old monk from Dragon Mountain was present, dwarfed by the enormous Omarah. The young king, looking sullen and pouty, sat upon his throne and kicked at the legs with his feet.
Dagnarus grinned inwardly at the sight. “So, Shakur,” he said mentally, his hand clasping the Dagger of the Vrykyl that he wore concealed beneath his flowing cloak, “what has been going on?”
Shakur sounded aggrieved. “I tried to speak to you earlier, my lord—”
“You are speaking to me now, and we don’t have much time.” Dagnarus moved slowly along the line, bowing to the left and the right, stopping occasionally to shake someone’s hand or receive someone’s blessing.
“There was a frightful row, my lord,” Shakur reported. “The barons and the military and the merchants side with you. They have never liked the power the Church has wielded, and they see this as a way to overthrow them. The Regent argued, as you might expect, that you were a liar, a foul creation of the Void, who will drag them all into the Void. She was hooted down and, after much shouting, the barons eventually ordered that the Church officials be forcibly expelled from the palace. It seemed for a moment as if there was going to be a fight, but the battle magus Tasgall intervened. He said that so long as he breathed, the day would not come when Vinnengaeleans shed the blood of Vinnengaeleans, especially with an enemy at their gates. He asked for time alone with his fellow Church members.
“They spoke together in private for about an hour; the result was that they agreed to accept you as ruler of Vinnengael, on condition that you fulfill your promise to get rid of the taan who threaten the city. In truth, there was not much else they could do, not without starting a civil war. I am certain they are plotting against you, my lord.”
“Of course they are, Shakur.” Dagnarus had very nearly reached the end of the line, was drawing close to the dais.
“They could be removed…”
“No, Shakur, I intend to use honey on these flies.”
Dagnarus reached the dais. He stood in front of little Havis, who returned his lord’s smile with innocent charm and dead, empty eyes.
“One question, my lord, before we commence this charade,” said Shakur. “What is to become of me? I cannot remain a child locked up in this prison forever.”
“I rather like you as a child, Shakur,” said Dagnarus playfully. “We could have such fun together, you and I—play stickball and king-of-the-mountain.”
“My lord—” Shakur was seething.
“Come now, Shakur,” Dagnarus said, “give us a ‘cousinly’ kiss.”
Bending his knee, Dagnarus knelt before Havis, who rose from his throne. Walking forward, the king gave Dagnarus a kiss on the cheek.
The resulting cheers thundered up and down the corridor and could be heard by the waiting populace outside, who joined in lustily, though they had no idea what they were cheering.
“Well, my lord?” Shakur demanded dourly, as Dagnarus straightened to his full height.
“Don’t worry, Shakur,” said Dagnarus. “I will see to it that you are set free. I have need of you elsewhere, in fact.”
“Very good, my lord,” said Shakur.
Havis reached out his hand, took hold of Dagnarus’s hand, and turned so that they faced the multitude. The boy raised his voice.
“Let it be hereby known by all assembled and let it be proclaimed to the citizens of Vinnengael that I, Havis III, king of Vinnengael, do freely abdicate the throne bequeathed to me by my father, Havis II, in favor of my cousin, Prince Dagnarus, son of King Tamaros, rightful heir to the throne of Vinnengael.”
Havis removed the crown (which was much too large for him and required padding to prevent it sliding down his nose), and handed the crown to Dagnarus with a bow.
He held the crown for a moment, staring at it, his expression somber and grave. The crown dated back about 180 years, and was modern in make and design. The old, heavy crown of Vinnengael, with its one hundred magnificent star sapphires, each surrounded by diamonds, had been lost in the destruction of the city. Dagnarus had searched for that crown, as well as the jewel-encrusted orb and scepter and other valuable pieces of royal jewelry, on his perilous journey into the ruins, but had not been able to find them. He guessed that Helmos had hidden them away for safekeeping when the city came under attack. Dagnarus intended to find them, but that would come later.
For the moment, he held in his hand two hundred years of dreams and desires, tears and blood. He looked out into the crowd. He saw the fat barons smiling and exchanging glances and nods. They thought they had him in their pockets. He saw the courtiers prepared to fawn over him as they had fawned over the Regent, ready to shift allegiance whenever the wind changed. He saw the magi—rebellious, smoldering with anger and probably already plotting his downfall. All would bend their knees and proclaim him king, but they would do it with winks and nudges, or glowering looks, or simpering snickers.
No! by the gods or by the Void, whoever would accept his vow. He wanted them prostrate before him, all of them crushed and humbled, the arrogance bled out of them, the fight kicked out of them. He wanted them to bathe his feet with grateful tears. He wanted their ungrudging blessings.
They needed a whipping.
“I thank you, Your Highness,” said Dagnarus. “I accept this crown, but only in trust—”
The people began to murmur. The barons looked uneasy, the magi wary.
“—until I have proven myself worthy of being your ruler. And that will not happen until I have led the fight to crush the enemy that threatens you.”
Dagnarus walked over to the elderly monk, who was watching with eyes that were bright with curiosity and interest on the surface, dark and inscrutable beneath. He handed the crown to the monk.
“I ask you hold this for me, Keeper of Times, until the day has come when I am victorious over my enemies, have ground them to dust beneath my feet.”
Those in the room thought he was speaking of the taan. What the monk thought or knew was anyone’s guess.
The monk gave a nod, and said something to the Omarah, in what was presumably their own language. The Omarah grunted. One reached out and took hold of the crown. Engulfing the precious object in a huge and none-too-clean hand, he thrust it unceremoniously beneath his sheepskin vest, then resumed his protective stance. His impassive expression did not alter. He might have been harboring a plucked chicken, not the symbol of the most powerful kingdom on Loerem.
Behind Dagnarus, the hall was abuzz, few knowing what to make of his action, everyone speculating eagerly with his or her neighbor.
Dagnarus ignored them. He looked across the room to the mural, to the painting of his father, Tamaros, standing proudly next to Helmos.
Dagnarus looked long at his father, long at Helmos, the child beloved.
; Not anymore.
Dagnarus beckoned to a courtier.
“Send for the artist who painted that mural.”
“At once, Your Majesty,” replied the man, with an elaborate bow. “If I could perhaps give him some hint of the nature of Your Majesty’s wishes—”
Dagnarus smiled. “He is to plaster over that picture and paint my portrait in its place.”
THE BARONS AND THEIR COHORTS WERE UNDERSTANDABLY EAGER to hear how Dagnarus planned to defeat the taan army. During the day, the enemy army was swallowed by the gloom, and there were some who hoped that they might all march off. When night fell, their campfires could once more be seen as orange smudges in the murk. Dagnarus assured the Vinnengaeleans that he had a plan. He intended to put it into effect the very next day.
His first order as king was that a lavish banquet be prepared that night in his honor, with plenty of food and drink, and that all present were to be invited. He included the monk in his invitation. The monk politely declined. Dagnarus asked if the monk found his chambers in the palace suitable. The monk replied that he did, and he and his Omarah went off to them. Dagnarus reveled in the knowledge that what he had done that day would be recorded on the old monk’s wrinkled skin, then he returned to business.
The heads of the Orders declined his generous offer to join him at the banquet. The Regent asked coldly if they might be allowed to return to their duties in the Temple, and Dagnarus permitted them to do so. The barons growled at that, said loudly that the churchmen should be kept under guard, perhaps even arrested. Dagnarus turned to them.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his tone severe, “I take offense at that kind of talk, which is an insult to the cloth. You will show the same respect for the Church that you show to me.”
The barons looked startled, some even sullen, at this rebuke.
“Come now, gentlemen,” Dagnarus added, his smile returning, “we have much to rejoice about. Proceed to the banquet hall. I will join you there shortly and we will drink to my coronation and the discomfiture of our enemies.”
The barons departed, sounding the new king’s praises. The room emptied, until only the Church members remained.
“I know that you do not trust me, Revered Sister,” Dagnarus said to the Regent, “and that is understandable. But I hope that in time we can become friends. I assure you that I have the utmost respect and veneration for the gods, who have so greatly blessed me.”
The Regent, gray-faced and ill-looking, made no reply. Bowing stiffly, she asked, “Do I have your leave to depart, Your Majesty?”
“You do not need my leave, Regent,” said Dagnarus gently. “You and any other member of the Church are welcome in the palace at any time. You may come and go freely.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, and stalked out of the hall. The others, bowing, followed after her.
“Battle Magus,” Dagnarus called.
Tasgall, grim and wary, glanced around.
“I would speak with you concerning my plan for dealing with the taan.”
The battle magus returned and came over to stand before the throne. Tasgall faced Dagnarus, looked him straight in the eyes. He said nothing, waited expectantly.
Dagnarus dismissed the servants. When he and Tasgall were alone, Dagnarus stepped down from the throne.
“Come take a turn about the room with me, Revered Sir,” Dagnarus said. “I find it easier to think on my feet.”
The battle magus fell into step beside him.
“What is your name, sir?” Dagnarus asked. “Forgive me. I know we were introduced, but I have no head for names.”
“Tasgall, Your Majesty.”
“Surname?”
“Fotheringall, sire. My family comes from a small village in the foothills of the Ork Mountains.”
“There is a pass through those mountains, as I recall. Do the orks ever come through that pass?” Dagnarus asked, with evident interest.
“The occasional raiding party, Your Majesty,” Tasgall replied. “Nothing more.”
“I understand that the orks have threatened to go to war against us, because of what they believe is our complicity in the matter of the Karnuan seizure of their holy mountain. It occurs to me that they might come through the pass in force. Do we need a garrison there?”
Tasgall did answer immediately, but gave the matter thought.
“I do not think I would waste the manpower, Your Majesty,” he said at last. “The orks have little stomach for ground warfare. That much is apparent from the fact that they have not yet tried to retake their mountain.”
“I knew it was so in the old days,” said Dagnarus. “I did not know if their customs and habits had changed in the intervening time. I plan to turn to you, Tasgall, for advice and information of this sort. I trust I will be able to rely on you?”
“I am glad that I will be able to be of service to Your Majesty. It’s good that finally someone is—” Tasgall paused, shut his mouth.
“Good that finally someone is taking an interest in military affairs? No, you do not need to answer that. I understand.”
“Now about the taan, Your Majesty…” Tasgall hinted.
“Always one to get down to business, aren’t you, Tasgall? I like that in a man. I have a plan for dealing with the taan. To pull it off, I require the help of your battle magi—all of them, as many as you can assemble within twenty-four hours. It is essential that they be familiar with Void magic, that they know how to recognize it and counter it. I will meet with them tomorrow, to explain my plan. You will bring them to me here at the palace when the sun is at its zenith.”
Tasgall, who had slowed his pace during their conversation, finally came to a halt. He regarded his new monarch in speculative silence.
“I know,” said Dagnarus. He had continued walking, and now he rounded to look back at the battle magus. “I know what you are thinking. That this would be a fine way for me to dispose of some highly dangerous individuals who have no reason to love me.”
Tasgall made no reply, continued to stare intently at his new ruler.
“I am not a good man,” Dagnarus admitted. “I have done terrible things in my life. Things I bitterly regret. I could offer as my excuse that I was young and heedless, and that would be the truth. I could say that I was ambitious and fond of power, and that would be the truth.”
He shrugged. His smile twisted, his eyes darkened. “I could say that the gods have punished me, that I have suffered in consequence of my acts, and that would also be the truth. But know this, sir.”
Dagnarus lifted his gaze, opened his eyes, so that Tasgall could see deep inside him, see the darkness and the tiny spark of light.
“I did what I did for one reason, Tasgall. In all the evil acts I committed, I was motivated by one desire that was pure and untarnished, one desire that has guided everything I have done since the time I was old enough to understand myself. To be the King of Vinnengael, to guide her to greatness and glory, to place her in a preeminent position in this world, to see her rule unchallenged over all other nations, that is and has always been my dearest wish. I swear to you, Tasgall, that all I have done and all I will do is for Vinnengael.
“Tasgall,” said Dagnarus earnestly. “I know you believe that I am king because I held a knife to your throat. I know that you do not trust me. I plan to earn that trust, but that will take time. Time we don’t have. I say only this—if I truly meant harm to Vinnengael, I would have used that knife. I would have unleashed ten thousand taan upon her. The taan are fierce and terrible warriors, whose greatest hope in life is to meet death gloriously in battle. They would have taken New Vinnengael. You did not stand a chance. I did not do that. I ask you, therefore, to give me the opportunity to prove myself by saving the city and the nation that I love.”
Tasgall was moved. Dagnarus could see it. He pressed home his advantage.
“I will make you this promise, Tasgall. I give my life into your hands. If a single Vinnengaelean dies because of my treachery, you will
slay me.”
Tasgall shook his head. “Your life already spans two hundred years—”
“By the will of the gods! Yet, I am mortal!” Dagnarus said eagerly. “Give me your sword.”
Never taking his eyes from Dagnarus, Tasgall removed his sword from its sheath and handed it, pommel first, to his king.
Holding the hilt in his right hand, Dagnarus wrapped the left hand around the naked blade, clasped it tightly, and then slowly and deliberately slid his hand along the razor-sharp edge.
“Your Majesty!” Tasgall gasped. He took an instinctive step forward, hand reached out to stop him.
“Stand back!” Dagnarus ordered. He winced slightly at the pain, but that was all. Letting loose the sword, he opened his palm.
Blood smeared the steel blade. Blood, red and gleaming, filled his cupped hand and dripped from his hand onto the floor of the Hall of Past Glories.
“You see, I am mortal,” Dagnarus said.
Tasgall stared at the blood on his king’s wounded hand, on the blood that continued to drip onto the floor.
“The battle magi will be assembled and ready for you to command by morning, sire.”
“Excellent,” said Dagnarus. Using the sword, he carelessly sliced a long strip of cloth from his cloak and bound it over the wound.
“I could heal that for Your Majesty,” said Tasgall.
“Come now, sir,” said Dagnarus, smiling, “what would be the point of this exhibition if I permitted you to heal me? No. The wound will be a constant reminder to us both of my promise to you.”
Dagnarus wiped the blade clean of blood with the tail of his maltreated cape, then returned the sword, with a flourish, to Tasgall, who received it solemnly and thrust it back into its sheath.
Certain of Tasgall’s admiration, if not yet his complete trust, Dagnarus proceeded to explain his plan for the annihilation of the taan army. As Tasgall listened, he became more and more intrigued. Forgetful of time, they remained talking in the Hall of Past Glories until one of the barons came to carry Dagnarus off to feasting and celebration.
Journey into the Void Page 19
