Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  The first casualties were those who could walk under their own power. They came singly, or in groups of two or three, helping each other. They had been sent on by healers present at the site of the battle, who were dealing with more critical wounds.

  “They need more litter bearers up there,” were the first words out of the mouth of one soldier, gesturing wearily with his head toward the front lines.

  The strongest magi went off with litters. Healers descended on the wounded, giving them shoulders to lean on and helping them into the hospital. One woman slumped to the ground, unable to go farther. Recognizing by her armor and her tabard that she was a battle magus, Rigiswald went to see to her himself, for he was familiar with the types of wounds these magi tended to receive.

  Several young novices hung around her, clearly uncertain what to do, for she was clad in armor and they had no idea how to unfasten it. Rigiswald ordered one to remain with him, in case he needed help, and sent the others off to help someone else.

  The young man ran over to inspect what appeared to be a stream of dark water running down the broad highway known popularly as “Fine Day Way,” for on fine, sunny days, the populace would turn out to walk the road, greet friends and family, show off new finery and hear the latest gossip.

  The stream running down Fine Day Way was gradually widening to a steady flow. The young man bent down to stare at it. He gasped, backed away, his face livid. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he staggered off into some bushes.

  The dark stream was not water, but blood.

  Rigiswald shook his head and bent over the battle magus, who was regaining consciousness.

  “Where are you hurt?” he asked crisply.

  Her limbs were sound. She had taken no blow to the head. She was covered with blood, but it might not be her own. Her pulse was weak, but strengthening. She had no fever. He thought he knew what was wrong, but he wanted to make certain.

  “I have taken no wound,” she said, her voice weak. “A spell went awry.”

  He’d guessed right. Sometimes a spell will not work properly. The reasons for such an occurrence are various. Perhaps the magus misspoke a word or left out a sentence or recited the words in the incorrect order. Perhaps she lost concentration, went blank in the middle of the spell. Or, perhaps, the magus had done everything right but, for some reason beyond the understanding of mortal man, the magic simply did not work the way it was supposed to work. In those instances, as the textbooks metaphorically described it: “The magic behaves like a fiery steed. With the casting of the spell, the magus puts his spurs to the horse’s flanks. If the spell is successful, the horse proceeds at a canter, the rider remains in control. If the spell goes awry, the horse bolts. The rider has no control and is either pitched off the horse’s back or dragged along to his doom.”

  “Unbuckle her armor,” Rigiswald ordered the novice. “Then run and fetch me some brandywine and water. Be quick!”

  The novice did as he was told, his slender, quick fingers making short work of the leather knots that held the magus’s cuirass in place. Once this was removed, the magus breathed easier.

  “Go tend to the others,” she said, closing her eyes. “I will be all right. I just need rest.”

  “The others are in good hands,” said Rigiswald. “I will wait here with you until you feel strong enough to walk.”

  The novice returned with two flasks and a cup. Taking the flask of brandywine, Rigiswald mixed in a small amount with the cool water. He lifted the magus, helped her to drink.

  “Ah, brandy,” she said, and smiled up at him. “The soldier’s restorative. You must be an old campaigner.”

  “I’ve been in my share of battles. How goes it up there?” Rigiswald asked.

  She shuddered and averted her eyes. “I’ve been in my share of battles, too,” she said in a low voice. “And I’ve seen no horrors to compare to this. They have Void sorcerers among them—powerful sorcerers, wearing long black veils, who use Void magic in ways that are completely unknown to us. Tasgall had warned us to target these sorcerers, and we were prepared to do so, but before the words to the spells were even on our lips, these sorcerers covered the streets in darkness so black it seemed that they must have stolen away the sun. I could not see the man standing next to me. I could not see my own hands! We were on a rooftop, and we were afraid to move, for we could not see our footing.

  “We could not see them, but the Void sorcerers could see us. The magus next to me suddenly sank to his knees. He cried out that his heart was being torn from his chest. Another man, a dear friend named Grims, went into convulsions so severe that he toppled off the building. He did not die from the fall. I could hear his screams…”

  She shivered. Her voice trailed off.

  Rigiswald gave her some more brandy.

  “Talk it out,” he said to her. “Free yourself of it.”

  “That will never happen,” she replied. “I will carry the horrors of this day to my death.”

  “What happened to the Void sorcerers?” he asked.

  “I do not know. There was a blast of flame and the darkness ended. The flame did not destroy the sorcerers, however, or, if it did, we could not see any bodies. I think it likely that they took advantage of the darkness to flee. I did find Grims, or what was left of him. The monsters had ripped him apart with their bare hands.”

  Rigiswald looked up to see a steady stream of wounded coming from the city, among them litter bearers carrying the more seriously injured.

  “I have to go now,” said Rigiswald. “Will you be all right?”

  She did not seem to hear him. Her eyes stared back into the fearful darkness.

  “We kill and we kill and we kill,” she said. “And still they keep coming.”

  He patted her hand and left her the brandy flask. Rising to his feet, he stared out at the wounded, the dead, the dying.

  Rigiswald looked at them. He looked at the river of blood flowing down the street, and in that moment, he looked into the heart of Dagnarus and saw his true plan.

  His trap was set for all.

  VINNENGAEL WAS VICTORIOUS. THE TAAN WERE DEFEATED, ANNIHILATED. Dagnarus gave orders that not a single taan was to be left alive, and his orders were obeyed. The taan were destroyed, but at a terrible cost. The Arven River was contaminated by the blood flowing into it. The water turned a horrible murky brown color and smelled of death.

  Taan corpses clogged the streets. Guardsmen loaded the bodies onto carts and hauled them away, but it took days to remove them all. Cessrats and pinktails poured out of the sewers to feed on the dead, bringing with them diseases exacerbated by the lack of clean water. The corpses were burned on a gigantic pyre built south of the city to take advantage of the prevailing northerly wind flow to carry the smoke away.

  The Vinnengaeleans who had died in the battle were buried in a mass grave outside the city walls, for there was neither time nor strength nor material to build so many coffins and tombs, or give them individual rites.

  At first, the north wind blew the smoke of death away from Vinnengael, but on the second day after the battle—the day Dagnarus was to be crowned king—the wind shifted to the south, carried noxious smoke and ash into the city. The ash coated every surface with a layer of black soot that had a horrible, greasy feel to it. The citizens wore strips of cloth tied around their noses and mouths and forbade their children to play outside. The ash covered the gleaming white facade of the palace’s marble walls and burrowed into the nooks and crannies of the Temple’s ornate stonework. The citizens scrubbed and scoured, but water had little effect on the soot, only served to smear it.

  The streets and stones were stained with blood that could not be removed. People worked for days to scrub the stains from the stones of Fine Day Way, but the task proved impossible. The blood had seeped into the cracks between the cobblestones and nothing, it seemed, could get rid of it.

  Having seen the taan and witnessed the savage bestiality with which they had fought, the Vinnengaeleans
could only shudder and consider themselves fortunate beyond measure that their city and people had not suffered a worse fate. They had their new king to thank and were prepared to do so with all their hearts. Everyone, from the highest-born noble in his palatial town house to the young scamp who mucked out the stables of the shabbiest hostelry in the city, pitched in and worked with a will to clean up New Vinnengael in time for Dagnarus’s coronation.

  The gruesome stains that could not be removed were covered over with plaster. The foul smells that could not be eradicated were masked with flowers.

  Seven days after the victory of Dagnarus over the enemy army that he himself had led, he was crowned King of the Vinnengaelean Empire. She would be majestic and revered and honored. All nations would bow to her. All peoples would bow down to their king.

  On the dawn of his coronation day, Dagnarus walked alone in the Hall of Past Glories. He had dismissed the servants and the courtiers, sent them off to continue their preparations.

  The Church would preside over the coronation. Dagnarus had worked long and hard to ensure their participation—their willing participation, and Tasgall had ensured his success. Dagnarus was pleased with Tasgall. The battle magus reminded the king very much of the captain of his father’s guard, a man who had taken an interest in the young Dagnarus when no other adult had bothered, a man who had—in essence—helped to raise him.

  Captain Argot had deserved a better fate. He had died in the battle of Old Vinnengael, and Dagnarus had been truly grieved to hear it. The king resolved that Tasgall should be rewarded. He was not yet a suitable candidate for a Vrykyl; Tasgall was not initiated into the ways of the Void. But that might come in time. Meanwhile, he named Tasgall Most Revered High Magus—upon the resignation of the former Regent, Clovis, because of health concerns.

  Since it was required that all heads of the Orders submit their resignation when a High Magus is chosen, the others had done so. Customarily, the new High Magus would simply refuse to accept them. Tasgall, acting on the advice of Dagnarus, had accepted every one of them and replaced them with people loyal to himself.

  Tasgall had a conscience, and that conscience was giving him painful jabs, for he had taken the post of Most Revered High Magus only with the greatest reluctance. He did take it, for he had seen what harm can come when the Church and the crown stand opposed to each other, or when one becomes too powerful and dominates the other. Tasgall fancied that he and Dagnarus were working in tandem for the good of Vinnengael. Dagnarus had yet to disabuse Tasgall of that notion. Dagnarus had learned patience, during his two hundred years, and he had also learned subtlety.

  All was progressing nicely, even as to the recovery of the Sovereign Stones. There were problems, admittedly, but once he was emperor, those would be solved.

  Valura reported from the elven kingdom of Tromek that the civil war had ground to a standstill. The forces of the Divine were still stubbornly holding certain key areas of Tromek, including the western end of the Portal, defended by the warriors of House Kinnoth, who were especially tough and tenacious and had proved impervious to all attempts to cause them to shift their allegiance.

  Consequently, some of the Houses currently supporting the Shield were starting to waver in their support, but Valura expressed confidence that an assassination here and a scandal there would bring the Houses back in line. Dagnarus ordered her to remain in Tromek until the war had ended and the situation was resolved to his satisfaction. After that, he had plans for Valura that would keep her in Tromek—and away from him—forever.

  She would not be happy, but she would obey. She was bound to obey.

  In the throne room, located on the ground level, the people were gathering: the high-ranking members of the Church, the barons, minor nobles, knights and their ladies, the wealthy and influential merchants, ambassadors of those governments who were still allied with Vinnengael (few in number), the royal musicians and honored guests, such as the quick-thinking young soldier who had acted with such dispatch to cut the ropes that lowered the gate.

  Young Havis would not be there. He had been sent away. Word would reach Vinnengael in about six months that the poor child had succumbed to some illness, measles perhaps. No one would care much, by then.

  They would all be assembled in the throne room, waiting for their king, the conqueror. The Vinnengaeleans had been victorious. Unfortunately, in their victory, they had suffered their greatest defeat. They might try to wash away the smoke and the blood, but they could never wash away the memory. From that day forth, no Vinnengaelean could walk the roads of New Vinnengael without seeing those gruesome stains. No Vinnengaelean would be able to sleep at night without hearing the screams of the dying echo in their ears. No Vinnengaelean would be able to forget the mounds of bodies piled up in the marketplace or the stench of the smoke from the funeral pyres.

  By bringing the war into New Vinnengael, Dagnarus had forced war’s horrors upon every man, woman, and child in the city. He had done so for a reason. When he was crowned, he would promise the grieving and devastated populace that if they promised to be loyal and obedient, he would promise to keep them safe, keep them secure.

  They would promise humbly. They would promise gladly. Kneeling in blood, they would swear their fealty. They would never forget.

  Dagnarus would never let them.

  He lifted the crown of Vinnengael from the velvet pillow on which it rested, ready to be carried by the Most Revered High Magus down to the chapel, where he would beseech the gods’ blessing on their king.

  The gods might give it or not, as they chose. Dagnarus really didn’t care. He didn’t need the gods. He had the Void. He wanted only one blessing.

  Dagnarus walked over to the portrait that had once portrayed the two kings of Vinnengael, father and son, Helmos and Tamaros. The portrait had been redone. The artist and his assistants had worked day and night to have it ready for this historic occasion. The room reeked of fresh paint and linseed oil.

  In the portrait, King Tamaros stood next to his son, Prince Dagnarus. The father’s face was aglow with pride. Dagnarus, handsome, charming.

  Clothed in his royal finery, prepared to descend to the throne room and receive the accolades of his people, Dagnarus sank down on his knees before the painting.

  “I have done it, Father,” Dagnarus said. “I am King of Vinnengael. I will make you proud, Father. I swear it. You no longer need be ashamed of me.”

  His father seemed so close to him. Dagnarus waited an instant, half-dreading, half-hoping for some whisper from the grave.

  No word came, but Dagnarus felt sure of his father’s approval. Rising to his feet, Dagnarus left the room to be greeted with resounding cheers from the assembled knights and barons, waiting to provide him with an honor guard.

  All through the lengthy and sometimes tedious coronation ceremony, the newly crowned king imagined he could feel his father’s gaze rest proudly upon him—Dagnarus, the child beloved.

  Rigiswald had not attended the coronation ceremony, although he had received an invitation. Tasgall had told him that Dagnarus had wanted very much to meet the “old gentleman” who had taken an interest in the Vrykyl.

  “Thank you,” Rigiswald had said, “but I’m going to be busy.”

  “Doing what?” Tasgall had asked.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Rigiswald had replied.

  Tasgall had frowned, but he’d said nothing more.

  The sounds of revelry could still be heard in the streets. The celebrations had lasted all night and were still going strong after sunrise. Rigiswald carefully folded his best lamb’s wool robe, preparatory to rolling it up and inserting it into a leather satchel. He was interrupted by a knock on his door.

  He opened it to find a smart-looking young page boy, all dressed up in ruffles and gold embroidery. The page boy held out a wafer-sealed packet.

  “For you, sir.”

  Rigiswald accepted the packet, handed the page boy a coin for his trouble. The boy departed, gaily fli
pping the coin in the air and catching it backhanded.

  Rigiswald started to close the door, then he saw Tasgall, standing on the opposite side of the corridor, watching him. Rigiswald gave a brief nod and turned away. Tasgall, taking the nod for an invitation, followed Rigiswald into his room.

  Rigiswald tossed the packet on the table. He slid the robe into the satchel, smoothed it and sprinkled it with oil of cedar to keep away the moths.

  “That is a summons to the Royal Palace,” said Tasgall, with a glance at the packet.

  “Yes,” replied Rigiswald. “I suppose it is.”

  “You’re not going to attend?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “His Majesty will be displeased.”

  Rigiswald began to roll up his stockings into neat balls. “His Majesty has so many hundreds waiting for his notice that one elderly gentleman will not be missed.”

  “I know what this is about,” said Tasgall.

  “As it happens,” said Rigiswald, “so do I.”

  “You will do no good by staying away.”

  “I will do no good by going.”

  “His Majesty was disappointed that Baron Shadamehr was not present for the coronation,” said Tasgall. “Shadamehr was the only baron not in attendance. His absence was noticed.”

  Rigiswald slid the sock balls neatly into the bottom of the satchel. Holding up a small, polished, silver disk, he examined his reflection. He combed his clipped beard and hair, then slid both the disk and the ivory comb into the satchel.

  Tasgall watched him in exasperation. “If Baron Shadamehr does not come immediately to swear his homage and fealty to his new king, he will be judged a traitor. He will be exiled on pain of death if he returns to Vinnengael. His lands and castle will be forfeit to the crown. His Majesty requires some assurance that the baron will come.”

  Rigiswald added to the satchel several books, some he had newly purchased and some he had brought with him. He inserted them carefully, arranging them so that they did not wrinkle the robe or crush his stockings. His packing finished, he lifted the satchel, closed it, and adjusted the straps. He put on his traveling cloak.