Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  Wolfram might be excused for not having reached this conclusion earlier by the simple fact that he had never in his life witnessed such an occurrence: this many clans coming together under the leadership of one clan chief. Even the Chief Clan Chief, who was nominal leader of all the clans, customarily traveled with warriors from his own clan.

  The Unhorsed were an exception to this rule, but then, they didn’t have much choice. The Unhorsed were those dwarves who, because of injury or law-breaking or some other mischance, had been thrown out of the clan. Exiles, they had been forced to band together in order to survive, and thus the four cities of the Unhorsed were established.

  Having figured all this out, Wolfram recognized Steel Clan by the red beads, Sword Clan by their horse blankets, and Red Clan by the zigzag mark on the rumps of their ponies. These clans had been bitter enemies in the past. What had brought their high-ranking warriors together to make a dangerous journey across half a continent?

  Who was this Kolost? What was he doing here at Dragon Mountain of all places? What business could a dwarf possibly have with the history-recording monks? So intense was Wolfram’s curiosity that he was tempted to make himself known to his fellows and find out what was going on. He fought the temptation, however, reminding himself that he was an outlaw, a criminal, and that he risked being dragged back to Saumel in ignominy and chains.

  Meanwhile, his gear was inside the common room, and he was outside, with twenty dwarves between him and the entrance. He glanced up at the wall behind him. The windows were open to the crisp mountain air. He considered trying to crawl inside, then remembered that the giant Omarah were always roaming the halls, and they would view with ire any dwarf caught shinnying unceremoniously through a window.

  Wolfram had no choice but to hunker down behind the fir trees and wait until the dwarves wrapped themselves in their horse blankets and went to sleep. Then he could sneak inside, grab his pack, and depart before anyone saw him.

  Night closed in around the firs and around Wolfram. The clan dwarves built the nightly fire sacred to the dwarves, one of whom, the Fire magus, is given the responsibility of building the fire every night and carefully extinguishing the fire every morning. The dwarves cooked their evening meal, roasting rabbits on spits.

  When they were done, the dwarves wrapped themselves in their horse blankets, set the watch, and bedded down for the night. Wolfram figured that any moment this Kolost would return to camp, for no clan dwarf would ever consider spending the night inside a building if he could help it. The clan chief did not appear, however, and, eventually, hunger and the fact that his knees were aching from squatting in the fir trees impelled Wolfram to action.

  He rose to his feet, wincing at the pain of his stiff joints, and made his way quietly through the darkness to the main doors. Wolfram waited until the dwarf on watch had turned his back and was strolling in the opposite direction, then Wolfram scooted along the back edge of the firs, dashed up the stairs, and raced inside the front doors.

  He came face-to-face with an imposing-looking dwarf and Fire, the dragon, in dwarven guise.

  “Ah, Wolfram,” said Fire imperturbably. “We were just coming to look for you. Wolfram, this is Kolost, Chief Clan Chief. Kolost, this is the dwarf I told you about. The one who can assist you. He is Wolfram, the Dominion Lord.”

  YOU ARE WOLFRAM, THE DOMINION LORD?” KOLOST ASKED.

  “Wolfram’s my name,” said Wolfram. “But I’m not a Dominion Lord.”

  “So the monk is lying?” Kolost stared very hard at Wolfram, who found he couldn’t meet the dwarf’s piercing gaze.

  “Not lying,” said Wolfram, ducking his head. “Mistaken. She’s mistaken, that’s all.”

  “How could she be mistaken?”

  Wolfram shrugged, kept his head down, muttered something.

  “What did you say?” Kolost demanded.

  “Same name. Common name, Wolfram….”

  His words fell into a well of silence, went spiraling down into the darkness, and landed with a thud. Kolost stood with his arms folded across his chest, regarding Wolfram with a frown. Clearly, the clan chief couldn’t understand what was going on and, with customary dwarven tenacity, he was determined to find out. The monk Fire watched Wolfram with a patient smile, like a parent indulging a child in bad behavior, aware that eventually the child will improve on its own.

  Wolfram could look forward to endless hours of badgering from Kolost and endless hours of that damned patient smile. He capitulated.

  “All right! I am that Wolfram. Or rather, I was. I was once a Dominion Lord. We all make mistakes when we’re young and foolish. But then I came to my senses. I quit, resigned.” He ripped open the front of his wool shirt, bared his chest. “You don’t see a medallion on me, do you? Right, you don’t. Because I don’t wear one. Because I’m not a Dominion Lord. Not anymore. So, if that’s all, I bid you both a good night. I’m going to get something to eat.”

  He stalked off, his head high, to the table where the monks had laid out the nightly collation. In truth, Wolfram had lost his appetite, but he made a show of being hungry. He piled the wooden bowl high with bread and cheese and smoked meat and took it off to a corner of the common room. Plunking himself down on the flagstone hearth, he began to chew bread furiously. He watched Fire and Kolost out of the corner of his eye.

  The two stood with their heads together, conferring. Wolfram could hear parts of the conversation, guessed the rest. Kolost asked about the medallion Wolfram had mentioned. Fire explained that the medallion was a gift of the gods to all those who undergo the painful Transfiguration to become Dominion Lords. The medallion provided magical armor that protected the Dominion Lord from attack and also gave him certain magical powers.

  Wolfram had to work to swallow the bread. He managed, with the help of some ale, to bolt it down, and started grimly on the meat.

  The conversation ended. Fire departed. Wolfram hoped that Kolost would leave, as well. To his dismay, the clan chief came walking toward where Wolfram sat with his back to the fire. Wolfram groaned inwardly.

  He eyed Kolost, trying to get the feel of his enemy. This was the first chance he’d had for a good look at the clan chief, and Wolfram was both surprised and puzzled by what he saw. Kolost was about standard height for a dwarf, but he was on the lean side, which made him appear taller. His hair and thick eyebrows and long mustaches were black, his eyes a deep brown. His face was so sunburnt and wind-ravaged that it was hard to tell his age. From a distance, Wolfram had figured him for a middle-aged dwarf. Now, viewing him close-up, Wolfram was startled to see that Kolost was still a relatively young man. Far too young to be a clan chief.

  What was most puzzling was that Kolost wore no clan insignia or markings of any sort. His only ornament, if one could call it that, was a battle-ax that he wore strapped onto his back. A connoisseur of weaponry, Wolfram had taken note of this ax when Kolost was talking to Fire. The ax was of Karkara design and workmanship and was one of the finest Wolfram had ever seen.

  Kolost veered off toward the table, and Wolfram’s heart rose. The clan chief was merely helping himself to a mug of ale. Kolost paused to take a long drink, gave a belch of satisfaction, then came over and squatted down on the hearth beside Wolfram.

  The two were the only visitors to the monastery this night. Wolfram sat in tense and sullen silence, waited for the accusations, the denunciations, the fight.

  “Good ale,” said Kolost. “For humans.”

  Wolfram said nothing, chewed his food.

  “It might help you to know that I was once one of the Unhorsed,” said Kolost. He did not look at Wolfram, but gazed out over the common room, the trestle table, the baskets of bread, pitchers of ale. “I was born and raised in Karkara.”

  At this startling pronouncement, Wolfram nearly choked on his meat. His head jerked up. He stared at Kolost.

  “But you’re a clan chief.” A thought occurred to Wolfram. “Those men out there. They don’t know, do they? Don’t w
orry. I’ll keep your secret.”

  “They know,” Kolost said. His dark, thick brows came together in a frown. He glanced sidelong at Wolfram. “I would not live my life a lie.”

  Wolfram snorted. “That sounds very fine, but you can’t expect me to believe any of this. An Unhorsed would never be accepted into a clan, much less rise to clan chief. If you’re trying to trick me—”

  “It is the truth,” said Kolost sternly. “Not only am I a clan chief, I am Chief Clan Chief—the ruler of the dwarven nation.”

  Having made this pronouncement, Kolost relaxed, grinned wryly. “Of course, there are those among some of the clans who dispute my claim, but that is to be expected. They will come around.”

  He was not bragging. He was supremely confident, and, looking at him and hearing him, Wolfram could no longer doubt that what the dwarf said was true.

  “My parents were Unhorsed,” Kolost continued. “My mother was a cripple. She’d been crushed by a horse during a raid. Her legs never healed properly, and her parents took her to Karkara. She was only eight years old when they abandoned her. The other Unhorsed raised her and eventually she met and married my father. He was an outlaw who’d been banished from his clan for coupling with another man’s wife. He worked as a blacksmith’s assistant. That would have been my job, too, but the Wolf told me that my destiny did not lie in Karkara. The Wolf did not intend for me to be a soot-covered smithy all my life. The Wolf advised me to leave my parents, to cross the Dwarf Spine Mountains and find a clan who would accept me. This I did. I was twelve years old at the time.”

  Wolfram gave up any pretense of eating. He stared, and he listened.

  “The journey was long and hard. I starved, I went thirsty. I lost my way. But whenever I was hungry, the Wolf fed me. When I was lost, the Wolf guided me. He led me to the Steel Clan. At first, they drove me away, would not permit me even to enter their camp. I was persistent. I followed them day and night. I had no horse, but I kept up with them as best I could on foot. Whenever I lost them, the Wolf showed me how to find them. I did my own hunting and gave them gifts of meat, to show I would not be a burden.

  “And then came the day the clan chief left the camp and walked out to meet me. He said that because of my courage and my stubbornness, the clan had agreed to take me in. He gave me to a couple who had lost their only child to sickness and said I was to be their son. And so I was taken into Steel Clan. By the time the clan chief died, I had proven myself a strong warrior and a skilled hunter. I held my own in contest and battle and, against all precedent, I was made clan chief.

  “I traveled back to Karkara. I purchased and bartered for weapons, and these I carried over the mountains and gave to the warriors of Steel Clan. Under my leadership and with our fine weapons, we proved our prowess in battle to both Sword and Red Clans. They agreed to accept me as Chief Clan Chief, as have the Unhorsed of Saumel and Karkara. The other clans will soon join them.”

  Wolfram stared in wonderment. Kolost spoke in matter-of-fact tones about his past, but Wolfram could see through the words to the reality. He could envision the terrible hardships endured by the boy, the loneliness, the fear. Wolfram could admire the nerve and determination that had overcome all these obstacles, led Kolost this far. Where did Kolost plan to go in the future?

  The clan chief read his thoughts. Kolost smiled and took another pull on his ale.

  “I have no small ambition in mind, as you might imagine. I plan to rule the dwarven nation, to bring all clans under my control. Once I have done that, I will extend our territory, seize back the lands the humans and elves and orks have taken from us. And I do not mean raiding cattle pens. I mean take back the land, force them to give it to us, with perhaps a little extra into the bargain.”

  “So why did you come here?” Wolfram asked, feeling dazed and dazzled, as though he brushed up against the blazing sun. “You surely didn’t come looking for me.”

  “No, I did not,” said Kolost. “Not you specifically. I had no idea that a dwarven Dominion Lord even existed.” He paused, then said, musing, “Although in a way, perhaps I did come looking for you. The Wolf told me that here at Dragon Mountain I would find the help I needed. Perhaps the Wolf meant you.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t,” said Wolfram shortly. He cast a sly glance at the clan chief. “You don’t seem the type to need help anyway—mine or the monks’.”

  Kolost frowned into his empty ale mug. “I know myself, my strengths and my limits. I know dwarves, the Horsed and the Unhorsed. I know how they think and how they will react to what I do and say. I know battle and I know peace. I know the ways of nature—wind and flood and fire. But my problem does not concern any of those, and I am baffled. That is why the Wolf sent me here for answers.”

  “So what is this burning question that has led you over hundreds of miles into the land of your enemies?” Wolfram asked, relief making him bold. It didn’t seem likely he was going to be hauled back as a criminal, after all.

  “The dwarven portion of the Sovereign Stone has been stolen,” said Kolost. “I came to ask the monks if they had any information about the thief.”

  “Stolen?” Wolfram was amazed. “Are you sure?” His voice hardened. “Perhaps it was just misplaced. No clan dwarf and few of the Unhorsed ever gave a damn about the Stone anyway.” He marveled that even after all these years, the anger was still hot inside him. “Why do you even care?”

  “It is true that, in the past, none of them cared,” said Kolost, his tone grim. “But now they do. The Sovereign Stone was given to the dwarves by the Wolf. The Stone is ours. None has the right to steal it from us.”

  “The truth is, you think you might need it,” said Wolfram cunningly. “Do you know who took it? Surely, someone must have seen the thief.”

  Kolost shook his head. “It was done by stealth in the night. No one saw or heard anything.”

  Wolfram scratched his head. For two hundred years, the dwarven portion of the Sovereign Stone had resided safely in the Unhorsed city of Saumel. No dwarf would ever steal it. This Kolost was the first dwarf Wolfram had met who even seemed to know or care about the Sovereign Stone. Saumel was a center of trade for the dwarven realms. Members of other races were permitted entry into the city, although they were supposed to keep their movements confined to certain sections. The dwarves set no watch on the Sovereign Stone, other than the children.

  “What did Fire say?” Wolfram asked. “Did she know who the thief might be?”

  “I do not think so,” said Kolost, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. “That woman is very strange. Not like a true dwarf at all. I am not certain that I trust her.” He eyed Wolfram, as he said this.

  “Oh, Fire’s all right,” Wolfram said, passing it off. “And if she knew, she’d tell you. What did she say?”

  “She said that she had no help to give me, but that there was a dwarf visiting here who has knowledge of the Sovereign Stone, for he is a Dominion Lord.”

  “Was a Dominion Lord,” said Wolfram testily. “Was. I’m not anymore. I gave it up.”

  “That is not what Fire says,” Kolost stated.

  “And what does she know about it?” Wolfram huffed.

  “She knows that although you may have given up on yourself, the Wolf will never give up on you.”

  Wolfram grunted. He occasionally swore by the Wolf, but that was about as close as the relationship between them went these days.

  Kolost rose to his feet. “We will speak more of this in the morning. Will you share my fire with me this night?”

  To be invited to share a dwarf’s fire is a great honor, a mark of friendship. Wolfram saw the trap, though, and congratulated himself on cleverly dodging it.

  “I thank you, Clan Chief,” he said. “The moon is full, and the road beckons. I have already stayed in this place too long. I must be off.”

  He expected Kolost might be angry or insulted. Wolfram was prepared to deal with either or both.

  “The Children were murdered,” said
Kolost.

  Wolfram flinched, as though someone had jabbed him with a needle.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, prevaricating. “What children?”

  “The Children of Dunner. The Children who are the Stone’s self-appointed guardians. Whoever took the Stone murdered them. The Children fought to defend it. They died heroes. I bid you smooth grasslands, Wolfram.”

  Meaning, have a safe journey. Kolost walked out of the monastery. Wolfram stood staring into the fire long after Kolost had left. Wolfram stared so long that his eyes began to water from the bright light.

  At least, that’s what he told himself.

  Kolost and his escort were up with the sunrise, dousing their fire and packing up their meager belongings. Kolost had completed his task. His question had been asked and answered. Never mind that the answer wasn’t the one he wanted. He accepted that with the stoic fatalism that had carried him through life. He prepared to move on.

  Wolfram watched the dwarves from the shadows of the doorway. He had slept badly that night, troubled by strange dreams. He decided he might at least ask Kolost a few more questions.

  The dwarves knew by his long beard and lack of clan markings that Wolfram was Unhorsed, and they regarded him with pity. Wolfram ignored them. He’d seen that look before, all too many times. He walked straight up to Kolost, who was bent, peering beneath his horse’s belly, checking the tightness of his saddle girth.

  “Kolost,” said a dwarf, warningly. “One comes.”

  The clan chief straightened, turned to face Wolfram. If Kolost had been smug or smiled knowingly or looked triumphant in any way, Wolfram would have turned on his heel and walked off that instant. The clan chief’s expression was grave, calm, gave nothing, expected nothing, and so Wolfram stayed.

  “How long ago did this theft take place?” he demanded.

  Kolost gave the matter thought. “The full moon has shone on our journey three times since then.”