Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  But Raven wasn’t interested in Dag-ruk. He glanced around the camp, his frowning gaze going to other half-taan, most of whom were down on their knees, doing the menial jobs that were beneath the taskers, or accepting the blows they received on a daily basis.

  “I can’t believe they treat you and your kind like dogs,” he said, his anger growing. “Worse than dogs. I’ve a good mind to speak to Dag-ruk about it.”

  “Please, Raven,” said Dur-zor, pleading. “Don’t start this again. I’ve told you before. You cannot help us. You will only make trouble for us and for yourself.” She cast a fearful glance at the tent of the nizam. “Dag-ruk wants to speak to you, Raven. You should not keep her waiting.”

  Raven set his jaw. His expression grim, he left his tent and walked through the camp toward the tent of the nizam. Dur-zor hurried after, worried and fearful. She had come to know that stubborn look. Nothing she could say would deter him. He’d worn that same look when he’d challenged Qu-tok in the kdah-klk.

  Dag-ruk stood in front of her tent, laughing at something with several taan warriors. Tall and strong Dag-ruk bore her battle scars with pride. She had won the favor of the shaman, R’lt, and her arms were lumpy with the magically enhanced stones he had inserted beneath her leathery hide. She was a fearless warrior and a powerful nizam. At Raven’s arrival, Dag-ruk turned from her conversation. She frowned, and the warriors grinned. Although the taan admired Raven for his defeat of Qu-tok, the warriors—particularly the young ones—were jealous of him and did not mind seeing him take a fall.

  “You have kept me waiting, R’vn,” said Dag-ruk, her tone severe.

  Before Raven could respond, Dur-zor intervened.

  “It was my fault, great Kutryx,” she said, dropping to her knees, humbling herself before Dag-ruk. “I forgot to tell him.”

  “I might have known,” said Dag-ruk with a sneer.

  She started to kick Dur-zor. The half-taan braced herself for the blow, but before Dag-ruk could strike, Raven stepped between the two of them.

  “If you want to kick someone, Kutryx, kick me,” he said. “Only know this—I kick back. Tell her what I said, Dur-zor.”

  “Raven, please!” said Dur-zor, trembling. “Don’t do this.”

  “Tell her!” he said coldly.

  Dur-zor repeated the words in taanic, although she said them so brokenly and softly it is doubtful if Dag-ruk heard them. Dag-ruk didn’t need to hear them, though. She understood Raven perfectly.

  So did the watching warriors. Their grins vanished. They stared, appalled and shocked at his audacity. Most expected to see him die on the spot, for no one defied the nizam.

  Dag-ruk’s hands clenched to fists. Raven stood his ground, ready, waiting.

  Word of the confrontation spread as the shaman, R’lt, hastened to the scene. He said nothing, moved silently, glided along the fringes of the crowd. Dag-ruk was aware of him. Although she did not acknowledge him, her hands relaxed. Her lips parted in a bestial grin, revealing rows of yellowed teeth.

  “You are very bold, R’vn, to speak this way to your nizam,” said Dag-ruk.

  “The nizam knows my great respect for her,” answered Raven, astonished, as was everyone else in the crowd, that he was not flat on his back. “The nizam is fair and just. The fault was mine, not Dur-zor’s.”

  “She is a half-taan,” said Dag-ruk dismissively. “The fault is always hers.”

  Raven opened his mouth, but he heard, behind him, Dur-zor make a soft, pleading whimper, and he kept quiet. He had yet to find out why Dag-ruk had summoned him.

  “You are bold, R’vn,” Dag-ruk continued. “And you are brave. You have proven yourself in the kdah-klk and in the calah. You please me, R’vn. You please me so well, in fact, that I am going to take you for my mate.”

  A gasp went through the ranks of the warriors. No one dared say a word, however, except R’lt. He made a hissing sound. Dag-ruk glanced at him disdainfully, ignored him.

  Dur-zor had to swallow twice before she could translate the hateful words, the words that would take Raven away from her forever. She wished in that moment that Dag-ruk had crushed her skull. The pain of death would be nothing compared to this.

  Raven understood, though he could not believe it. He waited for the translation to be certain.

  “Tell the nizam that I thank her for this great honor,” said Raven. “But I must refuse. Tell her I already have a mate. You are my mate, Dur-zor.”

  Dur-zor stared, her breath stolen away. At last she managed to whisper, “Is that true, Raven? Am I…yours?”

  “Of course, Dur-zor,” he said. “I would not lie with you otherwise. To do so would dishonor you.”

  “A half-taan has no honor, Raven,” said Dur-zor, though her heart sang within her. “Still, I thank you for that. You have made me very happy. I will remember always. Now I will tell Dag-ruk that you will be proud to be her mate.”

  “What? No, you won’t,” said Raven. Catching hold of Dur-zor’s arm, he dragged her up to stand beside him. “I thank you, Dag-ruk,” he said, speaking loudly and distinctly, as though that would help her to understand his words. “But I have a mate. Dur-zor is my mate.” He raised Dur-zor’s hand in the air.

  “Furthermore,” Raven called out, turning to face the crowd, “I expect all of you to treat my mate with the same respect you treat me.”

  Dur-zor tried to shrink into nothing. She was terrified, though not for herself. She was terrified for Raven. Still, even as she cringed, she could not resist casting one, small, triumphant glance at the furious nizam.

  Dag-ruk made a swift gesture with her hand, a gesture that commanded everyone to get out. The taan fell all over themselves in their haste to obey, all except R’lt, who remained standing motionless. Dag-ruk glared at him and, finally, he turned slowly and walked off.

  Dag-ruk thrust her face close to Raven’s, who took care not to fall back or give way, knowing that to do either would be a sign of weakness.

  “There is one reason I do not kill you for this insult, R’vn, and that is because you have found favor in the eyes of K’let, the kyl-sarnz. You had best hope that the shadow of his hand continues to protect you, for if it is ever removed…” Dag-ruk snatched the tum-olt from its leather sheath, held the blade to Raven’s throat. “I will feast on your heart.” Raven remained still. He did not flinch, though the sharp blade drew blood.

  Dag-ruk thrust the sword back into its sheath. With a last, enraged snarl, she entered her tent.

  “I will give you time to reconsider your refusal,” she said.

  Raven felt burning pain on his neck. He touched the wound, his hand came away covered in blood. He put his arm around Dur-zor, who was so weak from fear that she could barely stand. Holding fast to each other, they made their way through the ominously silent camp. The other taan avoided looking them in the face, fearful of raising Dag-ruk’s ire. Raven could feel the burning eyes stare at him as he passed. A few of the half-taan did meet his gaze, though they lowered their eyes quickly afterward. He saw in them a dawning respect and admiration, and that gave him an idea.

  Raven had not realized before then that being selected as one of K’let’s bodyguards gave him both status in the tribe and provided him with a certain amount of protection. He guessed immediately that K’let’s favor was behind Dag-ruk’s desire to take him for a mate, and that led him to an intriguing thought. Raven had cursed the hours he was forced to stand in close proximity to the Vrykyl. Perhaps, instead of cursing them, he might make use of them. As a soldier, Raven had always scorned those who ingratiated themselves with their commanders to try to obtain a promotion. Raven didn’t want a promotion. He wanted something else, something more important. What could it hurt?

  All that could wait, however. His idea was only half-formed, and he was too tired to think about it now. He drew the trembling Dur-zor inside their tent, took her in his arms, and held her close. He began to kiss her, but she stiffened and slid out of his grasp.

  “You must g
o to her, Raven,” said Dur-zor. “You must tell her you are sorry, and you want to mate with her.”

  “But I don’t, Dur-zor,” said Raven. “You are my mate. I pledged myself to you. Let Dag-ruk do what she likes to me.”

  Dur-zor looked at him sadly. He would never understand, nor did she want him to. Her life had already been so blessed—that was another word he had taught her. She had no right to expect more. With a sigh and tremulous smile, she nestled into his arms.

  Taan tents, even those that belong to the great among them, are small structures, designed to be broken down rapidly and carried away on the taan’s back. The nizam Dag-ruk could not stand upright in her tent. She could not pace about, could not walk off the fury that burned so hot in her blood it seemed to blister her guts. She crouched on the dirt floor, seething and gnashing her teeth, digging her sharp talons into the palms of her hand so that they ran red with blood.

  Hearing a sound, she looked up to see R’lt.

  “Who gave you permission to enter?” she snapped, foam flecking her lips. “Get out!”

  “Not until I have had my say, Dag-ruk.”

  Although the nizam rules the tribe, the shaman holds the power of life and death over its people, and so he is often the more feared of the two. It is the shaman who places the magical stones beneath a warrior’s hide, the shaman who grants the warrior the gift of Void magic, the shaman who can withdraw that gift or even turn the gift against the warrior.

  Dag-ruk glared at him.

  He stared back, his gaze cold.

  She thrust out her lower lip, sullen, defiant.

  “Say what you must, R’lt, then get out.”

  “Why would you mate with an xkes? Would you shame us all?”

  “I have my reasons,” she said. “And I don’t need to explain them to you!” She made a dismissive gesture. “You are jealous, that is all.”

  “As if the day would ever dawn when I would be jealous of xkes!” said R’lt with a sneer. “What will the taan think of you the day you bring forth his babe—a mewling, puking half-taan…”

  Dag-ruk’s lips curled in a smirk.

  “Ah, I understand. That is why you choose him,” said R’lt, his voice hard with anger. “You could rid yourself of his babe. You could not do so with mine!”

  “I am a warrior!” Dag-ruk flashed. “I am nizam of my people. How long would I be nizam if I were not able to join the battle because my belly is swollen with your brat? There are other reasons, though. R’vn stands high in K’let’s favor. The shaman Derl told me in private that K’let has great things planned for this xkes.”

  Dag-ruk lowered her voice. “K’let plans to make this R’vn a Kylbufftt.”

  “A Vrykyl? Pah!” R’lt spit on the ground in a show of defiance. He was uneasy, however. The aged shaman Derl was known to be K’let’s closest friend and confidant. “Why would K’let choose to so honor an xkes?”

  “Ask K’let,” said Dag-ruk, with an unpleasant smile.

  R’lt cast her an angry glance, but said nothing. Dag-ruk realized, somewhat late, that it might be dangerous to thwart such a powerful man. She adopted a conciliatory tone.

  “You understand, R’lt, that I do this for the tribe. For you, for us. In order to be one of the gods-touched, R’vn must be killed. His corpse will not need a mate. By then, I will be elevated in rank, perhaps even made the commander of a calath. Then I would consider having a child.”

  “My child?” said R’lt.

  “Your child,” said Dag-ruk.

  R’lt eyed her. He did not trust her. She was lying, trying to placate him. He saw that she feared him, and he was pleased. She would bear him a child. He would see to that. He dared not touch her now. But the day would come when she would be humbled and glad to take him for her mate.

  He left her tent, left her smirking, thinking she had won. He spoke softly the words of his magic and cloaked himself in shadow, so that he was one with the gathering night. He waited outside Dag-ruk’s tent. He did not have to wait long. She emerged from the tent, shouted in a loud voice for Ga-tak, one of the warriors.

  The summons passed through the tribe and, within moments, Ga-tak came hurrying to her.

  “I have a task for you, Ga-tak,” said Dag-ruk.

  The warrior nodded, looked at her with a gleam in his eye.

  “You know the half-taan, Dur-zor?”

  Ga-tak hesitated, not wanting to admit to anything.

  “You know her,” Dag-ruk growled. “I want you to kill her.”

  “Yes, Nizam,” said Ga-tak, and he would have dashed off on the instant, but Dag-ruk stopped him.

  “Not now, you grolt! You must be subtle. I do not want R’vn to know. He might cause trouble with K’let. You will do this when he is on duty with the kyl-sarnz. You will take Dur-zor far from here, slay her, and hide her body where it will never be found. I will tell R’vn that she has run away. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Nizam,” said Ga-tak.

  “Good. Be off with you. Let me know when the deed is done.”

  Dag-ruk ducked back inside her tent. Ga-tak departed, pleased with his task. R’lt lingered, but Dag-ruk did not leave her tent, nor did she invite anyone else to come in. He departed. He now had his own plans to consider.

  THOUGH THE SUN WAS HIGH IN THE SKY, THE SHAMAN DERL WAS asleep when he received the summons to attend K’let. Any other taan caught slumbering during the hours meant for work would have been driven from the tribe with rocks and curses. Derl was in no danger, however. The most powerful Void sorcerer ever to have walked on Loerem, he was revered only slightly less than K’let, the god-touched, and was feared as much.

  Derl spent much of his time sleeping. Having extended his life through the use of Void magic, he had not been able to extend the vitality of youth. He was an ancient taan. He had lived so long he had forgotten how old he was. His body was frail, and he was forced to conserve his strength. He would need strength in the times that he saw coming. Derl had vowed to the old gods, to Iltshuzz and Dekthzar and Lokmirr and to Rivalt, his patron goddess, that he would live long enough to see Dagnarus destroyed, thereby proving to the taan that this xkes was no god.

  Derl’s body had grown feeble. His hair had turned white, his hide a mottled gray. He slept more than he was awake these days, but when he was awake, his mind was sharp and keen as the blades of a sut-tum-olt. A young shaman touched Derl on the shoulder.

  “K’let summons you, Master,” said the danhz-skuyarr in tones of reverence and respect.

  Derl blinked at the bright daylight, then rose painfully from his bed. The young shaman assisted by rubbing the elderly taan’s muscles to restore the circulation.

  “Something has happened,” Derl said, eyeing the young taan sharply and noting her air of disquiet. “What is going on? Are we being attacked?”

  “No, Master,” the young shaman replied. “But you are right. Something dire has happened. Did you…” she hesitated. “Did you not hear K’let?”

  “You know that I am deaf in one ear,” he said testily. “I heard nothing. What about K’let? What did he say?”

  “He ‘said’ nothing, Master,” the shaman replied, her voice hushed with awe. “He gave a terrible shriek that pierced the heart. A shriek that echoed through the camp and caused all the warriors to drop what they were doing and grab their weapons and come running. All thought the scream was his death cry. His bodyguards came out to tell us that nothing was amiss, the kyl-sarnz was safe. They did not say what had happened. They said only that K’let wanted to see you immediately.”

  “Hand me my robes,” said Derl. “Any of them. It doesn’t matter. Make haste.”

  With the aid of the young shaman, he wrapped himself in the heavy garments that were not heavy enough to keep out the chill he felt in his bones even on the hottest summer day. He walked through the camp, moving slowly, but under his own power. Daily routine had come to a halt. The warriors stood about with their weapons in hand, wary and tense. The taskers gathered the
children near, just in case.

  The bodyguard, one of whom was the xkes, R’vn, stood aside to allow Derl to pass.

  K’let’s tent was built on a larger, grander scale than the tents of most taan. Dagnarus had gifted K’let with a tent such as those used by human kings and commanders, a tent large enough that a taan could stand upright. Derl was grateful. Bending and stooping to enter the small taan tents was starting to wreak havoc on his old bones.

  He entered the tent to find that K’let had abandoned his Void armor. He had taken his taan form. Derl stopped to stare. K’let rarely used his taan form, preferring to encase himself in the shining black armor of the Void that set him above and apart from his people. Born an albino, K’let had been shunned by his people, treated little better than a half-taan. Though he had, even in life, risen to an almost godlike status among the taan, the pain of those memories was so acute that they spanned the gulf of death. Rarely did K’let adopt the guise of what he had been when he was alive—a taan male, strong and muscular, ferocious and formidable, with clay white hide and lizardlike red eyes.

  K’let paced back and forth in the tent. His expression was unlike anything Derl had ever seen, and he had known K’let for close to a hundred years. His bestial face was twisted in a snarl of scowling fury, but there was a gleam of fierce joy in the red eyes.

  “K’let,” said Derl, “I come in answer to your summons. I fear you have had dire news—”

  “Your fear right,” said K’let, halting his pacing and rounding on Derl. “Dismiss the guard.”

  Mystified, Derl lifted the tent flap. “You and the rest of the guard are dismissed.”

  The human, R’vn, might not understand the words, but he could hardly fail to miss the gesture. He walked off, heading in the direction of his tribe’s encampment.

  “Yes, my friend, what is it?” Derl asked, dropping the tent flap.

  K’let motioned the shaman to come near. The taan’s red eyes burned. “I have been in contact with Nb’arsk.”