Wolfram glanced at Kolost, who nodded.
“Is there anything else you want to know?” Drin asked.
There was, but not from the boy’s mother.
“No,” said Wolfram, “thank you for your help.”
“I can go home now,” Drin said heavily and, hugging her shawl close, she turned and walked away.
Wolfram watched her depart, then turned to Kolost.
“How did the Children die? What sort of weapon was used?”
“Her boy, Rulff, had been stabbed with a sword. The others suffered similar wounds, from what I was told. One little girl had her skull crushed.”
“No one heard anything?” Wolfram demanded, frustrated. “No screams or cries for help?”
Kolost shook his head. “I asked those who live near here. If anyone did hear cries, they said that the Children were always shrieking and carrying on. No one paid any attention to them. What do you make of this missing child?”
“Likely she’ll turn up,” said Wolfram. “Why would anyone murder eight children and carry one off? She probably ran away and is too terrified to come back.”
“That was my thought,” Kolost agreed.
“This Fire magus. I take it you know him?”
“I already talked to him. He was no help.”
“Still, I’d like to hear what he has to say.”
“He lives not far from my dwelling. We will talk to him, then you will be my guest for dinner. Are you sure you don’t need a place to spend the night?”
Wolfram glanced back at the tent. “I’m sure.”
The Fire magus was an elderly dwarf, who made his living selling his scrying skills.
“In eighty years of scrying,” he said, “I have never encountered anything like it. Do you know about casting, sir?”
Wolfram did, but he pretended he didn’t to hear what the old man had to say.
“To cast a scrying spell, I have to do it in a place where a fire has burned in the past. I build a new fire where the old one burned, and I can see in the flames what happened in the area. The Children generally built a fire for warmth at night, so there was no difficulty with that. I went to the tent and I built my fire and I looked into the flames. I saw the Children sitting around the fire, their faces glowing in the light. One said something about hearing a noise. He went to the tent entrance and”—the magus spread his hands—“that was all.”
“What do you mean, that was all?” Wolfram asked.
“A blackness rose before my eyes, as if the entire tent was filled with a thick, choking smoke. I could see nothing through it. I could hear nothing. I could not even see the flames of the fire. I felt as if the smoke were suffocating me. The feeling was a horrible one and very real. I lost my concentration, and the spell ended.”
“Did you cast another?”
“I would not,” said the Fire magus grimly. “I gave her back her money. It was the curse,” he added in dire tones.
“What curse?” Kolost demanded. “You said nothing of this when I talked to you before.”
“Ask him,” said the magus, and slammed his door shut in their faces.
“Did you try some other Fire magus?” Wolfram asked Kolost that night over their shared supper.
“I spoke to some others, but by then the old man had told his hair-curling tale, and no one was willing to risk it. Thus, my trip to Dragon Mountain.”
Wolfram pushed aside a half-full trencher and reached for his mug. He had a terrible thirst, but no appetite. Kolost’s dwelling, like that of all dwarves held only his gear and a few cooking utensils. He and Wolfram squatted on the floor. The cook fire was their only light.
“What did the old man mean about the curse?” Kolost asked. “He didn’t mention that before.”
Wolfram took a long pull at his ale. Reaching for the pitcher, he filled up his mug again.
“I suppose he means,” he said, wiping foam from his lips, “the Curse of Tamaros. You never heard of it?”
Kolost shook his head.
“Trust some old graybeard to recall it. It seems that when King Tamaros split the Sovereign Stone, he made the recipients swear an oath that should any one of the four races ever be in need, the members of the other three should come to the aid of the one, bringing with them their portions of the Sovereign Stone. You know of the fall of Old Vinnengael?” Wolfram cocked an eye at Kolost, who nodded.
“What you probably don’t know is that when the Lord of the Void threatened to attack Vinnengael, King Helmos sent to Dunner for his aid, required him to bring the Sovereign Stone to Old Vinnengael. According to legend, the Children of Dunner refused to hand over the Stone, saying that dwarves had naught to do with the wars of humans.”
“Nor should we,” said Kolost grimly.
“True, but it broke the oath,” said Wolfram. “The elves did not send their portion, nor did the orks. Old Vinnengael fell. And thus many believe that the oath-breakers were cursed by Tamaros from the grave and that they will be called to account someday.”
Kolost frowned. Dwarves are not as superstitious as orks, nor are they as bound up in their own honor as elves. Dwarves do have a strict moral code, however, and to break one’s sworn word is a very serious misdeed, one that had often resulted in a dwarf being cast out of his clan.
“If the human king did curse us, it was his right,” said Kolost.
“I suppose so,” said Wolfram, unconvinced. He took another pull at his ale.
“Do you think we are cursed?” Kolost asked.
“Yes,” said Wolfram after a moment’s thought. He waved his hand. “I don’t believe that rot about Tamaros cursing us from the grave. From what I’ve heard, he was a good man who wouldn’t have cursed a flea for biting him. What I do believe is that we have inherited the problem. The living should have dealt with the Lord of the Void two hundred years ago. Just like those who heard the screams of the Children,” he added bitterly. “Instead of crawling out of their warm beds to go to find out what was wrong, they pulled the blankets over their heads and went back to sleep.”
“This Dagnarus, the new King of Vinnengael, is he the one they call the Lord of the Void?”
Wolfram nodded.
“But what has he to do with us?” Kolost demanded.
“He has a great deal to do with us,” said Wolfram. “If you want the Sovereign Stone back.”
Kolost’s eyes widened in astonishment, then narrowed in anger. “He stole our Sovereign Stone!”
“I think his minions stole it,” said Wolfram. “And murdered the Children.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” said Wolfram bluntly. “I don’t see how we can ever be sure.”
“Then how do we get the Stone back?”
“You can’t,” said Wolfram, draining the last of his ale. “Call it Tamaros’s curse, if you like, or the dwarves’ own curse. They should have cared for the Stone while they had it, not after it was gone.”
He rose to his feet. “I bid you a good night and good fortune, Kolost.”
“You’re leaving Saumel?”
“In the morning.”
“But aren’t you going to help us?”
“There’s nothing I can do,” said Wolfram shortly.
Kolost walked him to the door and opened it for him.
“I wish you’d—” Kolost stopped in midsentence. His gaze shifted to a point behind Wolfram.
“What?” demanded Wolfram irritably, whipping his head around to look. “What’s out there?”
“Nothing. My mistake,” said Kolost, shrugging. “Have a good journey.”
“I intend to,” stated Wolfram.
He peered intently up and down the street, but the hour was late, and most dwarves were in their beds. The street was empty. Wolfram glanced back suspiciously at Kolost.
The clan chief stood in the door, watching him.
Wolfram was not looking forward to spending the night in the bloodstained tent, but it was the least he could do for them, the murdered
Children of Dunner. It was his punishment, his penance. With a parting wave at Kolost, Wolfram trudged into the night.
Kolost smiled to himself as he watched Wolfram depart.
Trotting along behind the dwarf, as he wended his way through the dark city streets, was the shimmering form of an enormous silvery gray wolf.
WOLFRAM RETURNED TO THE TENT THAT HAD ONCE HOUSED THE SOVEREIGN Stone and made ready for the long night. He did not build a fire in the firebox, though the air was chill. He wanted to keep the darkness. He’d seen too much for comfort already. Before he slept, he sat on the floor of the tent and gathered the souls of the murdered Children around him. He’d never seen them before, so he gave them the faces of the Children he’d known, of those who had been his friends and companions. He wondered what had become of them. Dead, he thought, like Gilda. Guilt-ridden, like himself.
“You must not blame yourselves,” Wolfram said, speaking to the Children. “That darkness the Fire magus talked about. The one that choked him. That was the Void. The creatures who took the Sovereign Stone were creatures of the Void. They’re terrible beings, these creatures called Vrykyl. I’ve seen two of them, and I never want to see any more. They have the power of the Void behind them. Maybe if every dwarf in the city had risen up against them, they could have stopped them. But maybe not. You didn’t stand a chance.”
Wolfram sighed, sat in silence for some time. At last, he said, “You may have lost the Sovereign Stone, but you kept the most important treasure. You kept your souls. Because you stood up to the Vrykyl, because you fought back, the Void couldn’t take you. We’ll get on without the Stone. We’ve gone for two hundred years without it. We’ll manage two hundred more. I want you to go to sleep now. There won’t be any more bad dreams. I promise. Go to sleep and when you wake up, you’ll run in the sunshine. Run forever. The Wolf will be with you.”
The faces of the Children were solemn. He didn’t know if they understood or not. He hoped they did. He made himself comfortable, a bit too comfortable, seemingly, for the next thing he knew he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because the tent flap opened and Gilda stood there.
Wolfram had banished her memory a long time ago. He had not brought her face to mind for twenty years. Seeing her, he regretted that. He realized how much he’d missed her. He found a comfort in her. The pain was still in his heart, but it was no longer a torment to him. The pain was sad and softened, warmed with the happiness of their childhood days together.
“Gilda!” he said softly. “I’m glad you’ve come back to see me. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” she said.
“I don’t understand, though. Why did you come to me now?”
“I came when you called, Brother,” Gilda answered with her own mischievous smile. “Don’t I always when you call?”
“No. Hardly ever, as I remember. Yet,” he added, his tone softening, “we were never far apart for long.”
“We’ve been apart for twenty years. I was beginning to think you would never call me, Wolfram.”
“I don’t remember calling you now, Gilda,” he said, embarrassed. “I’m glad you came, but I don’t remember—”
“But you did remember,” she said. “You summoned the memory that you buried in the long grass with my ashes.”
“I had to forget,” Wolfram said. “I couldn’t have gone on otherwise. I buried part of myself in that grave.”
“I know,” she said gently. “And that is why I have walked with you all these years, though you never knew it.”
“You have walked with me?” He was astonished and yet he wasn’t. Part of him seemed to have known this already. He looked at her closely. “What are you wearing, Gilda? It looks like armor.”
“It is armor,” she said, smiling. “The armor of a Dominion Lord.”
The armor was of dwarven design, not the full plate and chain-mail armor of a human Dominion Lord. Gilda wore the leather armor favored by dwarves, the type of armor Wolfram had worn for the few, brief, anguished moments he’d been a Dominion Lord. The leather was hand-tooled and adorned with silver, with silver buckles. She wore silver bracers on each wrist and a silver open-faced helm. A silver battle-ax hung at her side. She wore on her breast two medallions, both adorned with the head of a snarling wolf.
“I don’t understand,” said Wolfram, just for something to say. Reaching beneath his shirtsleeve, he pinched himself, hard. He was ready to wake up now.
“This is not a dream, Wolfram,” said Gilda. “I am here, and I have the two medallions. Our medallions. The ones Dunner gave us when we became Dominion Lords.”
“But you didn’t!” Wolfram protested angrily. “You died! They killed you!”
“I can explain, if you are ready to hear,” Gilda said. Removing the second medallion from her neck, she held it out to him. He glowered at it, did not touch it.
“When I underwent the Transfiguration, Wolfram, the Wolf appeared to me. He said that the time was coming when the power of the Void would be on the rise, and the power of the other elements would wane. In that dark time, the Dominion Lords of all the races would be called upon to fulfill their oath and bring the pieces of the Sovereign Stone together. The choice would be theirs, and upon their choices would hang the destiny of the world.
“You were the Wolf’s chosen, Brother. You would be a Dominion Lord, the only dwarven Dominion Lord, for after us, the power of the Void would grow strong, and no others would come to seek Dunner’s grave.”
“It should have been you, Gilda,” Wolfram said. “You should have been the Dominion Lord. Not me. You wanted it more.”
“I wanted it for the wrong reasons. My heart was filled with hatred and vengeance. I wanted to be a Dominion Lord in order to get back at our people, to punish them for what they had done to you and me and the rest of the children. I wanted to punish them for the suffering of our parents and for the hardships we endured. The Wolf saw into my heart, and he made me see the Void that was inside me. He gave me a choice. I could fail the Test and live out my life as I was—bitter and vindictive and filled with rage. Or I could be your guide as you walked into the darkness.
“I chose the latter, Wolfram,” said Gilda. “I have walked with you a long time, though you have not known it.”
“What do you mean—you’ve walked with me?”
Gilda grinned. “Do you recall the bracelet the monks gave you? The bracelet that would grow warm when you met someone you were supposed to follow? The bracelet grew warm when you met Jessan and Bashae, didn’t it?”
Wolfram nodded, perplexed.
“The bracelet’s warmth led you to Lord Gustav and the Sovereign Stone.”
“Yes,” said Wolfram.
“The warmth did not come from the bracelet, Wolfram,” Gilda told him. “The warmth you felt was the warmth of my hand.”
“I wish you had told me,” he said, blinking back tears.
“I thought you would understand without the need for words. We always understood each other before.”
Wolfram looked into his own heart and saw the truth.
“I did understand, Gilda. But I was angry. I pretended to be angry at the gods, but I wasn’t. I was angry at you. You were all I had left in the world, and you chose to leave me.”
“I didn’t leave you. You know that now. Take the medallion, Wolfram. Be what you were meant to be. The Wolf has need of you.”
“I don’t know…It’s been so long…”
Wolfram woke with a start to find the half-light of early morning filtering in through the hole at the top of the tent. He had fallen asleep under the bloodstained horse blanket and, with a shiver, he threw it off. His dream was fresh in his mind, so fresh that he looked around the tent in the hope that he might see Gilda again.
The tent was empty, except for himself. Still, he felt a peace he had not known in many years, a peace he hadn’t found in all his restless wanderings. He stood up, stretched to get the kinks out. Leaning down to pick
up his pack, preparatory to departing, he felt something thump on his chest.
He looked down to see a silver medallion, adorned with the head of a snarling wolf.
The medallion of a Dominion Lord.
“You’re back,” said Kolost, opening the door to Wolfram’s knock.
Wolfram stumped inside. “You don’t seem surprised.”
Kolost smiled. “I saw the Wolf follow you last night. I knew the Wolf would reason with you.”
Wolfram grunted, not inclined to explain. “I’ve had an idea. I’m going to do a fire-scry myself. I think I may be able to see through the darkness.”
Kolost opened his mouth to protest that Wolfram was not a Fire magus and thus could not cast such a spell. He closed his mouth in time, before the words came out. One does not question the mysteries of the Wolf.
“I think you might want to be there,” Wolfram continued. “I’d like to do it while it’s early yet. And we should seal off the area. Keep everyone out. I’m not sure what might happen.”
“That can be arranged. I will meet you at the tent,” Kolost promised.
Wolfram nodded and trudged back to the temple, as the Children of Dunner knew it. He clasped the medallion in his hand as he walked. The morning was cold, and the metal was warm. He felt, when he touched it, as if he were touching Gilda’s hand. He thought of her remark about the bracelet on his wrist, and he shook his head wryly. He might have known. She was always getting him into trouble when they were kids. She was the adventurous one, forging ahead. He, the more cautious, lagged behind. He wished he had kept the bracelet, but he returned it in a fit of pique to Fire.
Reaching the plaza, Wolfram ducked into the tent and halted, alarmed. Someone had been here in his absence. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. He poked and peered around, but could find nothing missing, nothing rearranged. He emerged from the tent, walked around the plaza, staring intently into any recessed area, where someone might be hiding. He found no one. He did not discount his feelings, however. Instinct had saved his dwarf behind more than once. He’d be sure to tell Kolost to keep a sharp lookout.
Journey into the Void Page 32
