Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  “And the Dominion Lords? The Sovereign Stone?”

  “I have no idea,” Shakur said dourly. “I have lost track of them. It was not my responsibility—”

  “If you value your tongue, Shakur, you will cease to wag it,” said Dagnarus.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I should not have left this to underlings,” Dagnarus muttered. “Yet how could I leave my responsibilities here? There are certainly disadvantages to being king. It curtails the freedom of one’s movement. By the Void! If only I could find a way to split myself in two, be in two places at once.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Shakur. “What are your commands?”

  “I will come take charge of the situation. It is what I should have done all along.”

  “Yes, my lord. By the way, my lord, K’let has arrived, along with a large force of taan.”

  “If you think to disconcert me with this news, Shakur, you fail. I know K’let’s plan. The taan is clever, but he is not capable of subtlety. I will deal with him, once I have dealt with the Dominion Lords.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “I will be with you shortly, Shakur,” said Dagnarus, and the contact ended.

  Fortunately, he had already made arrangements for his absence. He had let it be known that he was fond of hunting. The former king had kept a hunting lodge in the Illanof Mountains. Pleading a need to escape the rigors of court life, Dagnarus was going to go hunting. The dragon of the Void, one of the five who lived upon Dragon Mountain, was already waiting for Dagnarus’s call, waiting to bear him swiftly to Old Vinnengael. Once there, he would search for and find the four Dominion Lords.

  He ran his finger lightly over the sharp edge of the Dagger of the Vrykyl.

  “Where is Silwyth?” Shadamehr asked.

  Damra glanced around. “I thought he was helping you and the Captain with the boat.”

  “And I thought he had gone ahead with you to scout,” said Shadamehr. “And now, it seems, he’s nowhere.”

  Acting on the advice of Silwyth, the Dominion Lords left their boat behind on a shore some distance from the ruins of Old Vinnengael. They walked along an old highway running through the Grain Coast, a stretch of rich land nicknamed Vinnengael’s “bread basket.” Even now the remnants of farming villages could still be seen. Although the villages had escaped the effects of the magical blast, they had not escaped the ravages of war. Dagnarus’s troops had raided the farms, stealing the food, slaughtering the cattle, setting fire to anything they had not been able to carry off.

  “Good soil here,” said Shadamehr. He bent down to pick up a handful of the black earth, let it trickle through his fingers.

  “I am surprised that no one has returned to farm this land,” said Damra. “It is far from the ruins of the city. They could ship their goods down the river.”

  “There’s the reason,” said Shadamehr, and he pointed to the side of the road. “Bahk tracks. Fresh ones.”

  “Those tracks are enormous,” said Damra, awed. “I could lie down full length in one.”

  “Yes, nasty beasties, the bahk. I’ve fought one or two in my time. Didn’t enjoy it much.”

  “It figures. What with us hauling around the Sovereign Stones,” said Wolfram, returning from a trip to the underbrush, “those great hulking monsters will be drooling all over us.”

  “Do not worry, Wolf’s Son,” said the Captain in sonorous tones. “They drool on you only after they rip you apart.”

  “Wolfram!” the dwarf insisted dourly. “I keep telling you. It’s Wolf-ram.”

  The Captain grinned and shrugged as she always grinned and shrugged when the dwarf corrected her, something he did at least three times a day. The ork had made up names for all of them. Shadamehr was Shadow Man and Damra was Dame Rah. The Captain was quite fond of these names and stuck to them. Only the dwarf was bothered by it. Something about his nickname struck a nerve, seemingly, a fact that did not escape the ork. The only person she had not given a nickname to was Silwyth, and that was because the Captain rarely spoke to him directly, though she spent a great deal of time watching him, her expression grave and troubled.

  She read the omens everywhere they went. As the others were staring at the bahk tracks, the Captain left the trail, went crashing through the underbrush. She came back holding the carcass of a dead squirrel. She muttered words over it, then stood gazing at it, her lips pursed.

  “What’s the outcome?” Shadamehr asked.

  The Captain shook her head.

  “I can’t say. My shaman is not with me,” she told him.

  She had left the other orks behind with the boat, with instructions to wait for her for a moon’s half cycle. If she had not returned by then, the orks were to go back to their people and choose a new Captain.

  “I may not be reading these right.”

  “But are they good or bad?” Shadamehr persisted.

  The Captain handed him the maggot-ridden corpse. “See for yourself.”

  “I can see the omens were bad for the squirrel,” said Shadamehr, with a grimace.

  The Captain again shook her head.

  “Will the bahk attack us?” Damra asked. “I’ve never encountered a bahk, but I know that they are drawn to magical objects and, as Wolfram says, we have with us four of the most powerful magical objects in the world.”

  “It depends on where they have their lairs. Silwyth said he knew—”

  Shadamehr turned to find Silwyth at his elbow.

  “Damn!” Shadamehr took an involuntary step backward. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You took ten years off my life. Provided, of course, that I have ten years to spare, which at this point appears doubtful. You should really make some sort of noise, my dear fellow,” he added earnestly. “Belch or sneeze or something. The dead make more racket than you do.”

  Silwyth bowed and took a step backward. “I am sorry if I have offended.”

  “No, no, that’s all right.” Shadamehr mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve. “Did you see the bahk tracks?”

  “Yes, Baron. I followed them a mile or so.” Silwyth pointed north. “They go north, toward the ruins. A single bahk, probably an elder by the size and depth of the tracks.”

  “Heading straight for Old Vinnengael?”

  “Yes,” Silwyth replied. “There are many bahk in the area. The tracks of this one joined several others, all traveling north. My guess is that they make their homes in those cliffs over there to the east. The rock is limestone, and it is riddled with caves.”

  “Why are they here?” Damra asked.

  “There was a part of the city known as the Mysterium, where you could buy magical artifacts from all over Loerem. Hundreds of these artifacts still lie in the rubble. The bahk are drawn to them, seek them out.”

  “So how do we avoid them? And what do we do if we come across one?”

  “Run,” said Shadamehr succinctly. “No, I’m quite serious. The bahk are huge, hulking creatures. They move relatively slowly, and most of the time you can outrun them.”

  “We will not be going into the Mysterium, so I trust that we will not encounter them,” said Silwyth. “Still, if we meet one, the Baron’s advice is sound.”

  Old Vinnengael lay due north of them. To the east was the good, rich bottomland, surrounded by limestone cliffs. To the west was Lake Ildurel. The lake water was a deep, deep blue, cool and dark in the early-morning sun. The ruins of the city were shrouded in clouds, a fact that struck Shadamehr as odd, for the day was warm and dry, and no mists rose from the motionless lake.

  “Where does that mist come from?” he asked.

  “The waterfalls,” answered Silwyth. “Once there were rainbows, but not anymore. Now there is only gray fog.”

  They continued walking in silence, each thinking, perhaps, about the rainbows.

  “It was a bahk took the Sovereign Stone from Dagnarus,” Silwyth said quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself.

  “Eh?” Wolfram said sharply. “How do
you know that?”

  “So say the legends of my people,” Silwyth replied, with a sidelong glance at the dwarf. “I do not know for certain, of course.”

  “Well, your legends are right,” stated the dwarf bluntly. “I was with Lord Gustav when he died. He found the Sovereign Stone on the corpse of a dead bahk.”

  “Come, Silwyth,” said Shadamehr. “Let us hear this legend.”

  The elf’s face darkened. He seemed to regret having spoken.

  “According to what I have heard, the magical blast that destroyed much of the city spared the life of Dagnarus. How is that possible, you ask? Only the Father and Mother know.”

  “Or the Void,” said Damra coolly.

  Silwyth glanced at her, but did not reply. He continued with his story. “Dagnarus regained consciousness to find himself in a forested land unknown to him. He was horribly hurt, but he was alive, and he had the prize for which he had sacrificed so much, the prize that should have been his by right. He had with him the blessed Sovereign Stone.”

  “‘That should have been his by right’?” Damra repeated. “I thought you were on our side, Silwyth.”

  “I relate the legend as I have heard it, Damra of Gwyenoc,” said Silwyth.

  Damra and Shadamehr exchanged looks.

  “I don’t much like the sound of that,” Shadamehr whispered, his brow puckered.

  “I don’t either,” said Damra. “In fact, I think our Silwyth has been acting very strange lately.”

  Silwyth continued to talk, his voice soft and empty. “Dagnarus gave thanks to the gods for giving him the Stone, and he vowed he would be worthy of their faith in him. At that moment, a monster of a type that had never before been seen in this land came out of the forest—a bahk. Drawn by the magic of the Sovereign Stone, the bahk attacked Dagnarus. He fought with the very last ounce of strength he had remaining, fought to save what the gods had given him. He was too weak, however. The bahk tore the Stone from his hand and took it away. Dagnarus lost consciousness. He was too weak, too horribly wounded to go after the Stone. Many long years he searched, but in vain.”

  He looked up at them. “So goes the legend.”

  “Strange,” said Damra. “I’ve never heard that tale.”

  “You are not of House Kinnoth,” he returned. “We should increase our pace. We have no time to waste. You do not want to be caught in Old Vinnengael after dark.”

  “Where are we going once we get there?” Shadamehr inquired. “The temple? The palace? Your favorite tavern?”

  “We are bound for the Temple of the Magi, or what is left of it,” said Silwyth. “To the Portal of the Gods.”

  “Is that where we’re going to meet up with Dagnarus?” Shadamehr asked, offhandedly.

  Silwyth remained impassive. His expression did not change, although reading any expression in that wrinkled mass of flesh was difficult. Silwyth’s almond-shaped eyes, in their slits of puckered flesh, were always hooded, shadowed. The elf had developed a trick, in later days, of never quite meeting one’s gaze full on—a trick Shadamehr found intriguing.

  He looked into the eyes, hoping to see a flicker of surprise, annoyance, fear—he wasn’t certain what. What he saw astonished him so much that he almost forgot the question.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Silwyth said, and his voice was calm. He had hesitated a moment too long, however.

  “I am…um…sure you must recall it,” said Shadamehr, recovering his wits with an effort. “What we talked about in the cave. How Lord Dagnarus—”

  “He is now your king,” Silwyth corrected.

  “I beg his pardon,” said Shadamehr. “How His Majesty King Dagnarus was setting a trap for us. Wolfram told us. He’d had a message from my friend Ulaf. Surely you remember?”

  “You must forgive an old man,” said Silwyth, “who is often forgetful.” He glanced pointedly at the sun, which was starting to sink into the west. “We should be hurrying. We have several more miles to cover before darkness. We will want to enter the city in the morning hours and it will take us all day to reach our goal. We do not want to be trapped there after dark.”

  “Speaking of traps,” Shadamehr said blithely, “I was just wondering if Dagnarus was setting his trap for us in the Portal or somewhere else.”

  “The others perhaps find your foolery amusing, Baron,” Silwyth replied. “I fear that it is lost on me. Each of you has been told that you must take the Sovereign Stone to the Portal of the Gods. I will guide you there or not, as you choose.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “If you think it is a trap, do not go.”

  He bowed and walked off down the road. The dwarf stumped after him, and the Captain fell into step beside Wolfram. Damra was about to follow, but Shadamehr caught hold of her arm, detained her.

  “Look into his eyes!” Shadamehr said softly.

  Damra stared at him. “What—?”

  “I’ve looked into eyes like that once before. Back in the palace in Vinnengael. When I picked up the young king.”

  “Do you mean Silwyth—?”

  “He’s not Silwyth,” said Shadamehr grimly. “Not anymore. He’s a Vrykyl.”

  FOUNDED BY VERDIC ILDUREL IN THE YEAR ONE, THE CITY OF OLD Vinnengael had been built on the shores of the lake that would one day bear his name. Originally a fortress, the city grew quickly and was forced to expand up into the cliffs. Over the years that followed, magi skilled in the manipulation of rock and stone built ramps and stairs that extended from one level to another, providing access for both wagons and pedestrians. Bridges spanned the gorges. Orks constructed marvelous cranes that raised and lowered goods too heavy to be moved by wagon. Wealth flowed into the city by boat from the sea and by land, traveling over the smooth roads built by the Earth magi and guarded by the Vinnengaelean army.

  The city was already the center of Loerem when, under the reign of King Tamaros, the magical Portals made it the center of the universe. Forged by magi of all the elements, the Portals extended into the home-lands of the other races, bringing elves, orks, and dwarves to Vinnengael. Journeys that would have taken months or years were cut to days and weeks. Traders from all races came to Old Vinnengael. Though they might have small use for humans, they had great use for the glittering silver coins known as tams, in honor of Vinnengael’s King Tamaros.

  Envisioning a world in which all races could live in peace, King Tamaros encouraged all people to come to Old Vinnengael, and he did everything in his power to make them welcome. The city was at the height of its glory at that time.

  The king’s magnificent palace, set against the backdrop of the seven waterfalls, was one of the wonders of the known world, and many made the climb up the steep stairs that led from cliff to cliff to gape at it and envy those fortunate enough to live in such splendor. Their envy would have changed to pity had they known the jealousy and malevolence and sorrow that dwelt within those shining walls amongst the glittering rainbows. None could know, and so they went away thinking how great and wise was their king and that his strong rule, as evidenced by the castle, would never falter.

  Tamaros’s younger son, Dagnarus, decided that he should be king. Defying the gods, Dagnarus was the chosen of the Void. He became Lord of the Void and was given the Dagger of the Vrykyl. Banished from the kingdom by his elder brother, Helmos, Dagnarus returned a year later to lay claim to the throne, bringing fire and death to the city. With the help of Gareth, his childhood friend, who had become a powerful Void sorcerer, Dagnarus dried up the River Hammerclaw, which Vinnengael counted upon for defense of its walls, and marched his troops down the riverbed to enter the city from the rear. Led by the Vrykyl, whom few could withstand, his armies attacked the city from the front. His siege towers hurled flaming orken jelly into the city, and fire soon raged throughout Vinnengael’s streets.

  Dagnarus’s two objectives were to obtain the Sovereign Stone and make himself king. To do so, he had to depose his elder brother, Helmos. Dagnarus looked for his brother in the palace, but could not find him
. He determined that his brother must have fled for help to the gods, and so Dagnarus went to the Portal of the Gods, located inside the Temple of the Magi.

  According to legend, Dagnarus and his brother, Helmos, met and fought over the Stone. The magical forces unleashed in that terrible battle swirled out of control, snapped like whips. The resulting blast brought down the Temple and the surrounding buildings, sent shock waves through the city. Buildings collapsed and fell into the streets, which were clogged with fleeing people and battling soldiers. Cracks opened in the ramps, sending people plunging to their deaths. The great cranes toppled, crushing many beneath.

  Death and ruin came to Vinnengael and her people. The survivors fled. The city was left to its ghosts.

  The Dominion Lords and their fell guide entered the outskirts city at dawn. They stood at the edge of the lake, where the turgid water lapped at their feet. The remains of what had once been the bustling docks of that great city stood crumbling around them.

  This part of the city had been the farthest from the blast and had been little damaged by the explosion. Fire had been the enemy here. The fires started by the orken jelly set the wooden docks ablaze, destroyed the warehouses, with their rich store of goods, burned down the taverns and the brothels and the homes of sailors and fishermen. The remains of the docks could still be seen—blackened fingers of charred wood reaching out into Lake Ildurel, like the blackened hands of the wretched burn victims, who had flung themselves into the chill water to try to ease the terrible pain. They had found ease, most of them, by drowning.

  “People ran from the upper levels to the lake level to escape the flames,” said Silwyth, pointing to the cliffs high above, barely visible in the strange gray mist that hung over the ruins. “Those who lost their footing were crushed to death beneath the feet of the panicked mob. Those who reached the lake had nowhere to go, for there were no boats. They were trapped on the shore, the deep waters of the lake before them and the fires behind.”