Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  The Dominion Lords stood amidst the rubble, their hearts subdued. They had heard all their lives of the terrible tragedy of that day, but it was a legend, a tale told in the twilight. Now they stood inside the tale. The smell of burnt wood was sharp in their nostrils. The water that lapped on the shore was filthy, littered with debris. The gray mist from the falls congealed on their skin and made everything wet to the touch, so that their clothes felt clammy. The air was chill. The sun shone on the lake, but could not burn through the watery fog that made every object seem misshapen and distorted. The streets had disappeared under piles of debris that had once been buildings. The Dominion Lords stared in shock, overwhelmed by the appalling level of destruction. The thought came to each of them: How do we find our way through this?

  The practical and pragmatic Captain put the thought into words.

  “If the ramps that lead to the upper levels are destroyed, how do we reach the Temple?”

  “I did not say the ramps were destroyed,” Silwyth replied. “I said that there were cracks in them. The ramps are still there and can be climbed by those with courage.”

  “But if we have to crawl and hack and pick our way through all this mess, it will take us days—months maybe—to reach our destination,” said Shadamehr.

  “And you have warned us not to be caught here after dark,” Wolfram stated. He gestured to the rubble, which was stacked up in great heaps. “Hah!”

  “Yet there is a way,” said Silwyth. “Remain here while I search it out.”

  “Wait, Silwyth!” Shadamehr said. “I’m going with you—”

  Silwyth vanished. Wolfram plunged into the mists searching for him, but returned alone.

  “He’s disappeared,” Wolfram reported. “I lost him in the fog.”

  “I think he’s made of fog, that one,” said the Captain.

  “Or worse,” said Damra. She looked at Shadamehr. “Should we tell them?”

  “Tell us what?” Wolfram demanded.

  “That Silwyth is no longer Silwyth,” said Shadamehr. “We think that the real Silwyth was murdered and that this one is a Vrykyl.”

  Wolfram reached for his sword. “Then we should kill it.”

  “What makes you think so?” the Captain asked, laying a restraining hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.

  “He has changed,” said Damra. “When I first met him, I trusted him even though I did not trust him. Now”—she shook her head—“I do not trust him at all.”

  “I never trusted him,” Wolfram stated.

  “I agree with Dame Rah,” said the Captain. “He has changed. I trusted the Silwyth I caught in my fishing net. But I do not trust the one who brought us here.”

  “The question is, what do we do?” Shadamehr asked. “Do we confront him and maybe risk his turning on us?”

  “Yes,” said Wolfram, raising his sword.

  “I think we have to,” Damra agreed.

  “No,” said the Captain. She folded arms across her chest. “We don’t say a word to him.”

  “I side with the others,” said Shadamehr. “Why should we continue to follow this evil being?”

  The Captain shrugged her massive shoulders. “Each of us was told to take the Stone to the Portal. And that is what we must do. Do you know the way to this God Portal, any of you?”

  “But the Vrykyl is most probably leading us into a trap,” argued Shadamehr.

  “All the better,” the Captain said.

  “Wait!” Shadamehr raised his hand. “I fell off when you went around that curve. Please explain.”

  “If the elf is a Vrykyl and the Vrykyl intended to kill us, it could have done so anytime,” said the Captain. “Instead, the Vrykyl promises to take us to the Portal of the Gods. Probably, as you said, Shadow Man, to fall into the trap of this Void lord. Therefore, the Vrykyl will see it to that we arrive at the Portal safely.”

  “In order to kill us once we get there,” said Shadamehr.

  “The fish you have been eating has done your brain good, Shadow Man,” said the Captain, nodding in approval. “Once we reach the Portal, then we confront the Vrykyl and this Void lord and do whatever it is that must be done.”

  “I wish I could be that calm about it. Still, forewarned is forearmed,” said Shadamehr thoughtfully. “At least we’ll be prepared.” He shrugged and kicked at a bit of charred wood at his feet. “I’ll stay here and wait for our friend. The rest of you might want to take a look around, see if there are signs of any bahk.”

  The party split up. Wolfram and the Captain went to investigate the ruins of a large building. Damra walked along the shoreline, which was littered with the burnt-out hulks of ships; twisted, rusted iron, and rotting nets. She stepped on something and, looking down, she saw that she had trodden upon a skull, half-buried in the sand.

  Elves revere death, for in death the soul is free to return to the Father and Mother, to dwell with them in the wondrous, glittering realm of heaven. Elven dead are treated with immense respect, the body burned, so that the soul is freed to rise into the heavens, on the breath of the gods. The skull seemed to repudiate everything in which she believed.

  There are no gods, the empty eyes revealed. Death is the Void, and there is nothing beyond.

  Hearing her cry out, Shadamehr came to her. He took hold of her, drew her close. His arm around her was strong, warm and comforting.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you. It’s only a…skull. But there is so much death here. So much terror and despair.” Damra pressed her hands over her eyes. “It is too awful, too sad to bear.”

  “I know,” Shadamehr said somberly, his own heart oppressed. “I understand.”

  “Do you?” She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. “I don’t believe you. You never take anything seriously.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret,” said Shadamehr. “The reason I laugh is to keep my teeth from chattering.”

  He looked up at the cliffs they were going to have to scale, at collapsed buildings, cracked roads, crumbling stairs. In the distance, he could hear the roar of the falls, a roar muffled by the dank mists that shrouded the city.

  “I’ll tell you something else, Damra,” he said somberly. “From here on out, things are only going to get worse.”

  “I heard something!” said Wolfram. He pointed toward the ruins of the building. “It came from in there.”

  “I heard it, too,” said the Captain. She drew the enormous curved-bladed weapon that she wore thrust into her broad leather belt.

  “This used to be a warehouse, maybe,” said Wolfram, eyeing the rubble warily.

  “Whatever it was,” said the Captain, “it’s not anymore.”

  The two moved closer, keeping their eyes fixed intently on the rubble.

  “What did you hear?” Wolfram asked in a low voice. “What did it sound like?”

  “A board moving,” said the Captain. “I don’t see anything. Do you?”

  Three of the four walls of the warehouse were still standing. Built of brick, the walls had resisted the fire that had destroyed other structures nearby. The roof had collapsed, however, taking down most of the front portion of the building with it. Sword in hand, Wolfram peered through the mist into the darkness. He strained his ears, but could not hear the sound again, nor any sound, beyond the rasping breath of the ork.

  “Why don’t you orks breathe through your noses, like the rest of us?” Wolfram asked irritably. “I can’t hear anything with you huffing away like a bellows.”

  “Our noses are smaller than our mouths,” said the Captain. “We take in more air this way.”

  Wolfram thought this over. He couldn’t very well find a flaw in her argument, and he let the subject drop. He poked at the rubble.

  A board shifted. Something moved, and Wolfram leapt backward.

  “There!” he gasped.

  “A rat,” said the Captain, sheathing her sword in disgust.

  “What’s going on?” asked Shadamehr, coming up with Damra.

  “We heard a s
ound. Turned out to be a rat,” said the Captain.

  “Maybe it was,” said Wolfram, still peering into the rubble. “And maybe it wasn’t. It sounded bigger to me.”

  He took a long look into the mist-shrouded shadows, but saw nothing. Even the rat had fled.

  “Smart little bugger,” he muttered. “Smarter than us.”

  “Silwyth’s been gone a long time,” Damra observed, shivering in the chill, dark air. “Maybe he isn’t going to come back.”

  “I wouldn’t, if I was him,” Wolfram said.

  “But you are not me, dwarf. I am back and I have found a path through the ruin,” Silwyth announced, emerging from the mist. “The path will take us to the first of the ramps. From there, we climb. I will show you the way.”

  He started off, then realized that he was alone. He looked back.

  “Are you coming? Or would you rather hunt for rats?”

  “We found one already,” said Shadamehr. “And one is more than enough. Lead on, Silwyth. We’re right behind you.”

  At a gesture from K’let, Raven left the mist-shrouded shadows of the warehouse in which they’d taken refuge and looked to see if the dwarf and his companions were well away. The Trevinici had been amazed to see the dwarf, Wolfram—but Raven did not need K’let’s sharp, warning hiss in order to keep silent. The dwarf was from another world, another time. He had nothing to do with Raven, and Raven wanted nothing to do with him. He’d had his fill of dwarves and humans, orks and elves. Let them go their way. He would go his.

  This City of Ghosts was a city of silence, anyway. To give voice in these blackened ruins would be as disrespectful as shouting in a tomb.

  Raven noted that K’let was not surprised to see the dwarf and his oddly assorted companions traipsing around the ruins. K’let might have been expecting them, even watching out for them, for he and Raven had kept watch on the city for days before they entered it. The taan Vrykyl had brought Raven to the ruined warehouse, where they crouched in the shadows, watching as the dwarf and his friends entered the ruined dockyards, had their little talk, then went their way.

  Certain that they were alone, Raven returned to the warehouse, where K’let was waiting for him.

  The Vrykyl was in his taan form, as he had been throughout their journey. Raven had the impression that K’let didn’t much like his black, Void-made armor, for which Raven was thankful. The Trevinici could almost fool himself into believing he was with a taan, not one of the hideous Vrykyl.

  Their journey together had been a strange one. K’let could not speak Raven’s language, although Raven had the feeling that the Vrykyl understood much of what Raven said. Raven could not speak the taan language—his throat could not make its crackling, popping, and whistling sounds, but he had learned to understand many of the words. They managed a communication of sorts.

  “They are gone,” Raven reported.

  He was about to say more, when he felt the ground shiver beneath his feet. The rotting, blackened timbers shook and trembled.

  K’let made another hissing sound, his lip curled back from his teeth. He ducked back into the shadows, motioned Raven to follow.

  “Bahk!” K’let said and pointed.

  An enormous creature, standing some twenty feet high, lumbered slowly along the crumbling street. Raven had heard stories of these monsters from warriors who had fought them, but he had never truly believed the tales. Not until now.

  The bahk’s hulking head with its small eyes, shadowed by an overhanging forehead, swung back and forth as it walked. The bahk’s shoulders were stooped and rounded. Bony protrusions extended the length of its spine. Its huge feet shook the ground as it walked. The bahk halted as it came near the warehouse. Its head shifted in their direction, the small and lackluster eyes turned their way.

  K’let snarled low in the back of his throat. Raven held still, not daring to breathe. The bahk gave a grunt and went on its way, continuing into the ruined city. For a long time after its passing, Raven heard the crashing and rending of timbers and the thud of falling rock—the bahk clearing a path through the debris.

  K’let sniffed the air, appeared satisfied. He left the warehouse, gestured to Raven to accompany him.

  Raven held his ground, shook his head.

  “You can understand me, can’t you, K’let? You’ve been around humans a long time and, if you can’t speak our language, you know what I am saying. I want to know what we’re doing here in this accursed City of Ghosts.”

  Raven forced himself to stare straight into the Vrykyl’s empty eyes, though it was like looking into a well of darkness.

  K’let took a step forward and thrust a taloned finger into Raven’s chest. At the touch, Raven could see through the façade of taan flesh and taan hide to living death—the bestial skull, marred by the cracks and fissures left by old injuries; the yellow teeth; the empty eye sockets. He smelled the stench of rot and decay.

  K’let tapped his finger against Raven’s chest. “I made you nizam. In return, you promised me your life.”

  Raven said nothing. He stared into the dark eyes.

  “It is time for you to fulfill your promise,” said K’let. He frowned, leered. “Or are you just another oath-breaking xkse?”

  “I keep my promises,” said Raven.

  “Good,” said K’let with a grunt. Turning, he walked off into the dark mists.

  Raven stood a moment, thinking of Dur-zor, thinking of his people.

  “I keep my promises,” he repeated, and followed.

  THE DOMINION LORDS LOST TRACK OF TIME, FOR THE SUN’S LIGHT was blotted out by the swirling mists. Their way was easy at first. The streets on the lower level had been cleared of debris, the rubble swept aside, pushed into precariously balanced piles along the edges of the street or shoved down alleyways. They marveled, until Shadamehr explained the cause.

  “The bahk did this,” he said. “They’ve cleared a path to the inner part of the city.”

  “But they won’t go up top,” said Wolfram, tilting his head to try to see through the gray tendrils of mist that dragged across the higher levels of the dead city.

  “Not according to Silwyth,” said Shadamehr.

  Wolfram placed his hand on an enormous iron beam, part of one of the marvelous cranes that the orks had built. Forty feet long, heavy as a house, the huge beam had been picked up and tossed aside as if it weighed no more than a twig.

  “A beast that can move this crane,” said Wolfram, “is afraid to go up there.” Shaking his head morosely, he sighed and moved on.

  They followed the bahk-cleared streets through the first level and up into the second, where the way grew more difficult. Silwyth chose to make a wide detour around the central portion of the city that was frequented by the bahk, thus they could no longer rely on the bahk to clear the path.

  They climbed over and around and sometimes under piles of debris and were soon weary and aching, wet and filthy. Without Silwyth’s guidance they would have been utterly lost, for the mists grew thicker as they drew nearer the waterfalls, and they soon lost sight of cliffs above them. The buildings on the second level had been better constructed than those in the dockyard. Many had survived both fire and the blast. Standing amid the rubble, these sentinels, with their gouged-out windows and scarred faces, stood silent and lonely watch over the dead. Here and there, one had finally tumbled down, its broken stones clogging the streets.

  But though the destruction was less, the sadness and sorrow were greater. The houses had once been vibrant with life, and the absence of that life was emphasized by the simple possessions of the living: chairs and tables, pitchers and cups. A spinning wheel in a corner by a fireplace. A kettle on the hearth. A rag doll. A wooden sword. Dust-coated. Cobwebbed. Whole. Broken. Sometimes these objects lay in the streets, as though the owners had taken them with them in their mad rush to flee the devastation, only to drop them by the wayside. Too heavy, perhaps. Too cumbersome. Or maybe the people realized that this bit of their lives to which they
clung so desperately meant nothing anymore, was useless.

  “How unfair it seems,” said Shadamehr, picking up a cup that had rolled out into the street, “that something so inconsequential as this should survive, when the hands that made it perished. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it. We work and strive and suffer, and all that remains of us in the end is some pewter mug.”

  “That is the Void talking,” said Damra in a low voice.

  “Maybe it speaks the truth,” said Shadamehr bitterly, and he tossed the mug aside.

  There were bodies on this level, skeletal remains lying where they had fallen two hundred years before. Many of the bodies were those of soldiers who had fought a raging battle in the streets. Some lay on the cobblestones, side by side, the shafts of arrows or rusted sword blades mingling with their bones. Some lay slumped on crumbling door stoops, as if they had grown weak from loss of blood and sat down to rest, only to fall into a sleep from which they never woke. Several bodies carried shields marked with the symbols of elven nobility. They were found lying around a single corpse, probably their commander.

  The bodies of ordinary citizens were here, too. Those who waited too long to flee their homes, or who had been caught up in the battle or the firestorm, succumbing to the choking smoke, crushed beneath a fallen building. In one area, they came across the remains of a family: man, woman, child, and the small skeleton of a dog.

  The sorrow and the horror of the piteous sights weighed on their hearts and drained their souls.

  “I hear their voices,” said Wolfram in hollow tones. “And I feel their touch. They don’t want us here.”

  “Stop it,” Shadamehr said sharply. “We’re scaring ourselves. They’re dead. They died long ago.”

  “Wherever their spirits are, they are at rest,” Damra added gently and whispered a prayer.

  “The elves do not rest,” said Silwyth. “They were traitors, who died dishonored. They lie here unburied; their spirits refused admittance to the blessed presence of the Father and Mother.”

  For the first time since Damra had known Silwyth, he betrayed emotion. When he said “refused admittance” his tone was one of bitterness, regret.