Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  The dragon spread his black wings. Night fell over Old Vinnengael, so that the mists were only felt, not seen. The rainbows had long ago disappeared.

  Yet, for a moment, the dragon paused.

  “Lord of the Void,” called the dragon, as Dagnarus walked away, “what will you do with the Sovereign Stone, when it is yours?”

  Dagnarus stood atop the mountain of ruin that had been the Temple of the Magi. The rubble was unstable and shifted beneath his weight. He had always possessed a feline’s ability to keep his footing, no matter how treacherous the path he walked, and he retained his balance.

  “I will bring peace to the realm,” Dagnarus answered. “I will stop all wars between all nations. I will put an end to strife, so that people everywhere may prosper.”

  “Your father’s dream,” said the dragon.

  “I will make it a reality.”

  “Your father was told, when he was given the Sovereign Stone, to beware the bitter center,” said the Void dragon.

  “You forget,” said Dagnarus with his charming smile, “that I was the one who looked directly into that bitter center.”

  “I do not forget,” said the dragon. “But I think you have.”

  The dragon spread its wings and blended with the darkness.

  “You are wrong,” said Dagnarus quietly. Standing atop the ruin, he looked around him and saw the destruction that his hand had wrought. He saw the ghosts, rushing endlessly to their doom. He saw the ash and the rubble, the corpses lying in the broken streets.

  “I never meant for this to happen,” he cried to the gods, trying to pierce the smoking mists, trying to see to heaven. “It would not have happened, if you had given me what I was meant to have! I will take the gift you gave my father, and I will do what you should have done!”

  Raven watched in wonder to see the handsome, richly dressed man slide and scramble with catlike grace and surety among the ruins of what looked to have been a Temple.

  “Who is that man?” Raven asked.

  “Ko-kutryx,” said K’let.

  “Dagnarus? Your god?”

  K’let’s lip curled. “Ko-kutryx,” he repeated, and spit on the ground.

  Raven saw reflected in the Vrykyl’s empty eyes the figure of the richly dressed man, bold and fearless.

  K’let pointed at the man, then put his finger to his lips.

  Raven nodded. They were to follow this Ko-kutryx, go where he led them, keep silent, not alert him to the fact that they were on his trail.

  Dagnarus walked with assurance toward his destination. Either he had no thought of pursuit, or he had no fear. He did not bother to look behind him. K’let rose to his feet and motioned Raven to do the same.

  “What of the four Dominion Lords?” Raven asked.

  K’let grinned broadly, chuckled in his throat, and shrugged.

  Dagnarus rounded the corner of the partially destroyed temple, one of the few buildings still standing. K’let and Raven followed after him.

  The taan moved rapidly over the cracked and crumbling pavement, using his toes and their long talons to grip the broken flagstones and secure his footing. Raven had to be more careful, watch every step, for fear that a stone would turn beneath his foot, causing him to slip and wrench an ankle.

  He did not have to worry about making noise that might alert the man they tailed. The roar of the nearby falls was so loud that it was hard to think over it. Raven risked one quick look, trying to see the waterfalls, but the coming of twilight and the clouds of fog roiling up out of the chasm into which the water plunged blocked his view.

  “In here!” said K’let, gesturing to the Temple.

  Raven judged that this had once been some type of holy site by the four mandalas engraved on the marble blocks. This part of the building had survived relatively intact, with only a few cracks in the walls and a partially collapsed roof. This temple was similar in design to the Temple of the Magi in Dunkar, only much, much larger and far more magnificent.

  Raven did not feel comfortable in temples. The gods of the Trevinici were gods of the trees and the earth, the sun and the moon and the stars, the water and the fire and air. There were gods of life and gods of death and war. Such gods did not reside inside stifling walls, were not held prisoner beneath domed ceilings or locked up behind gates.

  As Raven moved deeper into the ruins, his unease increased. He had no light. Apparently K’let needed none, for he forged ahead without pause, following the sound of Dagnarus’s boots echoing hollowly through the empty corridors. Raven stumbled along as best he could, bumping into things and making a racket.

  K’let growled and muttered, hissed at him impatiently to keep up. Raven did the best he could, but at one point, he tripped over something and lurched forward. He thrust out his hands to stop his fall. His fingers touched cold, smooth stone, and he was face to face with a grinning skull. Realizing in horror that he fallen headlong into a tomb, Raven scrambled out as fast as he could move. He was not one to believe in omens, as did the orks, but he couldn’t help wondering with a shudder if this was not some sort of portent. Perhaps the tomb into which he’d fallen was his own.

  Gritting his teeth, Raven stumbled after K’let.

  Only twice before had Dagnarus walked the corridor that led to the Portal of the Gods—the first time the night he’d met his brother there and the second time when he’d come there in a futile search for the Sovereign Stone.

  The first time, he’d found the Portal easily. The second, he’d searched for it for many weary days. The Portal was not some grand chamber, as might have been expected, but a small monk’s cell located in a part of the Temple that was out of the way, not easily found. At last he had found it, or it had found him, he wasn’t certain which. This time he knew exactly where he was going. He had committed the route to memory.

  He also remembered to bring a lamp, for the Portal was in a part of the Temple shrouded in darkness. The lamplight guiding his footsteps, Dagnarus walked the silent corridors and the empty halls. He paused once, hearing footsteps and a scrabbling sound, as if someone had fallen.

  “The Dominion Lords,” he said to himself, smiling, “stumbling along in my wake. They bring the Sovereign Stone to me, in the Portal of the Gods. At long last, the fulfillment of a dream.”

  He wore the black carapace that was the armor of the Void, and now he called upon the Void to remove its protection. Let the Dominion Lords come armored and accoutered to the teeth. They would find him in his traveling cloak and silken doublet. He had no fear of them. Let them attack him, stab him, cut off his head, poison him. They could do all that and more, kill him thirty times over. He had but to kill each of them once.

  Confident, at ease, Dagnarus knew he had reached the Portal when the light of his lamp shone upon the skeletal remains of his whipping boy, Gareth.

  The bones lay huddled in a heap at the base of a wall in a corridor that led to the Portal. The back of the skull was crushed. The smear of blood that trailed down the wall was still there, clearly visible. The sight of the blood irritated Dagnarus, for it called to mind Gareth’s murder—one of Dagnarus’s life-long regrets. There had been no need to kill Gareth. The fact that Dagnarus had done so, acting out of jealous rage, was a lapse in judgment—marked him as petty, weak, and vengeful.

  The sight of the bloodstain brought back too many memories—memories of Gareth, memories of childhood. Those brought memories of his father, and those brought memories of Helmos. Dagnarus felt himself tumbling down a well of memories.

  “The first thing I will do, once I have the Sovereign Stone, will be to wash away that blasted stain,” Dagnarus promised.

  Gareth had died close to the small cell that was the Portal of the Gods. Dagnarus tried to see inside, but failed. He stepped over Gareth’s body, held the lamp high, to illuminate the room.

  The chamber had the appearance of a monk’s cell, small and windowless, quiet and plain, furnished with a bed, a desk, and a chair. Dagnarus felt a sharp disappointmen
t. This was not the chamber he remembered.

  His was a careless mind, which did not recall details well—with one exception. He could recall every single detail of that final meeting with his brother Helmos. He could recall every detail about the Portal of the Gods.

  “An enormous chamber,” Dagnarus said, flashing the light about the room. “With no walls beneath the dome of heaven. The dome was empty, yet the emptiness was filled with light. In the very center the Sovereign Stone—the quarter piece of the Sovereign Stone—sparkled bright against the radiant light, as the evening star shines at sunset.”

  Only his brother stood between him and his greatest desire.

  His brother stood alone.

  Helmos’s expression was grave, serious. The light that shone in the Portal shone in his eyes.

  “All this is your fault,” Dagnarus told Helmos. “If you had given me what should have been mine, none of this would have happened. I will finally make it right, but you will never know the pain this has cost me. And so I say, damn you, Helmos. Damn your soul to the Void, as mine has been damned all these years. These empty, hollow years…”

  He stood holding the lantern, looking into the small room with four walls and a ceiling and a bed, a chair, a desk.

  “When I get rid of the stain, I’ll get rid of this Portal, too,” Dagnarus vowed. “I don’t need an avenue to the Gods. If the gods want to speak to me, they can come to me. I’ll raze this temple, raze the palace and all that’s left standing in this horrible place. I’ll build a new city here, my own city. I’ll rid this place of its ghosts.”

  As Dagnarus took a step toward the Portal, a pale, ephemeral figure rose up from the bones on the floor.

  “My prince.” Gareth’s spirit bowed, but when Dagnarus tried to move past the ghost, he found his way blocked.

  Gareth looked in death as he had looked in life. He wore the black robes of a Void sorcerer. His face was marred with the birthmark that inspired Dagnarus to nickname him “Patch.”

  “I want to go in, Gareth,” said Dagnarus. “Stand aside.”

  “I am not keeping you out, Your Highness,” said Gareth.

  Dagnarus flicked a glance past the spirit into the Portal. Shrugging, he turned carelessly away. When he had the Sovereign Stone, he would enter. Or maybe he wouldn’t. After all, what would be the need?

  “Have you done as I commanded? Are the Dominion Lords coming? Do they bring with them the four portions of the Sovereign Stone?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Gareth replied.

  “I am king, now,” said Dagnarus sharply. “King of New Vinnengael.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Gareth replied. “I’m sorry. I am accustomed to the old way of speaking.”

  “Never mind,” Dagnarus muttered. “You can call me what you want. The other sounds funny when you say it.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Dagnarus paced the narrow corridor, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze going to that annoying smear of blood on the wall.

  “Will it take them long?” he demanded, rounding on Gareth. “I never liked waiting. You know that.”

  “The way for them is difficult, my lord,” said Gareth. “You remember—”

  “I remember too damn much.” Dagnarus stared, frowning, at the blotch on the wall. “I am sorry for that, Patch,” he said abruptly.

  “Sorry for what, my lord?”

  “For…this.” Dagnarus touched the bones with the toe of his boot. “You served me well for many years. You tried to warn me what would happen if I defied the gods. Perhaps I should have listened to you, Gareth. What do you think? Should I have slunk off like a whipped pup, my tail between my legs? Should I have lived out my days in the small, mean room of my brother’s charity?”

  “I do not know, Your Majesty,” said Gareth, quietly.

  “Neither do I, although sometimes…” Dagnarus turned his head. “Is that you, Shakur?”

  The Vrykyl emerged from the shadows of the narrow corridor. “I have been trying to talk to you, my lord—”

  “You’ve been trying to talk to me. Valura’s been trying to talk to me!” Dagnarus made an impatient gesture. “I can barely hear myself think for all the yammering in my head. Well, you’re talking to me now. What is it you want?”

  “I found out what happened to Klendist and his command.”

  “What in the name of the Void makes you think I give a damn?” Dagnarus demanded impatiently.

  “He ran afoul of K’let.”

  Dagnarus fell silent. Having no orders to the contrary, Shakur went on.

  “I told you about the tribes of taan camped near Old Vinnengael. I do not know for certain what happened, for there were no survivors, but my guess is that Klendist and his men found the taan and decided to raid their camp. Unfortunately for them, one of the camps turned out to be K’let’s.”

  “So K’let is near here—” Dagnarus murmured.

  “K’let is very near, my lord,” said the taan. “K’let stands before you.”

  “Gareth, Shakur, now K’let. This place is getting crowded. Shakur, leave me.”

  “Never, my lord!” Shakur protested.

  “I said leave me, Shakur. Go find out what is keeping those Dominion Lords and my Sovereign Stone.”

  Shakur cast a glance of loathing at the taan. “K’let has brought someone with him, my lord. A human warrior.” Shakur motioned to the shadows.

  “I can handle K’let and his human,” Dagnarus said. “Shakur, you have your orders.”

  Sullenly, the Vrykyl stalked off. Dagnarus placed the lamp on the floor, near Gareth’s outstretched, dead hand.

  “Come closer, K’let, so that I can see you. Unless you are afraid of me.”

  “How many times have we fought together, Ko-kutryx?” K’let asked, striding forward. He retained the image of a taan warrior, a proud taan warrior. The scars of his triumphs mottled his white hide. He did not wear the armor of the Void. He wore the armor that the taan fashioned in their homeland, armor made of bone and hide and sinew. “In all those times, did you ever know me to be afraid? Even my last battle, was I afraid, Ko-kutryx? When you stabbed me, did I flinch or cry out?”

  “No, K’let,” Dagnarus answered. “You did not. Of all those who served me, you were the best, the most courageous. We might have been brothers, you and I. And that is why your treachery hurt me, K’let.”

  “My treachery!” K’let hissed the words in taanic. “What of your treachery, Ko-kutryx? What of the five thousand taan who fought your battles and gave you victory after victory. Death was their reward. And what of the rest of the taan you have brought to this godless land? Will death be their reward, as well?”

  “I promised—”

  K’let pointed a taloned finger. “You have promised much, Ko-kutryx! And all that we have seen of that promise is death!”

  “Are you listening to yourself, K’let?” Dagnarus asked in contempt. “You whine like a slave! I brought the taan to this fat land. I gave the taan their pick of females and strong food. The taan have grown rich with slaves and steel armor and weapons. Your bellies and your waterskins have always been full. Your children have grown into powerful warriors. Yes, many taan have died, but what better fate for a warrior than death in battle? What fate does he want?

  “You did yourself and your people a disservice when you defied me, K’let. I would have made you powerful—a king in your own right. I would have given the taan all the land and slaves they wanted and strong food for every meal. All that and more, I would have done for you, K’let,” said Dagnarus. “If you had not betrayed me.”

  K’let was silent, pondering.

  “I did not know, Ko-kutryx,” K’let said at last. “You are right. A warrior’s fate is death. To be taken by the gods…”

  “One god, K’let,” Dagnarus interrupted. “I am the god of the taan.”

  “You are the god of the taan, Ko-kutryx,” said K’let. His clenched fingers relaxed, his twisted scowl eased. “I
am sorry I spoke as I did. I came here intending to ask for your forgiveness, to be taken back into your favor. Anger ran off with my tongue. Will you forgive me?”

  “I will,” Dagnarus said. “And now, if that is all, you have leave to go. I will have orders for you later. You are dismissed.”

  He turned to Gareth. “Where are the Dominion Lords?” he demanded.

  “Soon, Your Majesty,” said the whipping boy. “Soon.”

  Dagnarus frowned. “If you have failed me, Gareth…”

  “I have not, my lord.”

  “Ko-kutryx,” said K’let, thrusting himself forward. “To prove my loyalty, I have brought you a gift.”

  “Very well,” said Dagnarus, frustrated and impatient. “What is this gift?”

  “Him,” said K’let.

  Raven stood in the shadows of the strange place and tried to make some sense of what was going on. Worn-out by his long and exhausting climb, he was confused by the darkness and the maze of corridors. He had come suddenly out of the darkness into the daunting presence of Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, and Raven was shaken to the depths of his soul.

  Raven had heard of Dagnarus from Dur-zor, who had once worshipped him, until Raven had told her of his gods. Even though she said she believed in all that he believed in, Raven still suspected that Dur-zor had not quite given up her worship of her Ko-kutryx. Standing before him, Raven could understand why.

  Raven was a military man, and he judged all men in those terms. He knew, at once, that here was a born soldier, a born commander. Dagnarus was not a god, but he was a man whom other men might follow to the Void and back.

  To the Void. That old saw held new meaning for Raven. This Dagnarus had given his soul to the Void. He owed his power and his long life to the Void. The handsome, strong, commanding man who faced down K’let and, with a snap of his fingers, brought the terrifying taan Vrykyl to heel, was Lord of the Void. Raven shrank back among the shadows, and asked himself, “What am I doing here?”