Well of Darkness

by Margaret Weis

  Shakur sank to his knees. Raising his head, he fixed the darkness with an unwavering gaze. “I was born to the Void. The Void is my master. I do so swear, by the blood of my mother that is on my hands.”

  The prince was deathly pale, but an exultant fire burned in the depths of the eyes that had lost all color, were no longer emerald, but seemed to have become the darkness, speckled with stars.

  Gareth, strangely moved, said quietly, “I believe he is sincere. See if he is an acceptable candidate.”

  “What?” Shakur frowned. “What do you mean—acceptable candidate? I swore, didn’t I?”

  Slowly, touched by a reverence he had never before felt in the presence of the gods, Dagnarus drew forth the Dagger of the Vrykyl. Its polished surface reflected the light of the candle flames, so that small streams of fire seemed to course along its surface, as if it had been pulled from a river of flame. The eyes of the carven dragon on the hilt gleamed red in the light and seemed to wink with pleasure.

  “Here, what is that?” Shakur demanded.

  “The weapon you will use for the job,” said Gareth, licking dry lips.

  Shakur gave it a disparaging glance. “Too fancy, by half. I have my own pigsticker.” He raised his manacled hands. “I’ve sworn your blamed oath. Free me!”

  “Are there words to speak?” Dagnarus asked softly, gazing at the dagger with awed wonder.

  “No,” Gareth replied. “The magic is within the dagger. Place it on the altar.”

  Reverently, gently, Dagnarus set the dagger on the altar.

  “I said release me, damn you!” Shakur cried. Lunging to his feet, he reached with his manacled hands for Dagnarus’s throat.

  “I will,” said Dagnarus.

  The dagger flashed in the firelight. Lifting itself from the altar, the dagger struck Shakur in the back, in the rib cage, struck quickly and struck hard. Shakur’s head jerked up, he gave a soft grunt. His eyes shifted from Dagnarus, who was watching him with a strange, terrible smile, to Gareth, who watched the life drain out of them.

  Shakur fell, face forward, onto the onyx floor, dead.

  The next thing Gareth knew, Dagnarus was bending over his friend, a look of concern on his face.

  “Patch? What is it? Are you all right? I forgot you’re not a soldier, Patch. I should have made you look away. What do we do with him now?” He gazed down at the body with interest and curiosity.

  “We must place the body on the altar,” said Gareth, avoiding looking at the corpse.

  “You’re not well,” said Dagnarus. “Sit down before you fall down, Patch. You’re no use to me unconscious, which you will be if you hit your head on this stone floor. I will do what is necessary.”

  Meekly, Gareth accepted the prince’s command. There was no chair in the room, no place to sit, but he leaned his back against the cold stone wall, closed his eyes, and drew in several deep breaths. This cleared the dizziness and eased the nausea. He told himself he had done nothing wrong, he had ended an odious life, one that had brought sorrow and grief to many, a life that the man himself had seemed glad to relinquish. When Gareth lifted his head, he was able to regard the body of Shakur, laid out upon the altar, with equanimity.

  “Remove the dagger from the body,” Gareth said.

  Dagnarus hesitated. “May I touch it?”

  “Yes, it has done its job, accepted the candidate. Now, place the Dagger of the Vrykyl over the heart. The dragon’s head toward his head, the crosspiece aligned with the arms, the point toward the legs.”

  He watched as Dagnarus was about to relinquish his hold on the dagger. “Wait!” Gareth cried commandingly.

  “What?” Dagnarus looked up, startled.

  Gareth did not immediately speak. He looked at Shakur, then turned his gaze to the prince. “The life essence of this man is now contained inside the dagger. If you want, Your Highness, you may take that life into yourself.”

  “What? Become like him?” Dagnarus regarded Shakur with disgust. “No, thank you!”

  “No, Your Highness. That’s not how the magic works. According to the book, if you absorb his life essence, you receive only that—his life force. He no longer needs it. His corpse is being sustained by the Void. His life will extend the years of your life. It will give you two lives, as it were.”

  “Truly?” Dagnarus appeared dubious.

  “The reason I advise this,” Gareth continued, “is that it will also, to some extent, protect you. In other words, his life’s essence will serve as armor to your own. You know, Your Highness, being a soldier, that armor may be pierced, it may be penetrated, it does not make you invulnerable. But it might help you survive—” He saw Dagnarus’s brows draw together in displeasure and said no more.

  “It might help me survive the tests of a Dominion Lord,” Dagnarus finished for him. “You still have no faith in me!”

  Gareth made no reply. He stood by the altar, looking down at the corpse.

  “Still,” said Dagnarus, slowly mastering his anger and regarding the dagger with renewed interest, “this second life may be worthwhile for other reasons. A general who is not easily killed in battle would have a very great advantage. Think what it would do for the morale of my men to see me rise, hale and hearty, from an apparently mortal wound! I will take the life essence, Patch. What must I do?”

  “You must dip the fingers of your left hand into the dead man’s blood, bring your fingers to your mouth, and taste of it.”

  Dagnarus did as he was told, wiping on his fingers the blood from the dagger—taking great care not to cut himself—and licking the blood from his fingers with a grimace. “Not the sweetest wine I’ve ever drunk,” he said. He looked up. “What now?”

  “That is all, Your Highness. Now place the dagger upon the corpse.”

  “I don’t feel any different,” said Dagnarus, disappointed. “How do I know if it worked?”

  “You will know, Your Highness,” said Gareth softly.

  Shrugging, not particularly pleased, Dagnarus laid the dagger upon Shakur’s breast, with the dragon’s head beneath Shakur’s head, the dragon’s wings extended like Shakur’s arms. This done, Dagnarus stepped back.

  Nothing happened.

  Dagnarus frowned, his gaze went accusingly to Gareth. “It’s failed!”

  Gareth raised his hand, pointed. “On the contrary. Look, Your Highness.”

  Dagnarus looked, and his eyes widened in astonishment.

  The Dagger of the Vrykyl was rising slowly in the air, of its own accord. The dagger hovered, suspended above Shakur’s breast.

  The scales of the dragon, carved into the dagger, took shape and form, became black and glistening as the onyx walls. The scales—hundreds of them—began to rain down on Shakur. Sharp as shards of obsidian, they pierced the dead flesh wherever they touched. Working their way into the flesh, the scales fixed themselves firmly beneath the surface of the skin, then began to expand and grow larger. Black scale flowed into black scale, each one touching another, until Shakur’s body was encased in a hard black-scaled shell.

  The shell took the form of armor, black, shining armor that appeared to be made of the body’s own tendons, ligaments, bones, and muscle. It was as if his skin had been flayed away and the flesh and bone underneath revealed, except that they were hard as stone, black as jet.

  His head was covered by a black helm that resembled the dragon’s skull of the dagger, adorned with black spiny protrusions.

  Shakur moved.

  His hand lifted the visor to reveal his face. His eyes opened. The eyes held no life. They were dark and cold, fixed with a glassy stare. He sat upright. The dagger vanished, only to reappear in Dagnarus’s hand.

  Shakur’s helmed head turned toward the dagger. He looked from it to Dagnarus. Climbing down off the altar, Shakur bowed deeply to the prince.

  “By the gods!” Dagnarus whispered. “By the gods, Patch. It worked!”

  “The gods had nothing to do with it,” Gareth said bitterly.

  “
Well, damn them, then!” Dagnarus cried, laughing jubilantly. He thrust the dagger carefully back into its sheath on his belt. “Who needs them, I say? I certainly don’t.” He gazed with pride upon Shakur.

  Gareth sighed. “True, Your Highness.”

  “Now what do we do with him?” Dagnarus asked, looking Shakur up and down.

  “I am yours to command, Your Highness,” said Shakur with another bow.

  As Gareth first heard it, the Vrykyl’s voice seemed the same as the voice of a living man. But as it continued to speak, Gareth noted that the Vrykyl’s words had a hollow, echoing sound to them, as if spoken from the bottom of a dark well.

  “Faith, this Vrykyl’s certainly more polite,” Dagnarus said.

  “He will respond to your commands, Your Highness, and only yours.”

  “Does the Vrykyl know anything at all? Or is he a mindless puppet?” Dagnarus asked. “If such, he’ll be of little use.”

  “The magical armor grants that a Vrykyl retains all the memories he had when he was alive. He has all the skills—such as they were. In other words, he will be the same bastard he always was, except that he will obey orders. In addition, he is no longer heir to the body’s weaknesses. He has no need of ordinary food”—Gareth laid emphasis on that—“no need of sleep. He will never tire or succumb to thirst. He cannot be killed by any ordinary weapon. Only a weapon that is blessed of the gods may pierce his unholy flesh.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all this,” Dagnarus said impatiently. “He must make a knife of his own bone. That is something I do not think either of us needs to witness.”

  “The Blood-knife,” said Gareth. “The Vrykyl slays his victims with it and steals their souls. He will not need to feed for some time yet, and so he does not need the knife, but when he does, when the flesh starts to rot from his bones, when he feels his unnatural strength start to fail him, he will kill the first person he comes upon. Only you and those you designate will be safe from him.”

  “He will not turn his victims into more Vrykyl, will he?” Dagnarus demanded, frowning. “Vrykyl over which I would have no control?”

  “No, only the bearer of the Dagger of the Vrykyl has that power. The Blood-knife merely feeds him, Your Highness.”

  “That armor is remarkable,” Dagnarus said, regarding the black, glistening armor with admiration. “But it will be obvious to everyone who sees him that he is no ordinary Vinnengalean. Must he walk about accoutered like that all the time?”

  “The Vrykyl possess the skill of disguising themselves, according to the book, but since it is a skill Shakur did not possess before death, it may take him some time to master it,” Gareth replied. “He has the ability to look like whatever he chooses. He may take on his former appearance—”

  “The gods know why he would want to,” Dagnarus interrupted.

  “Or he may take on the appearance of a scholarly old gentleman, or perhaps a comely young man. Thus,” Gareth said, with a half sigh, “thus does he lure his victims to their deaths.”

  “You have done well, Patch!” Dagnarus rested his hand upon Gareth’s shoulder. “I am more than pleased. Whatever reward you ask of me, it shall be granted.”

  “This is my reward, Your Highness,” said Gareth, watching Shakur, who stood still as one of the empty shells of armored knights standing unending vigil in the castle’s corridor. “To have served you.” He paused a moment, then added in a low voice, “You will probably be angry with me for saying this, but I ask you once again, Your Highness…No, I beg you!”

  Gareth sank to his knees before the prince, raised supplicating hands. “Give up the idea of becoming a Dominion Lord! Listen to me, Dagnarus. Don’t turn away. You have what you have always wanted! You have done what your father did; you have created your own Dominion Lord! With that dagger, you can create more until you will have as many Lords serving you as serve your father! He is not a Dominion Lord and yet he is King. You do not need to be a Dominion Lord either. The danger is real, more real than you can imagine!”

  Reaching down his hand, Dagnarus touched Gareth’s hair, stroked it.

  Gareth’s eyes closed, tears wrung from pain and exhaustion and nervous tension trickled down his cheeks.

  “You love me, don’t you, Patch?” Dagnarus said softly.

  Gareth could not reply, he bowed his head. His tears burned him, but then, so did his love.

  “You and Valura. The only two who have ever loved me. The others—my father among them—fear me, admire me.” Dagnarus was silent, thinking, then he said, “I don’t want to be like my father, Patch. I want to be greater than my father. I want him to look at me the way he looks at Helmos. I will be a Dominion Lord, Patch. I will, though it cost me my life.

  “And now,” he said with forced gaiety, turning away, “what do we do with our Vrykyl, here? I cannot have him roaming the streets of Vinnengael. This very morning I enter the Temple to begin the Seven Preparations.”

  “We will keep the Vrykyl down here at the bottom of the Temple,” said Gareth. He had made his argument for the last time. He would make it no more. He would do what he could, now, to keep Dagnarus alive.

  “Excellent idea! When I have time in between these silly tests, I will come down and start his training!”

  “Your Highness!” Gareth was aghast. “You are supposed to be spending your time in meditation and…and…”

  “And what? Prayer?” Dagnarus was amused. “Will the gods listen to me, do you suppose?” He turned away. “Shakur.”

  The Vrykyl bowed.

  “You will remain here. You will not stir from this place. No one must find you. If by chance someone comes other than Gareth or myself, you have leave to kill them.”

  Shakur bowed again. Gareth felt himself shrivel up inside. He knew well enough that there was little likelihood of one of the other magi coming down to this place, but at the thought of what would happen to them if one did…

  What have I done? he asked himself, his soul writhing in misery. What have I become? I should end this! I should go to Prince Helmos and lay all bare before him, confess my terrible crimes and find ease in punishment and death! I should. But I won’t, he realized, with chill realization. I have drunk the water of the well of darkness. I cannot confess my crimes without betraying my prince. He trusts me. Gareth marveled. I know all his secrets. Every one of them. I could ruin him and yet he has never threatened me, never doubted me.

  A cynical voice in Gareth’s soul whispered that this was because Dagnarus knew that Gareth was his creature. He had seen to that. From childhood up, Gareth had been bound to his prince with bonds of duty, bonds of love. The bonds were made of silken cord, but they were tied tight. Had Gareth ever tried to throw off those bonds, Dagnarus would have cut him loose. There was no mutual affection, only a pride of ownership.

  “Come, Patch!” said Dagnarus, throwing his arm around Gareth’s shoulder. “You are dropping with exhaustion. And I must go to my darling Valura and console her for being gone from her bed for the next seven days.”

  “I thought you had quarreled with her,” Gareth said listlessly.

  Dagnarus winked. “I forgave her.”

  The two left the altar room. The Vrykyl had laid himself back down upon the altar, to while away the sleepless hours as best he could. He looked very much like one of the carven figures on the tombs.

  Gareth was forced to remove the wizard-lock spell he had laid upon the door, in order for Dagnarus to be able to gain access to the altar room. Reversing the spell cost Gareth as much pain as casting it, pain that he contrived to hide from the prince.

  Fortunately, Dagnarus was too absorbed in pleasant anticipation of his lover’s bed to notice.

  The Seven Preparations

  The day dawned bright and fair. The orken took their boats out—the omens had promised good weather and a fine catch. Helmos, from his place standing in the enormous window of the tower room, looked down upon the lake. He could see their sails, like white birds, skimming over the water en rou
te to the fishing grounds.

  Below him, in the courtyard, the procession to escort Dagnarus to the Temple wound its way, snakelike, from the palace. Soldiers of the army of Vinnengael lined the route, cheering and clashing their swords against their shields or thumping the hafts of their spears on the ground. They had not done that for Helmos.

  “He has the loyalty of the men, of many of their commanders,” Helmos said to himself, brooding. “There is no danger at present. The army remains loyal to my father. As long as he is King, the army will back him. But what about me? What happens when I am King?”

  Helmos pressed his forehead to the glass. Dagnarus, resplendent in the simple white robes worn by the candidate, walked down the line of cheering men, accompanied by his father. Tamaros walked slowly—Dagnarus was forced to reduce his long, impatient stride, measure his steps to his father’s—but the King walked without aid of any sort, refusing to use a cane or lean upon his son’s arm. The soldiers might have cheered Dagnarus, but they bent their knees in reverence and respect for their King.

  “I understand your plan, your wish, Father,” Helmos said, speaking to the old man walking far below, so far that he seemed the size of one of the child Dagnarus’s toys. “I know that you want me to rule in peace, with wisdom and justice, my loyal brother standing at my back, armed with shield and sword to defend the kingdom. A splendid dream. I pray to the gods, for your sake, my father, more than my own, that this dream will come true.

  “But I do not think the gods are listening to my prayers,” Helmos added sadly. “I think it far more likely that my brother, instead of protecting my back, will stab me in it.”