Gareth bent to help Silwyth pick up the clothes. “Do you believe that Lord Mabreton has truly lost our trail?” he asked softly.
Silwyth gazed out into the gloaming, as if he could part the shadows and see what hid beneath them. Perhaps he did see more than Gareth. Elves have excellent eyesight, far better than humans. When Silwyth spoke, Gareth realized that the elf was not describing what he could see, but what he felt.
“Lord Mabreton has only one objective in life now—vengeance. He feels only one emotion—hatred. He is drawn to the object of his hatred and his vengeance like iron to lodestone. We must all of us keep careful watch this night.”
They kept careful watch that night. Dagnarus said testily that the growling of their stomachs would keep them all awake if nothing else. He had agreed, though with ill humor, that with Lord Mabreton searching for them, it would be folly to light a fire—magical or otherwise—on this high hilltop. Clouds covered the sky, the night was so very dark, darker than Gareth—who had never before spent a night outside of the comfortable walls of home or castle—had ever imagined possible. He dreaded leaving the ramshackle building for fear he should tumble down the well in the darkness or lose himself in the woods, never to find his way back again.
But the need to relieve himself drove him out of the building, searching for the privies in the blinding blackness. Fortunately, they had been built of the same whitish stone as the outpost. He found his way without falling into the well, which was a gaping black hole in the back courtyard.
Silwyth washed the clothes and laid them out to dry upon some large flat rocks that had been heated by the sun. Dagnarus stripped off the white robes, rolled them into a ball, and tossed them into a corner. The night was warm. He would make do with smallclothes until morning. The prince went out to keep the first watch. Valura accompanied him, loath to part from him, if only for a few hours. She had slept some, and was, she said, feeling much stronger.
Gareth lay down to try to sleep, but though he was nearly dropping with fatigue, the day’s terrible events so disturbed him that he could not find the rest he desperately sought. He could hear Dagnarus and Valura talking and laughing softly together outdoors. The laughter gave way to harsh breathing and sighs of pleasure. Dagnarus was not keeping very good watch.
Gareth listened to their lovemaking with mingled repulsion, irritation, envy, and resentment. To make matters worse, Silwyth had fallen off to sleep the moment his head had touched the bundled cloak he was using for a pillow. Gareth tossed and turned and tried not to hear, tried not to imagine what was happening only a few feet away from him. But he was still awake when Dagnarus and Valura crept inside, their giggles smothered. He was still awake, though he pretended not to be, when Dagnarus touched his shoulder and told him it was time for him to take the second watch.
Gareth left without a word and took his place, perched uncomfortably on a hollowed-out portion of the outpost’s small retaining wall. And then, of course, because he must not fall asleep, sleep came at last. He woke with a guilty start to find Silwyth standing over him.
“Among my people, any warrior who sleeps on guard duty is not permitted to wake—ever. His throat is slit on the spot.”
“I am sorry,” Gareth said contritely, scrambling to his feet. He glanced about. “I…I don’t think I was asleep long.”
“You weren’t.” Silwyth was grim. “I was wakeful and when I heard you begin to mumble, I guessed that you had drifted off. Go inside. Return to your bed. I will take your watch. I rarely sleep more than a few hours at night anyway.”
Gareth made a feeble argument, which Silwyth cut short.
“Be quiet. Do not wake His Highness or the Lady Valura. Let them have one night of peace together, at least.” Silwyth settled himself on the wall, gazed out into the darkness.
Gareth lingered at the elf’s side. “You seem very sure that they will find us.”
“I am.”
“Well, shouldn’t we be doing something?” Gareth asked helplessly.
“What war spells do you know, Magus?” Silwyth countered, his voice lilting, mocking.
“None,” Gareth admitted. “I wasn’t studying to be a war magus.”
“Then there is little for you to do except sleep.” Silwyth settled himself more comfortably upon the stone wall, turned his back to Gareth.
Chagrined, Gareth meekly accepted his dismissal and returned to the small fortification. He lay staring into the darkness until sleep rescued him from his fear at last.
The Sacrifice
Dagnarus woke in the predawn light. Valura nestled in his arms, her head upon his breast. Her long black hair spilled over his bare arm. Her eyes were closed, she breathed deeply and evenly, secure in his strength, comforted by his warmth. He did not like to disturb her, and so he lay long moments at her side without moving, guarding her sleep.
Outside, the birds’ song was loud and cheerful, marking boundaries to their territories. Mating couples squabbled over nest-building. He smoothed the hair from Valura’s face with a gentle touch. She had defied her husband for love of him. He was overwhelmed with love for her. Usually his energetic nature, an easy prey to boredom, had him up and out of bed the moment his eyes opened. This day, so peaceful and serene, he thought he might well lie alongside his lady all morning long.
“Your Highness!” Silwyth called softly through the window.
Dagnarus did not answer for fear of waking Valura. He was tempted to ignore the elf, feign sleep, but Silwyth’s voice held a note of urgency. Carefully, gently, Dagnarus slid his arm from beneath Valura’s head. She murmured in her sleep, her eyelids fluttered, but she did not awaken.
Tenderly, he cradled her head upon the white robes, which they had used for a pillow, and kissed her gently. Levering himself up quietly, he padded soft-footed to the open window.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded, in no very good humor.
“Keep down, Your Highness,” Silwyth cautioned. He was crouched on his haunches beneath the window, gazing intently out into the forest. “Stay in the shadows.”
“What is it?” Dagnarus asked again. The prince followed his line of the sight. “What have you seen?”
“Nothing, Your Highness,” Silwyth replied.
“Then why all the creeping and crouching?” Dagnarus demanded, exasperated. “Listen! Birds are singing, busy and content. They are not spooked.” He pointed to two squirrels, playing a game of tag, jumping from branch to branch. “Animals roam about freely.”
“And so they would, Your Highness, if an army of ten thousand elves was out there in those woods,” Silwyth said earnestly, his voice soft and low. “You’ve fought elves before. You should know, Your Highness. We have an affinity for birds, who are creatures of the air and are pleased to do our bidding. Elven soldiers can move with the silence of ghosts; they could be all around us!”
Dagnarus left the outpost, walked outdoors. He still did not believe that anything was amiss, but as Silwyth said, he had fought elves before and respected them as a cunning and clever enemy. He kept to the shadows as Silwyth had advised.
“Have you seen anything? Heard anything?”
“No, Your Highness. But there is a taste on the air. A scent I do not like. It would be best if we all stayed within—”
“My lord?” Valura’s voice, thick with sleep, came from the doorway. She could not see Dagnarus, crouched beneath the window, and she stepped out into the sunshine to search for him.
The arrow flew so swift, so silent that none of them saw it until it struck and soft flesh halted its flight. Valura gasped and sagged back against the door, staring in bewilderment at the feathered shaft buried deep in her thigh. Blood welled around the wound, soaked her silken gown.
Dagnarus gave a hoarse cry of outrage and sprang to his feet.
“No, Your Highness!” Silwyth shouted, attempting to seize hold of the prince and keep him out of danger.
Another arrow sped through the air, aimed at Dagnarus. The arrow would have
pierced his heart, had he been an ordinary mortal. The Void, sensing its Lord’s danger, acted to shield him. The black armor flowed over his body like dark water, protecting him from attack.
The arrow struck the black breastplate. The shaft vanished in a flash of fire, the arrowhead fell harmlessly to the ground. Dagnarus lifted the fainting Valura in his arms and carried her to safety inside the outpost.
Silwyth leapt through the open window, diving headfirst, amid an angry buzzing of arrows. Gareth, awakened by Dagnarus’s cry, slammed shut the door. Arrows thunked into it or whistled eerily through the shutterless window, hitting the far wall.
“Down! Keep down!” Silwyth commanded, grabbing hold of Gareth and dragging him to the floor.
Dagnarus laid Valura upon the white robes. Blood soaked her clothing. She was ashen, her eyes wide and shocked, and she was quivering with the pain. Her breath came in quick, tight gasps. Her hand, sticky with blood, felt for the arrow.
Dagnarus gazed at her in grim despair, then reached for his sword.
“They will rush the building. How many would you estimate—”
“No, Your Highness,” Silwyth cried. “That is not their plan. They will not attack us, so long as we are inside here.”
“Why? What can they hope to gain by skulking out there in the woods?” Dagnarus demanded, his voice shaking with fury.
“They will not attack because they fear they might kill the Lady Valura. They want her alive,” Silwyth said grimly. He looked at the wound. Blood pulsed from it, flowing fast. Silwyth lifted his gaze to the prince. “But I fear that this was a poorly aimed shaft, my lord,” he said softly. “The arrow has pierced a major artery. She cannot survive.”
“What do you know?” Dagnarus demanded angrily, and shoved Silwyth away. “Are you a healer? My beloved.” He bent over her, took her cold hand in his. “Beloved!”
“Prince Dagnarus,” cried a voice from outside the window.
“Lord Mabreton,” Silwyth muttered.
“Lord of the Void!” the elf shouted. “There is no escape for you now. I challenge you to settle this in fair combat. If you are a man of honor, you will accept. First, however, you must give up the unfaithful, honorless, soulless woman who was once known as Lady Mabreton, but whose name is now Whore. I have a healer with me. The Whore will be well treated—better than she deserves. If she is wise, she will request death from me. That would not restore her honor, but it will save her family from disgrace. If not, I will take her back to her home, where her father will determine what is to be her fate.
“You can either send her out,” Lord Mabreton continued, his voice cold and hard, “or you can watch her bleed to death. I will give you thirty minutes to make your decision.”
Valura thrust out her bloodstained hand, caught hold of Dagnarus’s forearm. Her eyes were dark, shadowed with pain.
“No!” she begged him. “Do not hand me over to him!” She sucked in a shivering breath, her eyes closed in agony. “I…would die first…”
Dagnarus knelt beside her, bent to kiss her.
“I will never give you up!” he promised. “Never! Do something!” he hissed.
Gareth was trying ineffectually to staunch the blood, which oozed out of the wound with the pulsing of the woman’s heartbeat. He looked at the prince and shook his head. “I am not a healer,” he said. “And there are no healing spells in Void magic. Perhaps, if you could remove the arrow—”
“It’s barbed!” Dagnarus said with a bitter curse. “I have seen men hit with these cursed arrows. If I try to pull it out, I will rip the muscles of her leg out with it. The pain alone could kill her.”
Dagnarus gathered Valura in his arms, held her close. “My love, my own love! You must not die! You must not leave me!”
Valura opened her eyes. Reaching up her hand, she touched Dagnarus’s face through the open visor of the black helm. Her touch left streaks of blood upon his cheek. “I see the shadows reaching for me,” she said weakly. “But, there is a way. When I am gone, make me…one of them.” She reached out her hand and touched the Dagger of the Vrykyl. “We will always…be together…”
“No!” Dagnarus cried, horrified. He laid her back down on the blood-soaked robes. “No!” he said again, shuddering.
“Lady Valura…” Gareth admonished, shocked to the core of his being. “You do not know what you are saying! These accursed dead have only a mockery of life! They are not truly alive! They feed off the living…”
Her fingers, slippery with her own blood, closed spasmodically over the dagger’s hilt.
“Dagnarus…” Her eyes sought his eyes, met them, held them. “I will not leave you…ever. I give my soul…to the Void.”
“Oh, gods! No!” Dagnarus moaned and fell to his knees at her side.
Valura said no word, made no sound. He could do nothing but watch her life ebb away. Her gaze remained on him for as long as she could see him, until death blotted him from her sight. Her hand, touching the dagger, went limp. Her eyes continued to stare at Dagnarus, but the stare was fixed, unseeing.
Dagnarus did not move. He said nothing, made no further outcry. He knelt beside her for so long that it seemed he might have turned to stone, been granted at last the Transfiguration that had been denied him. Gareth sat back, dazed and stunned by the tragedy, unable to react. Silwyth, with a deep sigh, leaned forward to shut the staring eyes.
“Don’t touch her!” Dagnarus ordered savagely.
His lips compressed. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the dagger.
“I will honor her last wish,” he said through clenched teeth. “Is she an acceptable candidate?”
“I forbid it, Your Highness!” Silwyth cried, and tried to snatch the dagger.
Dagnarus backhanded the elf, striking him a blow that knocked him across the room. Silwyth slammed up against the wall and collapsed in a crumpled heap.
Dagnarus did not look to see if the elf was dead or alive. He laid the dagger on Valura’s still breast.
“Your Highness,” said Gareth harshly. “Are you certain this is what you want? Think! Think what she will become! A monster—”
The word died on his lips. He shrank from the prince’s terrible fury.
“Tell me!” Dagnarus commanded. Foam flecked his lips. His eyes were dark and sunken in his head. “Remind me of what I must do!”
“Her blood…” Gareth began hesitantly.
“Her life!” Dagnarus cried, and he bent and placed his lips upon the wound, sucking her blood as a child suckles at the breast of its mother.
“Put…put the dagger on her…breast,” Gareth said faintly, stricken with pity and horror. “The dragon’s head…toward her head. The crosspiece aligned…” He could not continue. Sick and dizzy, he feared he might faint.
Dagnarus’s lips were stained with her blood. He arranged the dagger on Valura’s breast, drew back his hand, and waited.
Slowly, the dagger began to rise into the air. The scales of the dragon, black and glistening, fell from the dagger, pierced Valura’s flesh. Wherever the scales touched, they burrowed their way beneath the skin, flowed together until her body was encased in a hard, black shell of shining armor.
Dagnarus watched, his face like stone, implacable, immovable. A black helm, adorned with the wings of a bird, wings as black as those of a crow, covered Valura’s face. Black-mailed gloves encased her hands. No part of her flesh remained visible. She was swallowed up by the darkness.
Valura’s hand stirred, reached up, lifted the visor of the helm. Her eyes opened. They held no life, were dark and cold and fixed with a glassy stare. The eyes sought Dagnarus. Her gaze, with no life in it, rested on him.
“I am with you,” she said to him. “Always.” She reached out her gloved hand.
He caught hold of her hand, pressed her fingers to his lips. “Always,” he said. His words came from lips stained with her blood and were colder, more dead than hers, which spoke from the realm of death.
“Your time is up!”
shouted Lord Mabreton. “Send out the Whore or we will come in and drag her out.”
“Yes,” said Dagnarus softly. “I will send you your wife.” He glanced carelessly behind him. “Silwyth. Are you loyal to me, or do you now wish to be counted among my enemies?”
The elf had regained consciousness. He shook his head to clear it, felt his jaw. Blood oozed from a split and swollen lip. He cast one look at the new-made Vrykyl, a look of revulsion, and quickly averted his gaze.
“I am your servant, Your Highness, as always,” he said, wiping away blood. “Forgive my recent failure.”
“You are forgiven,” said Dagnarus coolly. “The Lady Valura is going to give herself up to her husband. You will accompany her.”
The Vrykyl had altered shape and form. Gone was the black armor and the bird-wing helm. Valura, as beautiful as she had been in life, wounded and seemingly helpless, languished on the blood-soaked robes. Her cold, dead gaze met Silwyth’s. A shudder shook his frame. His face paled, but he did not falter.
“I will not fail you, Your Highness,” he said, and, bending down, he lifted the Vrykyl that had once been the Lady Valura in his arms.
Silwyth could feel the terrible cold of the Void and the smooth, brittle hardness of the black armor that the illusion hides, but never replaces. Silwyth’s back was to Dagnarus. Only Gareth saw the struggle within the elf, a struggle so fierce he could not conceal it, as he was forced to touch the cursed corrupt creature of the Void.
“What are your orders, Your Highness?” Silwyth asked, a slight, very slight, catch in his voice.
“Carry the Lady Valura”—he did not call her Vrykyl, as he always did Shakur—“to the clearing and set her down. Lord Mabreton will send his men to fetch her. You, my love, will deal with them.”
Valura nodded and smiled a terrible smile.
“I will answer Lord Mabreton’s challenge,” Dagnarus said. His hand clenched over the hilt of his sword. “I look forward to it. Gareth. The elven archers are hiding in these woods. At my signal, you will set the forest ablaze. Silwyth, when you have finished your task with the Lady Valura, you will run to the stables, lead the horses to a place of safety, away from the flames. We will join you shortly, when our work outside is finished.”
Well of Darkness Page 45
