Into The Void

by Nigel Findley

  “I’m sorry,” Teldin told him.

  The gnome shrugged. “Why?” he asked, a little surprised. “My father’s free of the troubles of the world. It’s us that have to face them still. I only hope my end is as peaceful.” He patted Teldin’s wrist again. “Now, you came here to sleep, I warrant, and we’re keeping you awake with our talk. We’re on watch again soon, so we’ll just leave you now.” He winked knowingly. “Enjoy it while you can. I hear you’ll be back on duty again tomorrow.”

  *****

  As the Probe cruised silently through the chaos of the flow, Teldin slept fitfully. His dreams were short, transitory things, but nonetheless disturbing. Night-black scavvers the size of the ship hurtled at him, or tore at the bodies of Aelfred Silverhorn, Sylvie, or the gnomes. Lort, the crewman devoured by the monster, stood before him, sheathed in his own blood, silently reproachful. Estriss, the mind flayer, stood on the forecastle, silhouetted against the brilliance of the phlogiston, trying to strike a light with Teldin’s flint and steel.

  In his hammock, Teldin writhed and moaned.

  Finally, though, the images faded as he sank deeper and deeper into the well of sleep. Both his body and mind became still ….

  *****

  Space. Velvet blackness and distant stars. Teldin felt as though he were hanging motionless in the darkness of the wildspace the Probe had recently left. He had no body; there was nothing corporeal about him. There was no consciousness of physical existence, not even of thought in the normal sense. He was simply untrammeled perception. Experience impinged on his senses, and he recorded it but felt none of the normal process of analyzing that experience – nor any need for such. He was alone.

  Then no longer. With senses more acute than those any corporeal being could ever possess, he saw …

  Something – a Presence – was moving against the blackness, eclipsing the stars. It was as black as the backdrop of space, without any discernible boundaries. The only way he could even be sure of its presence was the way in which stats winked out of existence as it moved before them, then reappeared after its passage. There was no way he could gauge the size of the Presence, out here with nothing to measure it against. As with the portal that had opened before the Probe, it could be something small nearby, or of unimaginable size at great distance.

  For an unmeasurable time, sight was the only sense to which the Presence registered. There was no sound, no awareness of heat or cold. Then, as though his incorporeal body had somehow been granted another, more delicate sense, he felt something.

  There was a sense of questing, as if a powerful intelligence were seeking something.

  The capacity for thought returned, and with it came fear. Never had Teldin felt so exposed, so vulnerable. Was the Presence seeking him, he wondered. How could he shield himself from so great a creature?

  As suddenly as it had come into being, the new sense was stripped from him. Only sight remained, then even that seemed to be wrenched away. The stars vanished from around him, and absolute darkness enfolded him ….

  *****

  In his hammock aboard the Probe, Teldin flinched as his eyes sprang open. His body was cold, his clothes damp with sweat. His labored breathing rasped loudly through his dry throat. The terror from his dream remained, but the details of what he’d experienced instantly faded. Within a few pounding heartbeats, he could remember nothing. He’d been in space – he remembered that much – but what then? Nothing; he could recall nothing ….

  He looked around him to find the cabin empty. The rainbow light of the flow still washed in through the porthole. How long had he been sleeping? He had no way of telling. It could have been hours, or only minutes. His mind wasn’t rested, he knew that, but at least his body felt stronger than it had since the fight on the forecastle. He settled his head back down and closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep a little more, clear the quickly fading tendrils of fear and confusion from his thoughts.

  But it was no good, he decided almost immediately. Sleep had flown, and he knew enough about the way his body and mind worked to realize that it would be useless to pursue it.

  A little cautiously he swung himself from his testing his balance. There was no trace of dizziness, he noted with relief. Whatever treatment the crew of the Probe had given him had certainly been effective. He left the cabin and made his way on deck.

  By the time he was outside, even the remnants of fear left by the dream had gone. He remembered being afraid, bur no amount of mental searching could bring back any recollection of what he’d been afraid of.

  The main deck was empty, but he saw movement on the sterncastle. Probably just the catapult crew … but right now he felt the need for conversation with someone, anyone. He started to walk aft, but a booming call stopped him.

  “Hoi, Teldin!”

  He turned. Aelfred Silverhorn stood on the forecastle, silhouetted against the nightmarish sky of the flow.

  “Just what the hell are we going to do about those gnomes of yours?” Aelfred bellowed down at him good-naturedly. “I caught that young one putting a lock on my cabin door, because he figured as first mate I deserved one.” The warrior snorted. “Not too unreasonable an idea, but when he was trying it out, he locked himself in and had to take the door off its hinges to get back out.”

  Teldin stifled a chuckle. “So, how’s the lock?” he asked innocently.

  “I don’t know,” Aelfred shot back, “he didn’t finish it. He got interested in ‘improving’ the door hinges he’d removed, and that’s when I kicked him out of there. I had to get one of my own artificers to hang the bloody door again.” He barked with laughter. “Now I know why you arranged for those pirates, just to get you away from the gnomes. Want to come up?”

  Teldin grinned. “On my way.” He went up the ladder to the forecastle fast, testing his level of fitness. He was gratified that he felt no reaction to the exertion.

  Aelfred nodded approvingly, obviously understanding what Teldin had done. He slapped the smaller man heartily on the shoulder. “Feeling fit again?”

  Teldin nodded with a smile. “Aye,” he said, mimicking his large friend’s boisterous manner. “Got any scavvers you need dealt with?”

  “Scavvers, is it?” Aelfred laughed. “Well, maybe you can kill us two or three for dawnfry. If you’re feeling frisky, there’s something more important for you to do.” His bantering manner faded. “What’s your experience with the short sword?”

  Teldin shrugged – a little warily, because he thought he knew where the burly warrior was leading. “Some, when I was in the army.”

  The mate snorted. “Everybody who’s ever joined an army gets ‘some’ experience with the sword. Any training?”

  “Some,” Teldin repeated. “I learned some simple moves, mainly from bored soldiers who had nothing better to do than teach a novice some of their skills. Are you feeling bored, Aelfred?”

  Aelfred chuckled dryly. “Bored enough,” he answered.

  “Bored enough to teach you some real swordplay, something that’ll maybe save your precious skin.” He slapped at his left and for the first time Teldin noticed that the big man had on sword sheathed at his side. Aelfred noticed his glance. “Oh, aye, the deck crew’s all armed now. Void scavvers don’t often travel in schools, but it does happen.” He turned and bellowed to one of the crewmen who was oiling the windlass ranked back the heavy ballista. “Hoi, Gendi. Toss me your weapon.” The man in the turret hesitated. “Come on, toss it here,” Aelfred repeated. “You don’t have to worry about scavvers with Teldin around.”

  The man smiled and drew his sword. He gripped it by the thick forte of the blade and with an easy underarm toss lofted it, hilt first, toward Aelfred. The polished steel reflected a riot of colors. With the utmost nonchalance, Aelfred reached up, and the hilt slapped into his hand. He reversed the weapon and held it out, grip toward Teldin.

  “Take it,” he instructed. “Well, take it.” Teldin grasped the proffered weapon. “Now look at it. Closely. Feel
it.”

  Teldin followed his friend’s instruction. He adjusted his hand around the grip. It felt quite different from the sword – Lort’s sword – he’d driven into the scavver. That weapon had possessed a smooth grip, wrapped in something that felt somehow both smooth and rough – perhaps sharkskin, which he’d heard was a common wrapping for sword hilts. This weapon’s grip was metal, the same golden metal as the pommel and guard – probably bronze, he thought. It was ridged, worked into a complex pattern of scrolls and leaves. While he thought that it might become uncomfortable in protracted use, he had to admit that the ridges made for a sure grip and that the depressions would probably be good to prevent sweat or blood from making the hilt slippery. The cross-guard – or quillions, sprang the word from some deep recess of his memory – curved forward and branched. The inner branches came within a finger’s span of the blade’s edges, presumably to trap or break an opponent’s blade and, so, disarm him. The blade itself was oiled steel, shiny and clean, with a razor-sharp edge along almost the full length. The blade thickened and became blunt only within a hand’s span of the quillions. The thick portion of the blade – the forte – was etched with a delicate pattern similar to that on the grip. Toward the extreme point, the blade thickened slightly, but the point itself looked as sharp as a needle. He swung the weapon back and forth gently, using only his wrist. He guessed it weighed two or three pounds, with the balance point way back in the forte, near the grip. Finished with his examination, he looked expectantly up at Aelfred.

  The warrior had drawn his own weapon, holding it lightly, with a loose wrist. “Two things to remember about the short sword,” Aelfred said. “First, it’s a thrusting weapon, more precise than a broadsword. It doesn’t have the heft to just hack away, like with a meat-axe, but if you put your weight behind the point, it’ll go through most armor like it’s soft cheese. Second, the point is mightier than the edge … but the short sword does have an edge. If you get an opening for a cut, take it, but keep it small, controlled. Like this.” With the speed of a striking snake, Aelfred straightened his wrist from its partially bent position. Steel flashed like quicksilver in a short arc – a total distance less than the length of Teldin’s forearm – and stopped as sharply as if it had struck a solid object. In even that short swing, the blade whistled. “See?” Aelfred asked. “Short, controlled. With a good edge, that’s enough to split a man’s skull. Try it.”

  Teldin gave the weapon a flip with his wrist, trying to imitate the big man’s motion. The blade moved, but not nearly as fast, and it didn’t stop sharply but continued its swing almost a hand’s breadth beyond where Teldin wanted the swing to end. He felt his cheeks tingle a little in embarrassment. With his hours behind the plow and hewing wood on the farm, he figured his wrist should have been strong enough to do better. Aelfred didn’t notice his discomfiture – or if he did, the warrior chose to ignore it. “It’s leverage,” he explained. “That sword doesn’t weigh much, but it’s spread over two feet of blade. Does your wrist hurt?”

  Teldin flexed the wrist experimentally. Yes, it did, he noted with surprise – and even more embarrassment. The tendons along the side of the wrist, the ones that continued down from his little finger, were slightly sore.

  “There’s not much the average person does that uses the same muscles swordplay does,” Aelfred continued. “You want to know how to tell a swordsman? Look at my wrist.” Transferring his sword to his left hand, he extended his right arm to Teldin.

  Teldin looked. The tendons of the warrior’s wrist were thick and ridged, even with his hand relaxed. Aelfred clenched his big fist, and the tendons stood out like ropes of steel. He turned his hand so Teldin could better see the side of his wrist. From the edge of his hand down into his forearm, the ligaments and muscles under the skin showed pronouncedly, as hard as rock.

  “All it takes is lots of work,” Aelfred grinned. “If you want, I’ll show you some exercises later. For now, defend yourself.”

  Standing square to Aelfred, Teldin bent his knees slightly in what he thought might look something like a fighter’s crouch. A little self-consciously, he lifted the sword and held it out directly in front of his chest.

  So fast that he hardly saw the big man move, Aelfred shot his empty right arm forward and poked Teldin painfully in the center of the chest with a thick finger. Instinctively Teldin brought up his empty left hand to block the thrust, but much too late. Aelfred’s arm flashed again, this time grabbing Teldin’s left hand in an immobilizing grip. The warrior looked down at the hand he held in feigned amazement.

  “What’s this?” he asked scathingly. “Trying to stop a thrust with a bare hand? Are you so tired of that hand that you want it chopped off? Well, you’re run through the heart, so it doesn’t matter anyway.” He let Teldin’s hand go with the same revulsion he’d show for a dead fish.

  Teldin’s face burned with embarrassment. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he muttered.

  “I wouldn’t have let you. Trust me on that.”

  “All right,” Teldin said with a sigh. “What am I doing wrong?”

  Aelfred laughed. “What aren’t you doing wrong? First, your stance is too open. You’ re giving me your whole chest and belly to rip open if I want to. Turn like this.” His hard hands took Teldin’s shoulders and turned him until he was side-on. “There,” he went on. “Smaller target area, right? Oh, aye, you’d fight more open if you had a dagger in your offhand, but one thing at a time, eh?” He grasped Teldin’s right wrist and started to move the arm. “Relax,” he growled. “Don’t fight me. Bring your elbow down more. There.” He stood back to examine his handiwork.

  Teldin’s elbow was lower, close against his right side. “Forearm parallel with the ground,” Aelfred instructed. “Wrist straight and strong.” The warrior’s empty hand flashed again, dealing Teldin a stinging slap on the back of his left hand. “And get that left hand back. You’re just asking to have it cut off. Tuck it under your belt if you have to.”

  Teldin nodded. With his forearm level and his wrist straight, the sword’s blade angled upward and out, with the point on a level with his eyes. The position was very natural, he found, even comfortable. For the first time he started to feel like a swordsman … or at least a reasonable facsimile.

  Aelfred stood back, appraising him. After a moment, the big man nodded his satisfaction. “Good,” he growled. “Now the thrust. It’s like this.” With the sword back in his right hand, he lunged with a speed that belied his size. His sword point flicked out fast and hard as he took a short step forward. He recovered instantly, returning to the ready position so fast that it almost looked as though his arm had stretched. The fluid grace of the movement astounded Teldin.

  “Watch the footwork this time,” Aelfred instructed. “Watch the step forward.” He repeated the motion. “The step extends your reach, but it also puts your weight behind the point. Got it?”

  Teldin nodded.

  “You try it, slowly. I’ll talk you through it.” He stood beside Teldin and took the smaller man’s right wrist in his big hand. “Start with the wrist like this. Extend the arm, but keep the wrist straight.” Teldin tried to relax, to let the seemingly inexorable force move his sword hand forward. “As it comes forward, you take a short step forward flow. Got it? See how it makes you shift your weight so it’s behind the blade?”

  Teldin could feel the logic behind the moves. Even in slow motion, he felt the weight of his torso reinforcing the movement of his arm. “I’ve got it,” he said.

  Aelfred released him. “Have you, now?” he asked ironically. “Then I want you to kill the mainmast.”

  “What?”

  “Do it!” Aelfred barked. “It’s going to tear your face off and eat it for dawnfry. Kill it!”

  Teldin heard a muffled chuckle from the crewman who’d lent him the sword but forced himself to ignore it. He stepped toward the mainmast until he was what he felt to be the right distance away and lunged.

  It felt like he was doi
ng everything right. The sword struck the thick mast … but not with the point. The blade had turned slightly out of true, and the flat of the blade glanced along the side of the mast. The impact – heavy, with his full weight behind it – bent his wrist back painfully, and the sword clattered to the deck.

  “What happened?” Aelfred sneered. “Did the mast disarm you? No. Did you keep your wrist straight like I told you?”

  “No,” Teldin mumbled, cradling his sore wrist against his belly. “I bent it.”

  “Too bloody right, you bent it,” Aelfred roared. “Pick up your sword and do it right. Pick it up!”

  With a muttered curse, Teldin picked up the word. He knew that Aelfred’s feigned anger was a tactic used by military trainers everywhere, but that didn’t mean it stung him any less. He dropped back into the ready position and poised on the balls of his feet. The weight of the sword hurt his wrist, but he tried to force the pain from his mind. He tried to concentrate, tried to slip into the state of focus he’d felt before, but it wouldn’t come. Why not? he found himself wondering. If Estriss was right, and the concentration was some power of the cloak, why couldn’t he summon it now? Was it something that happened only when he was in real danger? Or had it nothing to do with the cloak at all?

  “What are you waiting for?” Aelfred asked, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Waiting for the mast to come up and impale itself? Do id”

  Teldin took a deep breath and lunged. At the last instant he remembered: straight mist. His arm shot out, backed by the full weight of his body. At the moment of impact he expected a jolt of agony in his wrist, but it never came. Straight and firm, the joint took the impact with no pain or problem. With a solid thunk the sword drove deep into the mast.

  The lunge had felt good, he realized. Everything worked, and it felt smooth, almost natural. He looked at the sword, buried in the mast at chest-height. A full hand’s breadth of the blade had sunk into the seasoned ironwood. He let go of the sword – giving the handle a slight tug to the side as he did so, so that the weapon quivered and sang. He pulled himself to rigid attention and snapped Aelfred a perfect salute the way he’d learned in the army. “The mast is dead, sir,” he barked.