Into The Void

by Nigel Findley

  Rianna stepped back from the murder in Julia’s eyes, then she smiled – a feral, killing smile. She hissed a phrase through clenched teeth. Three tiny projectiles, like burning embers, burst from the fingertips of her left hand.

  “No!” Teldin cried, but it was much too late. The missiles screamed through the air, striking Julia full in the chest. The impact flung the small woman backward, to land crumpled and boneless like a rag doll.

  “Why?” Teldin wheeled on Rianna. “Why, damn you?” he demanded again. “You’ve discharged your duty —” he spat the word “— and you’re free of your bargain. Why?”

  Rianna turned her fierce smile on him. “The cloak,” she told him, “why else? You’re right, I’m free of my bargain. That means I can take the prize for myself.”

  “Why do you want it?” he asked, really wanting to know her answer. “They’ll all be after you!’

  She laughed, a harsh sound. “You handled it wrong,” she told him flatly. “I don’t intend to make the same mistakes. No quest to find your mythical ‘creators.’ Just auction it off to the highest bidder. I’m sure the bids will be very high.” Her smile faded. “Now hand it over.”

  Teldin looked into her sea-green eyes. There was no trace in them of the person that he thought he’d loved. There would be no mercy from Rianna Wyvernsbane.

  He looked deeper. There was no mercy, but there was a trace of fear. Maybe he could play on that. “Take it,” he told her softly, “if you think you can.”

  That made her pause, then her smile returned. “I think the neogi was right,” she said slowly. “I don’t believe you can control the cloak at all. It’s just reflex, random reflex.”

  She’s trying to convince herself, he realized. The bluff might just work. “If you really believe that,” he said evenly, “then take it.”

  Rianna was silent for a moment, indecision mirrored in her eyes, then her expression hardened. The bluff had failed. “I will,” she said. Smoothly, she drew her second sword – Teldin’s sword – from her scabbard. The polished blade was steady, its point on a level with his throat, as she stepped forward.

  The Juna knife, the weapon that Estriss had dropped, was still in Teldin’s hand. He snapped it up into an en garde position. The grip, with its alien network of ridges and furrows, felt strange in his hand, but it felt somehow comforting, too. My fate’s in my own hands, he told himself, just the way I’ve always wanted. “I’d like to see you try,” he said.

  Rianna backed off a half-step, her eyes on the wickedly curved blade, then she chuckled. Her eyes half closed, and she started to mutter under her breath. She raised her left hand, and the fingers began to weave a complex pattern.

  Another spell! If he let her complete it, he’d be dead – like Julia, like Estriss, like Dana …. With a scream of rage, he flung himself forward. In that instant, he remembered Aelfred’s training, the big man’s voice: “Get that left hand back. You’re just asking to have it cut off.” He flicked the blade out toward Rianna’s empty left hand.

  The long, curved knife bit home,, cleaving flesh and bone. Rianna shrieked, her spellcasting forgotten in the sudden pain.

  Teldin recovered from the cut, poised himself on the balls of his feet for an instant, and aimed a vicious thrust at the woman’s chest. With a normal short sword, it might well have connected, but the curved blade’s balance was different, and the hilt simply wasn’t designed for human hands. The thrust was fractionally too slow, giving Rianna just enough time to parry. The tip of the blade tore the cloth of her jerkin, ripped the soft skin of her side, instead of piercing her spine. She riposted, the point of her blade flashing toward Teldin’s throat, and he barely managed to position the unfamiliar weapon in time to deflect the lightning-fast thrust.

  Rianna backed away, obviously trying to give herself time to prepare another spell. Teldin moved forward, pressing her. Steel rang against something that wasn’t steel as she parried another thrust.

  “Forget it,” she spat, punctuating the phrase with another snake-quick thrust that Teldin barely managed to counter. “You’ll never best me. Drop your sword, and I’ll let you live.”

  “You’re a liar,” he hissed. Another thrust, another parry.

  “You’re right,” she chuckled. Thrust, parry, riposte. She danced back out of range of his counter. “Drop your sword, and I’ll kill you painlessly. Otherwise, I’ll make it last.”

  Teldin followed her retreat. Keep pressing her, he told himself, keep pressing or you’re dead. He took another step forward, and his foot slipped in Barrab’s blood, not much, but enough to slow him for an instant.

  Rianna reacted with the speed of thought. She lunged low, under his guard. He snapped his right arm down, the pommel of his strange weapon slamming into her blade, deflecting it a little but not enough.

  The woman’s blade ripped through his flesh and along his ribs on the right side. Instantly his entire body was aflame with pain. He gritted his teeth against it, fought to smother the cry that erupted from his throat. Rianna stepped back again, in plenty of time to avoid his slow riposte.

  “I’ll make it last,” she said again.

  He cursed one of the blistering mercenary oaths he’d heard Aelfred use. With his left hand, he clutched at the ragged tear in his right side, feeling hot blood on his fingers. He gripped tight, trying to staunch the bleeding, almost making himself faint with the agony. His left forearm was pressed against something hard on his stomach. For the moment, he couldn’t remember what it was. “Damn you!” he screamed. “You killed them all!” In the churning delirium of his suffering, he wasn’t talking to Rianna. He didn’t really know whom he was referring to. The cloak, perhaps … or maybe himself.

  “Damn you to the Abyss!” He lurched forward.

  Aelfred’s lessons, the words of the soldiers he’d talked to, everything he’d ever learned about swordwork – all were gone from his mind. All that was left was rage and pain and the desire to kill. He swung the Juna knife in a hissing arc, directly at Rianna’s head.

  She hardly managed to raise her own weapon in time. The nonmetal weapon bit into her blade, notching the tempered steel. For several heartbeats, they were frozen in that position: her blade parallel with the floor, holding up his weapon, preventing it from cleaving down into her skull. Their bodies were close together. He could hear her labored breathing.

  Rianna grunted with the effort of it, then her mangled left hand lashed out toward Teldin’s face, her remaining fingers like claws reaching for his eyes. He ducked beneath the grasping hand and lurched backward. The movement sent bolts of agony radiating outward from his ripped side. Something sharp pricked the skin of his abdomen.

  It was Aelfred’s dagger. With his left hand he pulled the weapon from beneath his belt, slashed it upward at Rianna’s sword arm. The razor-sharp blade sliced into the soft flesh of her forearm, grating sickeningly against bone.

  For an instant, Rianna stood there howling, staring uncomprehendingly at the gouty gash that had laid bare tendon and bone. Then Teldin’s Juna knife shot out, the full weight of his body behind the thrust as Aelfred had taught him. The curved blade bit into the flesh of her chest, sank quillon-deep.

  Rianna gasped. Her eyes found Teldin’s. The sea-green orbs were wide with pain and pleading, then they closed, and she sank to the deck, unmoving.

  For an immeasurable time, the two of them remained thus, Teldin still grasping the hilt of the Juna knife. Then he released it, and stepped back. Seemingly of its own volition, his right hand wiped itself – again and again – on the blood-soaked cloth of his jerkin, as if trying to remove some stain or taint.

  He gazed down at the body of the woman he’d loved. Her face, now in final repose, was untroubled and heartachingly lovely. He felt appreciation for her beauty, but there was no love anymore. The charm was broken. He turned away.

  His stomach was suddenly wrenched by convulsions. He sank to his knees and was wretchedly, rackingly sick, each muscle spasm sending jolts of al
most unendurable pain through his wounded side.

  Finally the spasms ended, leaving him weak and drained. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Why don’t I just stay here, he asked himself, with the other dead? It would be so much easier that way, simply to fade away into oblivion. All in all, he reasoned, oblivion would be the easiest, the most comfortable choice.

  “Teldin.” The voice was weak, barely more than a whisper. At first, Teldin wasn’t sure that he’d heard it at all, wasn’t sure that it wasn’t some result of the pain-induced delirium that clouded his mind. “Teldin.”

  This time he looked up.

  It was Julia. Somehow she’d forced herself to a sitting position. Her face gave him some indication of the effort – the overwhelming agony – the movement had cost her. “Teldin,” she whispered again.

  He sighed. No, he couldn’t let himself drift into the silent darkness, not now. He had one final duty to perform. If he could save one life – Julia’s – he’d at least have made one small effort at redemption, at making up for the many lives he’d already cost. He closed his eyes against the red flashes of pain and forced himself to his feet. He swayed there a moment and slipped Aelfred’s dagger into his belt, then he trudged slowly and painfully to where Julia lay.

  Calling to him had taken much of what little remained of her energy. She’d slumped back to the deck, but her eyes were still open. They looked up at him out of the young woman’s chalk-white face. She smiled. “I’m glad you’re still alive,” she whispered.

  He gazed down at her. Her petite body was twisted with pain, marred by multiple wounds. Her red hair was matted, redder here and there with spilled blood. She’s lovely, he suddenly realized. Even like this, she’s lovely. He felt a warmth in his chest, a warmth that expanded until he thought his heart would burst. He smiled. “I’m glad you’re still alive,” he echoed.

  *****

  Teldin would never understand where he’d found the strength. Maybe it had come from the cloak, or maybe it had come from somewhere within him, some wellspring of his being that he’d never before been able to tap. Somehow he’d managed to lift Julia from the deck and sling her over his left shoulder. The effort had almost killed him, he knew. Darkness had filled his vision, narrowing his field of view down to a tunnel that looked as narrow as a gold coin held at arm’s length, but somehow he’d managed it.

  Every step had been torture; each shift of weight had sent lightning bolts of pain through his rent side. The white corridor, the one leading to the gallery – to the killing field – was only a hundred feet or so long, but on the return journey it had seemed like ten times that distance. Several times he’d been sure that he couldn’t continue, that he’d collapse and never be able to move again, but each time he’d found himself able to draw on some mysterious reserve of strength. He’d carried his burden up the spiral staircase that seemed as tall as a mountain peak. Now he finally emerged onto the huge circular deck. The great hammership loomed overhead, still secured by its docking tethers. The rope ladders still hung in place.

  Teldin stopped. He set Julia down, as gently as he could, on the ivory deck. Her eyes were dosed, but he could still see her breathing – shallow, but steady. Tenderly he brushed the blood-matted hair back from her face.

  He’d come as far as he could. Now he had to depend on others. Aelfred was dead – Rianna had said as much, and on this he had no reason to doubt her. The bravos she’d hired were in command of the Probe. Their mistress was dead, though. Would they still have any reason to kill Teldin Moore? He wondered how much they knew of Rianna’s real motivation. Had she told them about the cloak, so they might want it for themselves? He doubted it, but he might be wrong. He’d been wrong before, more times than he cared to count. If he was wrong now, what was left? Nothing but the final option he’d turned away from on the arcane’s great gallery: to sell his life as dearly as he could. He took a deep breath, readying to call out to the ship above ….

  “Teldin.”

  It was a voice from a nightmare – harsh, at once familiar and alien, with a horrible undertone of bubbling agony. He turned.

  It was Rianna. Slowly, agonizingly, she dragged herself out of the Nebulon’s circular hatch. As she moved, she left a trail of red on the white deck. Her eyes spoke of overwhelming, crushing pain – but also of hatred. In her right hand she held a small amber rod; in her mangled left, a scrap of fur. Teldin knew those items for what they were: components of the lightning spell that had felled the umber hulk.

  “Teldin,” she hissed again. She took a deep breath – her eyes told him the pain it cost her – then she started to mutter an incantation.

  Without thinking, he pulled Aelfred’s dagger from his belt, drew his hand back, and threw. The motion sent agony shooting through his side. He watched the blade flash in the starlight as it turned end over end, once, twice – as it missed its target and skittered across the deck.

  Rianna drew back bloody lips from red teeth in a feral smile. Her incantation neared its conclusion.

  Something hissed down from the sky. Magically, a spear sprouted from between Rianna’s shoulder blades like some strange, bare tree. Rianna Wyvernsbane convulsed once, then lay still.

  Teldin raised his eyes. A figure was looking down at him over the rail of the Probe: a familiar figure, its face split in a lopsided grin.

  “You’re dead,” Teldin cried.

  “She’s dead,” Aelfred Silverhorn corrected him. The burly warrior touched a blood-soaked bandage that encircled his brow. “I’m just a little the worse for wear. Sylvie will need some time to recover, but she wasn’t hurt too badly.”

  Teldin shook his head. The delirium of pain hummed in his ears. “How?” he managed to ask.

  “Only six sellswords?” Aelfred laughed. “I should be insulted.” He turned away from the rail and shouted, “Bial, Valin, go down and get them.”

  As the figures appeared, swarming down the rope ladders, Teldin did the only thing he could. He fainted.

  Epilogue

  The distended star that was the Nebulon was falling away astern when Teldin returned to consciousness. He was still exhausted, drained, but the agony that had racked his body had been replaced by blissful numbness. He felt something tight around his ribs, a dressing over his torn side, it had to be. For a moment he luxuriated in the simple pleasure of being alive, of feeling his breathing, of being whole – well, almost. Then memory flooded back. He looked around him.

  He was in Aelfred’s cabin. The first mate was sitting on a stool watching him. The relief in the big man’s eyes was obvious.

  “Julia?” Teldin asked. His voice was a croak.

  “She’ll make it,” Aelfred answered. “While they were patching her up, she told me what you did, Teldin. She sends her thanks.” He smiled. “While you’re at it, accept mine as well. That was one hell of an effort.”

  Teldin nodded. Yes, he thought, it had been. I didn’t know I had it in me.

  “What happened to Estriss?” Aelfred asked.

  “He fell,” Teldin replied quietly. Briefly he described the neogi’s advance, the illithid’s headlong rush, the flare of power from the cloak. “Maybe Estriss was trying to save me,” Teldin finished. “Maybe he was after the cloak for himself. I don’t know.” He was silent for a moment, then a disturbing thought struck him. “The gravity plane,” he croaked. “The gravity plane would have caught them.”

  “For a while,” Aelfred amended. “Things caught in a gravity plane drift slowly outward, away from a ship, then they fall free. There’s no way we could have gotten to them in time, Teldin. Estriss is gone.”

  Teldin nodded again. He imagined the long, terrifying plunge to the planet below and shuddered. “Where are we going?” he asked finally. “Back to Toril?”

  The big man grinned broadly. “Not a chance.” He paused, then continued, “When I signed on with Estriss as first mate, he gave me a sealed document to be opened only when I was convinced he was dead or not coming back. I opened it a whi
le ago.”

  “What did it say?”

  “The Probe’s mine,” Aelfred stated. “I have title to the ship, and I’m her captain.”

  Teldin smiled at his friend’s obvious satisfaction. “I thought you said you were getting tired of shipboard life,” he pointed out.

  “That was as first mate. As captain?” He shook his head.

  “So,” Teldin asked again, “where are you going?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Aelfred said. “Out there somewhere. I haven’t decided.” The big man’s expression sobered. “What about you?”

  Teldin paused. What about me? he wondered. Where should I go now? He still had the cloak, but where should he take it? Who were “the creators?” Estriss had given him one answer; T’k’Pek, the arcane, had given him another. Both were dead now, and Teldin couldn’t honestly say which one he believed, or whether he believed either one. The one thing he knew was that everybody – with the possible exception of the gnomes – was after the cloak.

  He sighed. He was virtually back at the beginning. Eveything he knew about the cloak – everything he thought he knew about it – had come from Estriss. And how far did he trust Estriss’s words now?

  He remembered the words of Vallus Leafbower, when they’d met for the last time in the alleyways of Rauthaven. “The cloak is of elven creation,” Vallus had said. “Take it to the elves of Evermeet. The imperial fleet can be your only safety.” Mere weeks ago, Teldin probably would have believed those words. Trust had always been his nature. But now? No, blind trust was just a way toward death.