Guardians of the Lost (33 page)

As she spoke, they crossed the great courtyard. People fell to their knees in reverence as she walked by.

“Are you the Queen?” Bashae asked, awed and abashed.

“No, I am not,” said the priestess with a smile. “I am Sri, daughter to the Queen.”

 

Sri led them through the bronze doors with their great white bears. No guards stood at the doors for if the guards upon the stairs felt threatened, they had only to jab the butt of the spear into the eye of a dragon to activate a mechanism that would cause the bronze doors to boom shut.

Peace and serenity reigned inside the temple. The music of flute and chimes and plashing water formed a soothing undercurrent to the prayers of the supplicants. Inside the bronze doors was a central altar, piled high with breads and fruit, bolts of silk cloth, carved wooden bowls and other offerings, some rich, some humble. The priestess stood to one side while Arim approached and left his offering, a gift of paper covered with pictures that he said the elves used as money.

“I didn't bring anything,” said Jessan, stricken.

“I did!” Bashae said.

Reaching into his pouch, he brought forth a turquoise stone. He walked solemnly to the altar, and placed the stone upon it.

“Take care of that stone,” said Bashae to the priestess. “It is very powerful. You can never have too much protection.”

“I will do that and I thank you,” said the priestess.

Bashae was never to know this, for he was never to see Nimorea again, but when Sri, priestess daughter of the Queen, came to rule some months later, she had the turquoise stone set into her crown. And perhaps the stone was powerful, for Queen Sri survived an assassination attempt made by a Vrykyl, the first and only person ever to do so. But that is another story.

After leaving their offerings, most of the Nimoreans went into the main chamber, there to kneel before the graven images of the gods and bring them their prayers. The three caught only a glimpse of these magnificent chambers, for the priestess led them down a smaller hallway.

The Temple was a veritable maze of tunnels, a small city beneath the ground. Here lived those who served the gods: priests and priestesses, their children, servants and acolytes. The Queen did not live here, but in the royal palace in Myanmin, a beautiful mansion of marble built on a promontory among the foothills of the Faynir Mountains. The Queen kept private chambers in the Temple, however; divided her time equally between matters spiritual and matters secular.

The doorways leading to the inner portions of the Temple were not readily visible. Most were secret doors, the trick to opening them known only to those who lived behind them.

Sri led them to a room at the very end of the corridor. At first, it seemed that they had entered a cul-de-sac, for the door was fashioned to look like part of the smooth-planed rock wall. She placed her hand on a certain area, palm flat against the rock, and pressed. The door opened, revolving silently on well-oiled hinges. She invited them inside.

Looking past her, Arim was awed, confounded. Reverently he lowered his eyes and almost immediately sank to his knees. He
wished he could tell Jessan and the pecwae what a singular honor they were being accorded, but he dared not do so. If the priestess wanted them to know, it was for her to tell them.

“This is my private altar,” said Sri. “I am pleased to welcome you and your friends, Arim the Kite-Maker.”

“I thank you for this honor, Daughter of the Gods,” Arim said.

His was a familiar face about the palace, for, under the guise of making and mending the royal kites, he had handled several delicate matters of state for the Queen. He had never seen Sri in the palace, had not known that the Princess was aware of him or his business. On reflection, he was not surprised. As heir to the throne, she would be kept apprised of all that was transpiring in her mother's realm.

Arim introduced his companions. He and the priestess both spoke in Elderspeak, as a courtesy to their guests. Bashae was awed into silence. Jessan could not take his gaze from Sri. He bowed, but said nothing.

The only light in the small chamber came from coals glowing red in a brazier standing on a raised dais. The room was heady with the scented oils the priestess Sri rubbed on her skin and with the lingering fragrance of incense.

Sri turned to face Jessan. “Do you know why the guards refused you admittance?”

Jessan's face flushed in the glowing light of the charcoal. “I—Yes,” he said, after a moment's struggle. “I think I know.”

“When the guards looked at you, they saw a fistula, an ulceration in your spirit. I know, for I see the same. The wound is not here.” Sri placed her hand on his heart. Her touch was gentle, yet seemed to invoke pain, for his body trembled. “Nor is the wound here.” She rested her long-nailed fingers lightly on his forehead. “Lift up your hands.”

Jessan did so, turning his palms upward.

“The fistula is here,” said Sri, indicating the palm of his right hand. She did not touch it.

Jessan closed the hand involuntarily, almost as if there were truly a wound there, though in reality the skin was unscarred.

“I have a knife, an artifact of the Void,” he said. Looking into her eyes, he gave forth his very soul. “I took it from a creature of the Void, a thing known as a Vrykyl. I knew what I was doing was wrong. The dwarf warned me and so did the dying knight. But I wanted it and I would not listen. I knew it was wrong,” he repeated, “but I didn't know the knife was evil. You have to believe me.” He shuddered, his hands clenched. “I didn't know it was made of…of human bone. Now that I do know, I don't want to touch it or see it, ever again. I want to be rid of it.”

“One of those Vrykyl is coming to get the knife back,” Bashae added. “The Grandmother saw it in the fire and she showed it to us. Jessan's seen it, too.”

“The knife is a blood knife,” Arim explained. “A powerful artifact of the Void. Bashae is right. One of the Vrykyl does follow after them.”

“I am putting those I was charged to protect in danger,” said Jessan. “I didn't know what else to do. I came here because I hoped the gods would accept the knife and destroy it.”

“We will see if the gods will accept it.” Sri gestured to the brazier of glowing coals. “Drop the knife on the holy fire, Jessan.”

Jessan slid the knife out of its sheath, handling it reluctantly, yet eager to be rid of it. The bone knife glimmered an eerie, ghostly white amid the red-tinged shadows. Holding the knife gingerly, Jessan approached the brazier and tried to drop the knife on the hot coals.

With startling swiftness, the knife blade altered form, wrapped around his hand.

Jessan's breath whistled through his teeth in horror. He gasped and tried to shake the knife free, but it held fast, not clinging to him in panic, but chaining him, making him a prisoner, claiming him for its own.

Crying out in pain, Jessan snatched back his hand. The moment the knife was away from the heat of the gods' anger, the blade reverted to its original shape and form.

Shuddering, Jessan hurled it to the floor.

“I have to get rid of it!” he cried in hollow tones, staring at the
knife with loathing. “If the gods won't take it, I'll throw it in the Sea of Redesh—”

Sri shook her head. “The sea is not deep enough. The ocean is not deep enough. Every chasm has a bottom. An artifact such as this cannot be lost if it wants to be found. The other Vrykyl know that the blood knife still exists. They actively seek it. The knife would entangle itself in nets of some fisherman or wash ashore to be found by a child looking for sea shells. The knife would claim a new owner, some innocent, who does not know the nature of the evil. Is that what you want?”

Jessan shook his head. He could hear his uncle's voice.
A man must take responsibility for his own actions. It is the way of the coward to try to foist off blame onto another or to deny one's part for fear of retribution. The only act more cowardly is flight in the face of the enemy
.

“I know it will take great courage to continue to bear the bone knife, Jessan,” Sri said, “but I believe you have that courage.”

“I don't know if I do or not,” Jessan said softly, anguished. “Every night I see the eyes, hear the hoofbeats. Every night I wonder if this will be the night the eyes see me. Every night I know the hoofbeats are coming closer. The worst part is that I am bringing the danger to those I care about.”

Jessan squared his shoulders. “The burden is mine. It rests on me. I will keep the knife, but I will leave my friends to go on alone. I'll join my people, the other Trevenici—”

“But, Jessan,” Bashae interrupted, “you can't. We were both chosen. Remember? Both of us together. I'm not afraid of the danger. Truly I'm not.”

“You're not facing facts, Bashae! You're being stupid—”

“Then so are the gods being stupid,” said Sri. “A cord binds you both, a cord woven of light and of darkness. Without the one, there is not the other. So it must be until your journey's end.”

“I guess you're stuck with me, Jessan,” said Bashae cheerfully.

Jessan did not smile. His expression was grim, his eyes shadowed.

“Have the gods answered
your
question?” she said suddenly, turning to Arim.

“Yes, Daughter of the Gods, they have,” Arim replied.

“You will guide them to where they need to go?”

“Yes, Daughter of the Gods, I will guide them. And protect them.”

Jessan's lip curled slightly at this. The young warrior glanced askance at the kite maker's slender build and delicate hands, fit for painting birds and butterflies. He said nothing, but thought to himself that here was one more burden, one more person he would need to look after.

“The gods be with you,” said Sri. She pulled a ring off her finger, handed it to Arim. “Take this to the elven ministry. You will encounter no difficulty entering the lands of the Tromek.”

Arim was thankful for the ring, for it bore the royal seal and would go far to smooth his way. “I would dare to ask one more boon of the gods before I depart.”

“And that is?” Sri's eyes were warm, reflecting the glow of the coals.

“I would beg the gods' forgiveness for doubting their wisdom,” Arim said humbly.

“You are forgiven,” said Sri.

A
fter crossing the small river known as the Nabir that flowed out of the Sea of Redesh, Wolfram and Ranessa traveled still farther south to the banks of the Sea of Kalar. Their journey was peaceful, too peaceful as far as Wolfram was concerned. They did not see a single person on this leg of their trip and this during midsummer, the best season of the year for traveling. Wolfram had been looking forward to falling in with some congenial companions as they drew close to their destination, the Karnuan seaport of Karfa 'Len, and he was disappointed as the days passed and they saw no one on the road. A journey shared is a journey shortened, as the saying went, and the dwarf had never wished for a shorter journey than this one.

Wolfram moped over this until Ranessa grew weary of hearing him complain and told him to shut up about it.

“There are no people on the road, so what?” she said. “There are too many people in the world as it is. I enjoy solitude and silence, especially silence.”

Offended, Wolfram accommodated her. When he spoke, it was to his horse and then he took care that Ranessa should be out of hearing. As the days passed and the road continued to stretch empty
before them, Wolfram's disappointment changed to unease. Caravans and merchants were kept off the road by only two things: snow and war. There was no snow. That left war.

Given the hatred that existed between Dunkarga and Karnu, the two waged war at the least provocation. Hundreds might die over a stolen chicken. Wolfram had no desire to be caught up in a civil war. He had nothing to fear from disciplined soldiers, but lawless gangs were quick to take advantage of the turmoil of civil war to raid and loot the countryside, prey upon hapless wayfarers.

Wolfram kept a sharp lookout. Ever since Ranessa's claim that someone was following them, the dwarf had felt eyes on the back of his head. More than once he'd wakened in the night with the feeling that someone was creeping up on him. The sound of an owl hooting in the night brought him bolt upright, breaking out in a cold sweat.

Wolfram blamed Ranessa. She was enough to spook anyone, with her fits of bad temper, her restless pacings and trance-like stares eastward. He'd be crazy as she was if they traveled together much longer.

The feeling of being watched abated somewhat as they traveled farther south. Wolfram had three good nights of sound sleep and felt better than he had in days.

“Whatever you claimed was following us must have lost us,” he remarked to Ranessa that morning. “Likely we were too cunning for it. Gave it the slip.”

He meant that to be sarcastic, but, as usual, Ranessa missed the gibe.

Leveling her gaze northward, she said gravely, “Yes, we have thrown it off the trail, but not for long.” She turned her strange eyes upon him. “It comes for you.”

He felt a chill right down to the marrow of his bones and was deeply sorry he'd ever spoken.

Wolfram was elated when they crossed the Nabir river, for that meant they were close to their destination. A half day's ride brought them to the walls of the city of Karfa 'Len. This was not the end of their journey, not by any means, but they had accomplished
the first leg. Having settled in his mind that the country was in a state of war, Wolfram was not surprised to find the city gates shut and barred and under heavy guard. He
was
surprised to see that the Karnuan soldiers who lined the walls had their hands on their bows, and that they glared down at him and Ranessa suspiciously.

“What are they looking at me like that for?” Wolfram demanded. “Surely dwarves haven't declared war on Karnu.”

He rode round to the postern that was some distance from the main gate. Dismounting, he told Ranessa to remain where she was and keep her mouth shut, then he walked over to the postern and rapped sharply at the iron-barred door.

A panel slid open, an unfriendly eye peered through it.

“What do you want?” a voice demanded in Karnuan.

“To come in,” Wolfram growled. He spoke a smattering of Karnuan, enough to get by. “What do you think we want?”

“I neither know nor care,” the voice returned coldly. “Ride on.”

The panel started to slide shut. Wolfram was about to speak, when Ranessa shoved him to one side and thrust her hand inside the panel, preventing it from closing.

“We have business here,” she stated in Elderspeak.

“Remove your hand from the door or I will remove it from your arm,” said the voice.

In answer, Ranessa grasped hold of the wooden panel and ripped it off the door. She tossed it contemptuously to the ground and stood glaring through the opening.

Wolfram stared in open-mouthed wonder at the broken panel piece. The wood was thick as his thumb. A strong man might have grunted and heaved, expended all his effort and not ripped out that panel piece. The Karnuan on the other side of the door was no less amazed, both at the effrontery and at the show of strength.

Ranessa turned to Wolfram. “Tell him our business,” she ordered peremptorily. Stepping back, she crossed her arms and stood waiting expectantly. If she thought she'd done anything remarkable, she did not show it by her calm demeanor.

Wrenching his gaze from the broken panel, Wolfram sidled forward.
“I…uh…have business with Osim the Cobbler on Boot Street.”

“The shops are closed. We are at war.”

“I know that,” Wolfram said impatiently. “Or at least I guessed it. What do you suspect me of? Do you think I have the Dunkargan army hidden in my pocket? You've been watching us for the last five miles. It's me and the girl, that's all. If you are at war, all the more reason to let us inside the walls where it's safe.”

“Nowhere is safe,” said the voice. “And we are not at war with Dunkarga.”

The face disappeared, leaving Wolfram to wonder who in the name of the Wolf they were at war with then. He might have supposed the Vinneng-aeleans, for Karnu had humbled and humiliated the empire by sweeping unexpectedly out of the south to seize the Vinnengaelean Portal located at Romdemer, now renamed Delek 'Vir. But the Karnuans had been in possession of the Vinnengaelean end of the Portal for many years now and although the Vinneng-aeleans spoke heatedly of retaking it, they had yet to do more than issue empty threats.

The face returned. “You can come in,” the soldier said grudgingly. “But you'll both be under escort, so watch your step.”

Leading his horse through the postern into the bailey, Wolfram noted that the faces of the soldiers surrounding him were grim and stern and watchful. He might have added fearful, but that was hard to believe of Karnuans.

The postern gate shut behind them. Workmen arrived to repair the damaged panel. A guard was detailed to accompany them across the bailey to the main wall surrounding the city. The soldier was female, for in Karnu both men and women are trained to battle from their fifteenth year to their twentieth. The best warriors are accepted into the Karnuan army, the rest return to hearth and home to farm the land or take up a trade, raise their children to be future warriors. Their military training is put to good use, however, for they serve as the city militia, guarding their homes when the warriors are called to fight in other areas. The militia forces are not to be taken lightly, for they are well-trained
and they fight with extra incentive—they fight to protect those they love.

“You rode from the north?” the soldier asked. Her speech was clipped. Her voice was tense. What little he could see of her face beneath her helm was drawn and taut.

“We did,” said Wolfram.

“And saw no one? No
thing
?” she asked with a dire emphasis.

“No,” said Wolfram, puzzled and increasingly uneasy. “The road was empty, except for her.” He jerked his thumb back at Ranessa. “Unusual for this time of year. I feared something was up. One reason she and I elected to join forces, travel together.”

He said this loudly. He sent Ranessa a piercing stare to indicate that she was not to contradict him. He had been able to think of no other way to explain the odd fact that a dwarf and Trevenici were companions.

Ranessa saw his look and absorbed it, but whether she intended to go along with his story or not, he couldn't tell. She gazed around her, so lost in wonderment that she'd dropped the horse's reins. Free to roam away, the horse trotted up to join Wolfram.

Retrieving the reins, Wolfram gave Ranessa a none too gentle prod in the shins with his boot. “Quit staring, Girl. You look like you've just fallen off the hay cart. You don't have to tell the world you've never been in a city before.”

“It's here,” she said, turning her gaze to the dwarf. “Close by.”

“What's here?” Wolfram snapped.

“The thing that is following you.”

Fumbling for his knife, Wolfram whipped around so fast that he made himself dizzy.

He saw nothing behind him except more city and more soldiers. Wolfram's racing heartbeat returned to normal.

“Don't do that to me, Girl!” he said angrily. “You've shaved ten years off my life at least. What do you mean telling me something's there when it's not?”

“It was,” she said, shrugging. “It is.”

The Karnuan soldier stood staring at him. “What ails you, Dwarf?”

“I'm just a little jumpy,” he said lamely. “What with the talk of war and all. It makes me nervous.”

The Karnuan cast him a scathing glance and rolled her eyes in disgust. Her already low opinion of dwarves was now even lower.

“I have been on the road for many months,” Wolfram continued. Speaking to the soldier, he pointedly ignored Ranessa. “Up in Trevenici lands. I've heard no news. What is going on?”

The woman gave him a cool glance from out of the eye slits of her helm. “You have not heard, then, that the city of Dunkar has fallen?”

“What? Dunkar fallen! I suppose congratulations are in order,” Wolfram said, then saw the woman was not pleased about her news.

“It did not fall to us,” the soldier said bitterly. “It fell to this new enemy, hideous creatures who came out of the west, led by one who calls himself Dagnarus and claims to have the blood of the old Dunkargan kings in his veins. He maintains that he will return Dunkarga to her days of glory and he has attacked both the city of Dalon 'Ren and the Karnuan Portal.”

Wolfram's jaw went slack. “I've heard nothing of this,” he began and was nearly knocked down by Ranessa.

Bounding forward, she caught hold of the soldier's arm. “Dunkar fallen! Tell me—what of the Trevenici warriors? What happened to them?”

“She has a brother who fights with the Dunkar army,” Wolfram added.

The soldier shook off Ranessa's nail-piercing grasp. “Unlike the sniveling coward Dunkargans, who surrendered in droves, we heard the Trevenici stood their ground and were wiped out to a man.” She added the traditional Karnuan blessing for a fallen warrior,
Al shat alma shal
: “He died the death,” meaning, “he died the death of a hero.”

“I was unkind to him,” Ranessa said softly. “I did not mean to be. I couldn't help myself.” She clasped her arms, frantically ran her hands up and down her flesh. “My skin feels so tight sometimes!”

She spoke in Tirniv, for which Wolfram was thankful, not wanting their host to realize they had let a mad woman into their city. We'll not be here long, he reflected. Sounds like this part of the
world is going to hell in a handbasket. The sooner we leave, the better.

They had just reached the main wall when a shout rang out. “Sails! Sails to the south!”

A second shout sounded on the echoes of the first.

“Orks!”

The soldier abandoned them in an instant, turned to run back to take her place on the outer wall. Wolfram tugged on the horses' reins and hurried forward toward the postern, urging the beasts along. Glancing back, he bellowed at Ranessa. She walked with her head bowed, her hair a tattered veil covering her face, seemingly oblivious to the commotion that was breaking out all around them.

“Make haste, Girl! Didn't you hear?”

She lifted her head. “What? Hear what?”

“Orks! The city's coming under siege!”

She had no idea what he meant, that was clear enough, but she did quicken her pace. They were admitted into the city without question, the Karnuans being now far too preoccupied to concern themselves over a dwarf and a barbarian.

Bells rang throughout the town. People hastened to the walls or climbed up on their rooftops to see for themselves. Wolfram had no need. He'd seen ork ships before, seen their painted sails, the long sleek ships with rows of oars dipping up and down in a graceful, deadly motion.

The moment he and Ranessa set foot in the city, the first globs of the most feared ork weapon, flaming jelly, began to rain down on Karfa 'Len.

Flung from catapults mounted on the ork ships, flaming jelly is a combustible substance that sets fire to anything it touches, including human flesh. The worst part is that the flames cannot be doused. Water causes the flames to spread.

Wolfram cursed his luck. Had they arrived in the city an hour earlier, they would have been well out of this by now. As it was, he and the Trevenici were caught near the curtain wall, a place the orks would strike first, hoping to drive off its defenders. The orks
launched boats, sent in their warriors to attack by land, while their ships kept up the bombardment from the sea.

Karnuan catapults began firing heavy boulders at the ork ships, hoping for a lucky hit to sink one. Wolfram conjured up a map of the city in his head. The orks would attack the port first, for the curtain wall did not extend over water. Massive logs roped together with heavy chains barred entrance into the harbor, but that would not stop the orks long. Worse luck, Boot Street was only a few blocks from the port.

“We have to get out of here!” Wolfram growled and, for once, Ranessa didn't argue with him.