Guardians of the Lost (53 page)

Pecwae are cowards. Born cowards, they are not ashamed of their cowardice, for it is only by being able to outrun the lion who seeks to devour them that they have survived as a race. The pecwae's instinct is to flee from danger and, after the first paralyzing effects of terror wear off, instinct takes hold.

All thoughts of loyalty to his comrades and affection for his friends departed from Bashae. He may have heard Damra or he may not. All he knew was that some distance away was a landscape that was familiar to him, a landscape that reminded him of home—trees to hide behind, rocks to crawl under, bushes that promised sheltering cover. Grabbing hold of each other by the hands, the two pecwae fled toward this safe haven with no clear, conscious thought except the urgent need to escape death.

Jessan was equally horrified at the sight of the Vrykyl, the creature
of his nightmares come to life. He stood staring at it, unable to move or to think clearly. He might have turned and run in terror like his small friend, but then one of the humans raised a battle cry.

The cry roused the Trevenici warrior spirit in Jessan. An enemy of flesh and blood stood before him, a chance at last to prove himself in battle. The knowledge drove the horror of the Vrykyl from his mind. Raising his sword in the air, Jessan gave a hair-raising cry and launched himself at the enemy.

“Will the elves come to our rescue?” Arim shouted.

“They have their own problems!” Damra shouted back.

She could hear behind her the clamor of the garrison preparing to defend itself against the sudden onslaught. Officers shouted orders, elven troops came running from their quarters, dashing up the stairs to take their places inside the tower. The gates that led through the Outer Ring boomed shut.

Damra met one of the humans with a crash of steel. She fought him absentmindedly, her attention on the Vrykyl. The Vrykyl continued to advance, his fire-eyed gaze fixed on Damra. Even from this distance, she felt the heat of his hatred.

Good, she thought. Keep him focused on me.

Her opponent grew annoying. She had wounded him twice, but the blasted human would not die. Damra turned her full attention to the battle, watched for her opening. Finding it, she drove her sword through the man's leather armor and into his protruding gut. Wrenching her weapon free, she jumped over the body as it was still falling and hurled herself at the Vrykyl.

Jessan, to his chagrin, did not find his first battle as easy as he had expected it would be. The Trevenici are renowned for their courage and ferocity, not their skill. They have a simple strategy. They terrorize their opponent with a display of savage fury, then overpower him with their strength. Shrewd commanders put Trevenici forces in the front lines, use them to soften up the enemy, punch a hole in his ranks. The opponent able to withstand the initial Trevenici assault discovers that the Trevenici warrior is easily frustrated at this. Losing patience, they begin to make mistakes.

Jessan's opponent was a veteran of many campaigns. Having witnessed taan attacks, the soldier was not intimidated by this howling barbarian. The veteran knew the young man's fury would soon expend itself. All he had to do was survive until it did. He parried what blows he could, ducked the ones he couldn't, and kept on the defensive.

Jessan grew angered and, beneath the anger, he began to doubt himself. He should have slain this soldier easily, for Jessan was obviously the superior warrior. His opponent did nothing but duck and dodge and dance. Jessan brought down his sword again and again, aiming savage blows at the man's head, blows that would split his skull, once they connected. The man's sword was always in the way, however. Strong and big, the soldier was able by sheer brute force to hold off Jessan's attacks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jessan saw the elf woman dispatch her opponent with an ease that was dazzling. Arim fought with a skill that amazed Jessan, who had discounted the lithe, slim Nimorean as weak. Arim's curved-bladed sword seemed to be everywhere at once. His opponent was covered in blood.

Enraged, Jessan slashed and pounded. The next thing he knew, the sword flew out of his hands. He stared in astonishment to find his enemy's blade at his throat.

Arim saw the young man's predicament. Dispatching his foe, Arim lunged at Jessan's soldier, shouting at the man to draw his attention. Facing a new enemy coming at him from the rear, the soldier was forced to turn away from Jessan. Another soldier ran up, took the place of the one Arim had killed. Arim fought both, but he was losing ground.

Jessan looked for his sword, saw that it was too far away for him to retrieve. He resorted instinctively to the only weapon he had left—the blood knife.

As Damra came within striking distance of the Vrykyl, she looked into his eyes as she looked into the eyes of any enemy, to gauge what he would do. That was a mistake. In the eyes, she saw power that was ancient, stemmed back to the time before time, when nothing existed, not light, not life.

The gods tore apart the Void to set the stars in the sky. The gods placed the sun and moon in the Void, brought life into the universe. But they could not banish the Void. The Void came before the beginning and it would be there at the end. In the empty eyes of the Vrykyl, Damra saw the Void and it was terrible to look upon.

Damra had known panic only once before, and that was during the Transfiguration, when she felt her flesh being consumed in the god-given magic of the Sovereign Stone. Then her panic had given way to ecstasy. Now she felt the opposite, panic giving way to despair.

Fighting to quell her fear, Damra's first instinct was to use her illusion magic to fight the Vrykyl as she had fought so many others. She recalled Silwyth's warning that the Vrykyl could see through illusion, but she was desperate.

The magic crumpled to dust like a dried rose, its petals falling brown and dead around her.

The Vrykyl struck at her with his sword. Damra met the blow, parried it with her own. He drew back, struck again. Again she parried, but now she realized that each time her blade touched his accursed weapon, the debilitating magic of the Void strengthened its hold on her. Desperately she fought, attacking again and again, praying for the Vrykyl to make one mistake, create one opening.

The Vrykyl made no mistakes. He matched her blow for blow, almost as if he could read her mind. The power of the Void caused the day to grow dark around her. Her strength flagged. Her courage started to seep from her like blood from a mortal wound. Her sword grew heavy in her hands, heavy as the knowledge of her own mortality.

She was compelled to look again and again into the empty eyes and each time she saw therein her own emptiness. So vast, so dark, she began to lose knowledge of herself. Memories, all memories, memories of who she was and what she was, memories of joy, love, sorrow and fear dwindled to nothingness and when all the memories were gone, she was left with only the memory of the single moment of her birth, a flame on a guttering candle that would vanish in a breath, her last breath.

A prey to Shakur's Void magic, Damra lost her will to survive. She lowered her sword and in the next instant, she would have dropped it. But then Jessan struck his enemy with the blood knife.

The knife tasted blood. The warmth flooded Shakur with a memory of his own. Turning, he saw Jessan, saw the blood knife in the young human's hand.

Whoever possesses the blood knife possesses the Sovereign Stone. Shakur was convinced of that. Still holding the Dominion Lord in his fell magical grip, Shakur turned his attention on the human who wielded the knife.

 

The elven warriors saw the Vrykyl materialize in the paved courtyard inside the Outer Ring. They knew it to be a creature of the Void, but they could not come to the aid of Damra and her companions. Those who saw had time for only one startled look, then the deadly buzz of arrows and the clamor of the enemy forced them to ignore what was happening inside the courtyard and concentrate on fighting for their lives.

An advance troop of humans led the attack on the Outer Ring. Lyall's men were prepared for that. They were not prepared for the second wave of troops—an immense army of monstrous creatures, who came shrieking and howling out of the shadows of the forest. The creatures walked like men but they had the faces of animals, with long snouts and gaping mouths filled with razor teeth. They carried bizarre looking weapons and attacked with ferocity and a complete lack of fear. They hurled themselves at the gate and the wall with wide grins on their hideous faces.

Thousands of them. Attacking a force of one hundred.

What is the Shield's plan? Lyall asked and answered himself. The Shield wants the Portal to fall, that much is clear. But he wants to make it look as if it fell by mischance. He can always claim in his defense that he had no way of knowing an enemy was anywhere within a thousand miles. My reports to the contrary will be conveniently misplaced. And there will be none left alive here to contradict him.

“Send a messenger through the Portal to the eastern end,” he ordered his aide. “Tell them that we are under attack by a sizeable force. We will hold as long as we can, but they should make ready their own defenses.”

The aide departed. Lyall went back to the window.

If I just knew why, he said to himself. If I only knew why. Perhaps that would make dying easier.

The taan raised siege ladders against the walls. Elves fought them, fought and lost. The taan surged over the walls, dropped down to land in the ditch. True to their word, the Wyred created the illusion of elven soldiers. They did their job well. Looking down, Lyall could not tell which troops were real and which were not.

A victim struck by an illusory arrow believes he has been struck by a real one. He sees blood, he feels pain. He may faint or fall down, but, eventually, he will come to realize that the wound is not real. The illusions might halt the enemy for a moment, but that was all. A moment.

A hundred taan wielding an enormous battering ram rushed at the gate. Elves fired a storm of arrows into their ranks. Some struck their marks. The taan fell, but that didn't stop the ram. The dead lay where they had fallen, their bodies trampled by those coming behind. The ram struck the iron gate a thunderous blow that caused the very ground to shake. The gate held, but the hinges loosened, jarred from their moorings. Howling in derision, the taan pulled back to have another go at it.

The gate must fall. Lyall had no way of stopping it. The enemy had as many troops carrying the battering ram as he had in the entire garrison. He gave the order for the elves at the gate to pull back, to man the towers. At least there, they could hold for awhile.

Although, what we're holding for is open to question, Lyall thought. Reinforcements won't come. The elves began to pull back, firing their arrows as they went. Lyall looked out into the forest. The shadows were alive with movement—more of these fiends running toward the Portal. The main gate gave way with a crash. Shrieking in triumph, the taan surged into the gatehouse.

Splayed feet pounded on the stairs. Lyall heard their raucous
voices and smelled their rank stench. His bodyguard suggested bolting the door, stacking furniture in front of it, but that wouldn't stop the monsters for long. Gripping his sword, Lyall advanced to meet the enemy.

He was a peasant. He had no honor to lose. This day, he had honor to gain.

T
error stole Jessan's breath away. His hands lost all feeling, went numb. Tremors shook his body, his mouth dried, his tongue felt swollen. The Vrykyl of Jessan's nightmares walked toward him, his black-armored hand extended.

“The Stone,” said a voice that splintered inside Jessan, sent shards of pain shooting through him. “I know you have it. I will find it if I have to sift through your living brain until you reveal it to me.”

Jessan could have told the truth, that he didn't have the Stone, that Bashae carried it. He would never do so. Fear gnawed his bones, but it couldn't consume his heart. For generations, the Trevenici have watched over the pecwae, the small, gentle people who rely on the stronger humans. It was then, in that moment of terror, that Jessan's true name came to him. He might never have the chance to speak that name aloud, nor hear others do so. No one would ever know it. No one but him. At least he would die having achieved his name.

Defender.

Gripping the blood knife, Jessan gave a ragged cry and lunged at his foe. He attacked in cold blood. He had no thought of defeating
the evil being. A knife made of bone could not penetrate armor made of metal. He hoped to goad the Vrykyl into slaying him quickly so that he could never be made to betray those who looked to him for protection.

Expecting the blade to shatter when it struck the Vrykyl's breast plate, Jessan was astonished past belief to feel the blade slide through the black metal. The Vrykyl flinched beneath Jessan's hand, as if the blade had pierced warm flesh.

Shakur felt pain, physical pain. Two hundred years ago, Dagnarus's hand wielding the Dagger of the Vrykyl struck Shakur in the back. He'd felt pain, tortured, searing agony that was unendurable. He'd been glad to die then, only to find that death's sweet oblivion had been denied him. The pain of that knowledge had been greater agony than the pain of the Dagger and now he felt the same. The bone knife struck to the core of Shakur's being. Acting as a lightning rod, the Void magic of the knife began to dissipate the Void magic that held together Shakur's existence.

A voice within him whispered to Shakur to let the knife drain him of the magic, to flow with it into the quiet darkness. A roar of fury drowned out the whisper. This boy, this mortal, this human insect had dared defy Shakur, had dared to try to destroy him.

The bone knife remained embedded in Shakur's chest. Jessan clutched the hilt, tried to drive it deeper. Shakur wrapped his hand around Jessan's, held him fast. With an immense effort of will, Shakur managed to turn the flow of Void magic, so that it no longer drained him.

The magic sought to drain Jessan.

Jessan screamed and writhed. He felt his life seeping away from him and struggled frantically to let go of the knife. Shakur held him fast in a bone-crushing grip.

Pain burned through Shakur's arm. He had forgotten the other warriors. Glowering around, he saw another human attacking him, a Nimorean, who wielded a slender curved blade that gleamed with a burning light. Only a blade blessed by the gods can do damage to a Vrykyl and this was such a blade. The Nimorean struck again, trying to force Shakur to release his hold on the young man.

Shakur ignored it. The pain was as a bee sting to him. Then he felt another blow, this one in his back and this time the pain was far worse. Grunting, still keeping his hold on Jessan, Shakur swung around.

The cursed Dominion Lord. He hadn't had time to properly finish her. He would destroy the young human, suck out his soul as a cat sucks a baby's breath, then he would deal with the rest.

The Dominion Lord struck him again. Shakur gasped and shuddered, but he held fast to Jessan. He was about to kill the Dominion Lord, blast her into obliteration, when a wind gust powerful as the sirocco hit Shakur, struck him with the force of a mailed fist. Seven of the Wyred advanced on him, their hands locked together, their eyes glittering inside the black markings of the tattoos. He felt their magic, felt the fury of the gods pent up, an indrawn breath, eager for release, eager to destroy him.

In his human form, Shakur had always known when to give in to superior odds, when to desert the battle, when to surrender in order to be able to continue the fight another day. He released the young Trevenici. Jessan fell to the ground. Shakur hoped he wasn't dead. Plucking the bone knife from his chest, Shakur tossed it contemptuously on the limp body of the young man.

“The curse stays with you,” Shakur said. “As do I.”

Invoking his power, the Vrykyl became one with the Void. He was nothing. He was empty. A shadow had more substance than Shakur. He vanished.

Damra killed the remaining human mercenary. Arim bent over Jessan, felt for a pulse. The Wyred ceased their spell-casting.

“Search for the Void creature,” said their leader.

Two departed. The leader sent the others back to the Portal, while she looked in the direction of the Outer Ring. The sounds of battle came from all around them—the thunk of rocks flung from mangonels striking the towers, the screams of the wounded and dying, the strange howling of the monstrous enemy.

The Wyred turned to Damra.

“Dominion Lord, the Vrykyl came for you. We have to wonder why.”

“Are the pecwae safe?” Damra asked, avoiding the question. She
was exhausted, drained. The horror of her encounter left her shaken, barely able to think. Yet, she had to remain focused. She had to concentrate, determine her next move.

“They are safe,” said the Wyred, and she eyed Damra intently. “For the time being, at least.” Her gaze went to the Outer Ring, returned again to Damra. “You travel in strange company, Dominion Lord.”

“With whom I travel is my business, not yours,” Damra said, wearily sheathing her sword.

She did not think Bashae would reveal his secret to the Wyred, for they must have surely questioned the pecwae, but she could not be sure. The Wyred could be daunting, when they chose. Glad to have an excuse to avoid talking to the Wyred, she knelt down beside Jessan. Her action was rude, but then one could be rude to the Wyred. They were used to it.

“How is the young man?” Damra asked Arim. “I fear he has taken mortal harm.”

“His pulse was weak at first, but it grows stronger. He's a tough one, this Trevenici. Some bones in his hand are broken, and he has lost blood from these cuts, but he will live.”

Jessan stirred, his eyelids fluttered, then flared open. Giving a hollow cry of terror, he sat bolt upright, clutched at Arim's throat.

“Your foe is gone,” Arim said, taking hold of Jessan by the shoulders and giving him a shake to bring him to his senses.

Jessan gasped in pain. Drawing back his injured hand, he cradled it in his arm. He looked around, shuddering. “What happened? Where did he go?”

“Back to the darkness that spawned him,” Damra said. “That was a brave act, young man. I have never seen one so brave. Or so foolish.” She smiled, to take the sting from her words. “He very nearly killed me. You saved my life.”

Jessan flushed with pleasure at her praise, but he was bound to be honest. A true warrior knows his own worth, has no need to lie. “I wasn't brave. I was…” Jessan thought back, shivered at the memory. “I don't know what I was. I couldn't let him hurt Bashae. Where are they? The Grandmother and Bashae. Are they all right?”

Damra glanced obliquely at the Wyred, who undoubtedly had her ears stretched to hear every word.

“They're safe. They're waiting for us in the garden. Can you walk? If we stay much longer we're liable to find ourselves in the middle of a war. Once we reach the other side of the Portal, we'll have time to tend to your wounds. Both of you,” she added, as Arim wrapped a strip of cloth torn from his shirt around a bloody gash on his upper arm.

“I can walk,” Jessan stated as he would have stated if he'd had both legs hacked off.

He rose to his feet, wobbling slightly, but able to move under his own power.

“Here are our passes,” Damra said, showing them to the Wyred. “We expect to enter the Portal without difficulty. Thank you for your help against the Vrykyl,” she added grudgingly. She did not like to be beholden to House Wyval in anything.

Bowing to the Wyred, Damra started off at a moderate pace, keeping an anxious watch on Jessan. Shaking off his own horror of his encounter with the Vrykyl, he grew stronger with every step he took and Damra started to think that they might escape safely yet, when, to her ire, the Wyred began to walk alongside her.

“We don't want to take you from your duties,” Damra said.

“Our defenses are in place,” the Wyred replied. “We have done all we can. There are thousands of those creatures, all of them adept in the use of Void magic. We did not expect that.”

“The Shield didn't think to mention it to you?” Damra retorted. “I can't imagine why.”

As they entered the garden, Bashae came hurrying to Jessan.

“Are you hurt?” Bashae asked anxiously. “Here, let me see.”

He took hold of Jessan's injured hand, examined it.

“That's my sword hand,” said Jessan, clearly worried. “Can you heal it?”

“We have no time for healing,” Arim said sternly. “We keep moving. Time for that later.”

Bashae ignored him, continued to examine Jessan's hand. “Yes,”
he said, after a moment, “but not all at once and not here.” He looked up. “Arim's right. We should go someplace quiet.”

The Wyred turned to confront Damra, stood blocking her path.

“I could stop you from entering,” said the Wyred.

“You could try,” said Damra. “And what good will a battle between the two of us accomplish, except to give our enemies a belly laugh.”

“The Portal is about to be overrun. You are a Dominion Lord. Your sword and your magic could be of help to us. If the Portal falls, the elven nation will be at risk.”

“The Shield should have thought about that before he withdrew the Portal's defenders,” Damra said sharply. “Do you really think he knew nothing about this army? Are you that gullible? Of course, he knew. He's made some deal with these humans. He's giving them what amounts to safe passage through the elven Portal, passage paid for with elven blood.”

“The Shield is wise—” The Wyred began the old litany and then she stopped, fell silent.

Damra pitied the woman. She and the rest were the innocent victims of their master's perfidy, and perhaps they were just starting to figure that out.

“I would help you if I could,” Damra said, her voice softening. “Despite the fact that your people were involved in the abduction of my husband.” Seeing the Wyred's eyes flicker, she knew she'd struck the black center of the target. “But I have my own battle to fight, my own war to wage.”

“Against the Shield,” said the Wyred coldly.

“No,” said Damra. She pointed back into the courtyard. “Against that Vrykyl, against creatures of the Void like that. They are the true enemy. Someday, the ancestors willing, we will all of us understand that and stop making war against each other.”

“You live in a very pretty world, Dominion Lord,” the Wyred said. “I wonder for how long.”

Turning in anger, she stalked away.

“I wonder that myself,” Damra admitted somberly. “Not long if we stay here. That can wait,” she said firmly, jostling the Grandmother,
who was knee deep in some sort of pecwae ritual, to judge by the screeching. They ran for the Portal, an oval of shimmering gray against a backdrop of trees and flowering bushes. They had almost reached it when they heard the howling sounds behind them grow in intensity and volume. Damra glanced over her shoulder. Hordes of taan ran across the courtyard, coming straight for them.

“Hurry!” she gasped. “The Vrykyl has sent them after us—”

A violent blast of wind tore the words from her mouth. The trees around the Portal dissolved, the flowers vanished. The gust was so strong that it knocked the pecwae off their feet. Bashae slammed into Jessan. Arim grabbed the Grandmother as she went flying past him, held fast to her while the wind threatened to tear her from his grasp.

The sky took on an eerie orange tinge. The garden disappeared and they stood in a desert landscape. Sand swirled around them, stinging their flesh and gumming their eyes, choking them. The magical helm of the Dominion Lord covered Damra's face, protected her from the worst of the sandstorm.

Jessan was bowed almost double. His long hair streamed behind him. He gripped Bashae with one hand, covered his eyes with the other. Buffeted by the wind, Arim held onto the Grandmother, who had wrapped herself around him like a scarf around a tree trunk. He shouted something at Damra, but she couldn't hear a word over the blasting wind.

“Lock hands!” she cried.

They couldn't hear her, but they could see her. The magical armor gleamed silver amidst the strange gray-orange darkness. Jessan grunted in pain as Bashae grabbed his broken hand, but he kept his hold. Linked together, they staggered toward the Portal. Damra was the only one who could see it. The rest could not lift their heads, but stumbled after her like a group of blind beggars.

Swirling sand obscured Damra's view, left her nearly as blind as the rest. She kept to her course, fixed her eyes on the location where she'd last seen the Portal. She watched for some sign of it, her eyes watering with the strain. Fear grew in her that they had missed it, that they wandered aimlessly.

She kept going in the direction she'd last seen the Portal, though the swirling sand soon had her dizzy and confused. Her strength started to wane. Those clinging to her were a dead weight. Grimly, she forged ahead. She thought she caught a glimpse of the Portal, a flash of gray, and the next moment, the winds parted the sand. The Portal appeared, right in front of them. With a sigh of relief, she plunged inside, half carried, half dragged the others with her.

The Portal's quiet enveloped them, blotted out the sounds of whipping wind and the eerie shriek made by the blasting sand. By mutual, unspoken consent, they halted just inside. Tears streamed down Bashae's grimy cheeks. He coughed and spluttered, but he held fast to the knapsack. Arim blinked his eyes and tried to free himself of the Grandmother's clutching hands. Her eyes were squinched tightly shut, she refused to open them. Jessan spit sand and looked ruefully at his bare arms, bleeding from a myriad tiny cuts, as if he'd been rubbed all over with salt. His hand was swollen, the fingers bent at odd angles.