Guardians of the Lost (6 page)

“The nearest
known
Portal,” Wolfram emphasized. “There are a great many unknown Portals—rogue Portals that were created when the four Great Portals in Old Vinnengael were torn asunder by the blast that leveled that city. This is likely one of those.” He backed up out of the lake, drawing Bashae with him.

Jessan frowned, his dark brows lowering. He continued to stand in the water. “If what you say is true and this is one of the magical Portals, then why has no one discovered it before now?”

“I know!” Bashae cried. Reaching land, he shook himself like a dog. “Because no one ever comes to this lake at night. You wouldn't be able to see the light in the daytime.”

That's true, Wolfram realized. The lake is far from the trail. Travelers would not know of its existence. And, even if someone did stumble across it, the Portal's eerie glowing light would not be noticeable for the sun's beams dancing across the water. Even in the night, a casual observer would mistake it for moonlight, as had Wolfram himself.

“Come away, lad,” he said.

Jessan remained in the water, staring at the pale, glistening light. “Where do you suppose it would take me?” he asked.

“Who knows? Perhaps not even the gods,” Wolfram said, wondering what in the name of the gods he would do if the young man decided to see for himself.

The two were not his charge, not his responsibility. He was not answerable for them. If they disappeared into a Portal, then that was their concern. He knew the way back to the main trail. He'd
obviously found what it was the monks had sent him to find. He had only to note the location and report back. Yet, he kept a tight grip on the pecwae.

“Perhaps it goes to the bottom of the lake,” he said. “Perhaps it goes to the other side of the world. Or to the gods themselves. If you've never been in a Portal before, it can be very disorienting. Like a cavern. You have no sense of what is up and down, which way is north or south. You can become easily confused.”

He was suddenly inspired. “Take word back to your people. Send a party of warriors to trace its route—”

The Portal flashed, its light suddenly shining stronger and brighter. Faint sounds could be heard emanating from the Portal, the thudding sounds of pounding hooves, or perhaps a beating heart.

Wolfram sucked in a breath and scrambled backward away from the water, dragging Bashae, who was quick to follow him. Thankfully, the diminutive pecwae are blessed with a strong sense of self-preservation.

“Jessan, come away!” Bashae urged.

The sounds of hoofbeats grew louder. Jessan, startled and uneasy, edged his way back onto the bank, though he kept his rapt gaze riveted on the glowing light.

Horse and rider leapt out of the Portal, white foam water cascading around them. The horse's nostrils flared. The beast was galloping at full speed. Shaking water from its mane and head, the horse scrabbled desperately with its front hooves to find purchase on the lake bottom. The rider was a knight whose silver armor shone brilliantly in the Portal's light. Obviously a skilled rider, he bent low over the horse's neck, urging the animal on.

The horse made landfall and splashed through the lake, sending up fountains of water that shone white against the lake's black surface. Amazed at the astonishing sight of man and horse leaping out of the lake, Jessan stumbled backward and nearly fell. He came close to being ridden down by the maddened steed, but the well-trained horse sensed the human in his path and jumped over him.

“A god!” Bashae breathed, awed. His hand clung so tightly to Wolfram's that the dwarf winced.

At first, the astounded Wolfram thought the pecwae might be right, but something about the knight's armor was familiar to the dwarf. Recovering from his shock, he stared more closely at the rider as the horse clamored up onto dry land.

“No,” said Wolfram softly. “But close. He is a Dominion Lord.”

The knight halted his steed. Twisting, he turned to look back at the Portal. Jessan stared with all his might at the knight, whose wet armor glistened like fish scales in the starlight.

The knight raised his visor. “Where am I?” he called, a note of urgency in his voice.

He looked around him, taking in trees and lake and vast sky and empty prairie and turned to Jessan. “Where am I?” he asked more urgently still.

Jessan could not reply. He could do nothing but stare.

“Damn it—” the knight began.

“I'll tell you where you are, Sir Knight,” said Wolfram, stepping out of the shadows of the trees. “You stand on Trevenici lands, north of Dunkarga.

“Dunkarga,” the knight repeated.

Wolfram could not see the knight's face very well in the half-light of stars and Portal, but he could tell by the slump of the armored shoulders that this was not the answer the knight had hoped to hear.

Wolfram pointed. “The capital Dunkar is some seven hundred miles to the south.”

“Dunkarga,” the knight said again. He sounded weary to the point of falling. “
Not
Vinnengael, as I had hoped and prayed.” He shook his head, then looked back at the Portal. They could all hear the faint sound of hoofbeats, coming nearer. “Very well. My brave Fotheral is foundering. He can go no farther. And neither can I. I must make my stand here.”

Sliding off his horse, the knight drew his sword, then, with a word of command, he sent the horse galloping into the trees. Glancing behind him, he said sternly, “Take these young ones and flee, Dwarf. That which is coming through the Portal in pursuit of me will mean your death.”

“What…what is it?” asked Wolfram, who had the disorienting sense that he was in a strange dream.

“A Vrykyl, a creature of the Void,” the knight answered. “Fell and powerful.” He looked back grimly at the Portal. “I fought it a fortnight ago. I thought I had inflicted a death wound, but the thing managed to heal itself. It has pursued me since. When I found the rogue Portal, I hoped…I prayed it would lead me to New Vinnengael.”

He smiled slightly, shrugged. “The gods have answered so many of my prayers, I have no right to complain that they did not heed this one.”

Wolfram was no longer paying attention. He was already heading for the trees. A creature of the Void so powerful that not only had it dared to fight a Dominion Lord, but had managed to send this knight fleeing before it must be powerful indeed. Wolfram sensed danger, like the coming of thunder on a sweltering summer's day, and he wanted nothing to do with it. Bashae ran alongside him.

“Make haste, lad!” Wolfram called over his shoulder to Jessan. “The knight is right. We must get out of here!”

Jessan lifted his head proudly and the dwarf knew what the young man was going to say before he said it.

“You mistake me if you think I would flee in the face of danger. No one of my people has ever run away from an enemy,” Jessan stated. Drawing his knife—the only weapon he carried—he took up his stance beside the knight.

The knight did not smile, nor did he berate the young man or scold him for a fool, as Wolfram might have done. The hoofbeats drew nearer still, the Portal's silver light began to dim, as though it were a moonglade and a cloud had moved to swallow it up.

“I thank you, sir, for your offer,” said the knight. “My name is Gustav. I am a lord of Vinnengael. I have no squire, as you can see. You could serve me in that office, if you will.” He gestured with his sword and now Wolfram noted that the knight held his left arm stiffly, did not make use of it. “Go stand with my horse. Keep him from bolting. And make ready to bring me another weapon if I am disarmed.”

Jessan gripped his knife tightly and for a moment Wolfram feared that the young man would defy the knight and stand his ground. Jessan knew his limitations, however, as he would have known them on the field of battle. Nephew to a Trevenici warrior, Jessan was accustomed to obedience, accustomed to taking orders. The knight was the elder and he was in command. He had treated Jessan with respect and given him a task he could perform with honor.

“My name is Jessan, son of Clawing Bear. I will not fail you, sir,” Jessan replied.

He had spoken in Tirniv, a rare honor for the knight, though he was too preoccupied to notice. He simply nodded and turned back to face his foe.

Jessan ran to the horse that stood in the trees. The beast had not shown the least inclination to bolt. Wolfram, who knew horses, as all dwarves know horses, recognized it to be a highly trained destrier, one that would remain where its master told it to remain though the sky fell down. Quick-thinking, this knight, and even in his dire predicament, understanding of proud young men.

Bashae wrenched his hand loose of the dwarf's hold and went to the horse. Stroking its neck admiringly, he spoke to it softly. He used Elderspeak, the language the horse was most accustomed to hearing, and asked the beast if it needed water. The horse heard and understood, seemingly, for its mane twitched. It did not take its attention from its master, but stood tense and alert, waiting to be summoned. Jessan removed a battle-ax from the saddle and stood holding it tightly, white-knuckled, waiting, like the horse.

The darkening, murky water started to churn and roil. The feeling of evil was palpable, absorbed all sound, so that Wolfram heard nothing except the beating of his heart and that seemed to be the echo of nothing.

“A Vrykyl, he says. I should clear out of here,” Wolfram told himself. Sweating and panting, he tore his gaze from the turgid water. “This is not my fight.” He backed up a step. “These young ones are not my concern. Nor is the knight, the gods bless him.” He backed up another step. “I've done what I came to do, found what I was
sent to find. My next task is to stay alive long enough to report it. The knight himself told me to flee and I find myself in complete agreement.”

Perhaps it was fate, perhaps the gods. Perhaps it was the dwarf's own irresolution, or maybe the bracelet on his arm. Perhaps it was nothing more than the work of an industrious gopher. Taking a third step backward, his intent to turn and run for his life, he felt his boot heel sink into a hole in the soft ground. He gave a startled yell and toppled over, wrenching his ankle.

The dark water frothed and bubbled. A black horse bearing a black-armored rider burst out of the Portal. The Portal's eerie light did not touch either of them, did not shine on the horse's wet fur, did not glisten on the black armor. The evil absorbed all light, so that the stars vanished and the dark became absolute, stilled the wind, drew the air from the lungs. The darkness of the horse and rider absorbed the light and the Portal's glow faded, became pale and wavering.

The Vrykyl wore armor of her own, armor that was black as the Void that forged it. Adorned with wicked-looking spikes on the shoulders and elbows, the armor would turn blade or bludgeon.

The dwarf had heard legends of Vrykyl—the undead knights of the Void—but he'd never believed in them. He wasn't certain he believed in them now. He much preferred to think that he was dreaming and that shortly he would wake to laugh at his fear.

The black horse thrashed through the water, thundering straight for the knight in silver. Lord Gustav lowered his visor and waited on the shore to meet his foe. Void magic spread out in waves from the rider. The very trees seemed to flatten before it, like stalks of grain in a violent windstorm.

Half-blinded, wholly terrified, Wolfram huddled close to the ground, praying only that the Vrykyl would not see him. The knight's horse whinnied, its feet thrashed the ground. Bashae whimpered and Jessan gasped in horror. Hearing the ring of steel against steel, the dwarf dared lift his eyes.

The Vrykyl saw her opponent dismounted and bereft of a shield, which the knight's useless left arm could not hold. She had him
now, she thought, and sheathed her sword to take hold of a gigantic mace. She began to swing the mace with an unnaturally powerful stroke.

The mace made a hideous whirring sound, as of hundreds of devouring locusts, as it sliced the air. The Vrykyl intended to strike a blow that would crack open the knight's armor. If the blow and the magic did not kill the Dominion Lord, the attack would leave him dazed, wounded, and vulnerable to a second strike.

Gustav stood poised and calm, his sword raised. The Vrykyl charged straight for the knight, her mace swinging a vicious, cutting stroke. Gustav didn't move.

Wolfram wondered if the knight was just going to stand there and die, wondered where that would leave the rest of them.

Gustav shouted words in Vinnengaelean. “Bittersweet memories,” he called out.

Silver blue light gleamed from armor and sword. As he swung the blade to defend himself against the mace, the magic of the blessed weapon encountered the cursed magic of the Void. Sparks flared. The air vibrated with the shock. Gustav's blade sliced through the Vrykyl's wrist, severing her hand from her arm. The Vrykyl's weapon and the mailed glove that held it dropped to the ground.

Gustav staggered backward, stunned. The sword weighed heavily in his grasp, almost too heavy to hold. He raised his head, looked at his opponent, hoping to see the Vrykyl fall.

The terrible blow would have stopped any mortal. The Vrykyl was briefly amazed by the loss of her weapon, but that did not halt her attack. Reining in her horse, the Vrykyl wheeled, and spurred the beast straight at the knight.

We're all dead, thought Wolfram. The Vrykyl will slay him and then kill the rest of us. The dwarf glanced at the young ones. Jessan stood holding the horse's reins without knowing that he held them. He watched the battle with eyes that were wide and luminous with excitement. Bashae, shivering in terror, peered out from under the horse's belly.

Wolfram set his tongue against the back of his teeth and made a
sound—a buzzing, clicking sound. Placing his hand to his mouth, he amplified the sound—the buzz of a swarm of insects the dwarves call the horsebane fly.

The buzzing sound mimicked the strange clicking noise made by the hordes of the tormenting flies right before they strike. The knight's horse, well-trained though it was, whinnied in alarm, jerked its head, and rolled its eyes wildly, trying to locate the stinging, biting insects that could drive horses mad with pain, send them plunging over cliffs to escape. Jessan and Bashae suddenly had their hands full, both trying to keep control of the panicked steed.