Guardians of the Lost (64 page)

“You have more than yourself to think about, Dominion Lord,” Shadamehr said quietly. “You carry the hope of your people. That hope is in danger here.”

Damra had only to glance about her to know he was right. Caught in a whirlwind of slashing glass, the guards stumbled about, trying to shield their faces from the shards. Horns were blowing, the alarm had sounded. More guards were coming. Damra had driven the High Magus into a corner with the lightning whip, but she was free now and would be tearing after them in a towering rage.

“What happened in there, Baron?” Griffith asked, with a gesture at the palace. “What made you alter your plans?”

Shadamehr hesitated, then spoke to them in Tomagi. Alise couldn't understand his words. The elves stared at him in dismay. “So you see,” he finished, “you must go—quickly!”

The two elves regarded him with concern. He looked extremely ill.

“The Father and Mother be with you, Baron,” said Damra at last. “The Father and Mother be with Vinnengael.”

Glancing back up at the window of the Imperial Palace, Shadamehr looked away.

“There is no one to help Vinnengael,” he said. “Not even the gods.”

Damra clasped hold of her husband's hand. Their images wavered for a moment, then both the elves vanished, their magic cloaking them in shadow.

“Let's get out of here before company comes,” said Shadamehr to his men. He kept hold of Alise's hand. “Split up. Meet at the Tubby Tabby. Keep an eye out for the pecwae and for Ulaf.”

The red glow of sunset lingered in the sky. The sun's fire dimmed in the crystal windows, wavered like the glow of dying embers. One window, the broken window, was an empty black. The Temple and its attendant buildings cast deep shadows. Shadamehr's men departed, taking to their heels, their racing footfalls pounding loudly on the pavement, drawing off pursuit from their injured lord.

By the time the guards reached the gaping hole in the iron fence, they could find no sign of the miscreants. The Imperial Cavalry arrived, the officer shouting orders for the soldiers to split into groups, turn the city upside down and inside out in search of Baron Shadamehr and an elven Dominion Lord, outlaws who had dared lay hands on the young King.

Shadamehr, Alise and Jessan plunged into a shadowy byway. They dashed down one street, ran up another street, turned down a side street, darted into an alley. At the end of the alley stood a tavern. Shadamehr thrust open the door, ushered his friends inside.

Alise blinked, trying to make the adjustment from darkness to the bright light. Shadamehr did not give her time, but hustled her along. She had an impression of warmth, of the strong smells of beer, sweaty bodies, tobacco smoke and pea soup. Alise stumbled over chairs and feet, tripped over her robes. Shadamehr shouted at the barmaid, who shouted back and gave him a nod of her head. Making certain that Jessan was keeping up with them, Shadamehr herded them toward a door in the back of the tavern.

The door opened. A dark room swallowed up Alise. The door shut behind her. The room was pitch black. She couldn't see a thing and was about to ask Shadamehr why he hadn't thought to bring a lantern when there came the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and then a heavy crash.

“Shadamehr?” Alise called out, terror-stricken.

“He's over here,” said Jessan.

“Jessan, we need light!” she cried desperately.

Reaching out her hands, cursing the darkness, Alise took a step forward and tripped over Shadamehr's legs. She knelt down beside him and placed her hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse.

His skin was cold and clammy, his heartbeat was wild and erratic.

“Shadamehr!” she cried to him, but no answer came to her from the darkness.

P
atrols of soldiers searched the city of New Vinnengael without luck. Admittedly theirs was a daunting task, like trying to find a baron in a haystack, as one wit stated grumpily, but they kept at it, if somewhat half-heartedly. Rumors now spread among the soldiers that an enemy army, sprung from the Void, threatened the city. The terrible rumors bred like maggots in rotten meat and soon all of New Vinnengael was in an uproar, with people rushing out into the streets to hear the latest prediction of doom, further hampering the efforts of the patrols in their search for Baron Shadamehr and the outlaw elven Dominion Lord.

Adding to the hysteria, word went around that a monk from Dragon Mountain had arrived in New Vinnengael. Someone immediately recalled that a monk had ridden into Old Vinnengael prior to that city's destruction. Panic ensued.

Inside the palace, the battle magus Tasgall, his sight restored, argued with Most Revered High Magus Clovis. The battle magus believed Baron Shadamehr's warning. Tasgall was going to report to the Battle Magi and the High Magus would do well if she opened
her eyes to the truth. He pointed to the north, where a sullen red glow lit the horizon.

Furious, the High Magus accused him of siding with rebels and thieves. Their argument ended abruptly when a Temple magus came rushing in to announce in breathless tones that one of the monks from Dragon Mountain had entered the city.

The High Magus went all pale and flabby. Tasgall stalked out.

In the excitement, no one remembered the King until a servant found him and took him to his room. The child asked what was happening, but was told that all was well. They fed him his supper and sent him to bed.

The child pretended to sleep, but the moment the servants departed, he threw aside the silken sheets. Climbing out of bed, he went over to stand in front of the window.

A voice spoke inside the child's head.

“Well, and what have you to report?”

“A monk has arrived from Dragon Mountain, my lord. The monk came this night. They have given him a room in the palace.”

There was silence inside the child, then the voice replied, “That is gratifying news, Shakur. Immensely gratifying.”

“I thought you would be pleased, my lord.”

“It almost makes up for the fact that you have once again lost the Sovereign Stone.”

The child reached his hand beneath the long, white nightgown that he wore to bed. The small hand of the eight-year-old caressed a knife made of bone that he wore strapped to his waist.

“They will not get far, my lord,” said the boy in his childish voice. “They will not get far.”

W
ELL OF
D
ARKNESS

G
UARDIANS OF THE
L
OST

J
OURNEY INTO THE
V
OID