Guardians of the Lost (9 page)

The woman stepped into the circle of listeners. Her name was Ranessa, a birth name, though she was in her mid-twenties. She was the sister of Ravenstrike, Jessan's aunt. Those near her eyed her askance and moved away from her, so that they would not come in contact with her. She was not ill-looking, or rather would not have been if she had taken some care about her appearance. Her long, thick black hair was uncombed, flew wildly about her head, straggled down into her face. Her brows were black and heavy and formed a straight line across her forehead, giving her a severe and stern expression. Her eyes were a peculiar shade of brown with a red cast to them. Her skin was alabaster white—a stark contrast to the sun-bronzed Trevenici.

Ranessa bore no resemblance at all to her elder brother and in civilized places there would have been whispers about her fathering. Such doubts would never occur to the Trevenici, for that would have been to impugn the honor of the family. Sometimes such oddities occurred, such as those born with marks on the skin or shrunken limbs. The gods had their reasons for these happenings, reasons that they did not see fit to make known to men. Ranessa was not shunned for the fact that she looked different or that she was sharp-tongued and ill-tempered. She was shunned for the fact that one morning the village had awakened to find the nine-year-old girl asleep in the very center of the Sacred Circle.

According to Ranessa's story, she had wakened from a dream in which she was flying through the sky like a bird. The dream had been very real and very wonderful and when she woke from it, she had cried because it had not been real. Thinking that she might truly be able to fly, she had left her parents' dwelling place and gone to the house of healing that stood near the Sacred Circle. She had climbed up onto the roof, spread her arms, and launched herself into the air. She had landed flat on her belly inside the circle of stones. The fall had been painful, knocking the breath from her body. But the worse pain was the knowledge that her dream had been a lie. She had wept bitterly, never thinking about where she was, and had cried herself to sleep.

Some in the village had wanted her put to death, but the elders, after listening to her tale, had judged her to be crazy. No one in the village was allowed to harm her, but from that day to this, they all avoided her.

The elders looked exasperated and uncomfortable. Jessan and his uncle exchanged glances. Ranessa was their responsibility.

“You should not be out in the hot sun, Ranessa,” Raven said kindly, taking her by the hand. “Let me walk you back to your dwelling.”

Ranessa lived on her own. She had moved out of her parents' house after her father's death. Her brother had offered her a place in his dwelling, but she had scornfully refused and he had built a house for her. She lived there alone, leaving it only to go on long, rambling and seemingly aimless walks that would sometimes last for days. She would always return from these half-starved and irritable, with a sneer on her lips as though she knew quite well that many had hoped that this time she would leave them for good and that her return was a cause for disappointment.

“I go where I choose, Raven,” she said, snatching her hand from out of his grasp. “I want to hear my nephew's story.” Her lip curled. “If for no other reason that it makes a welcome change from the dreary monotony of this place.”

Jessan continued with his tale, trying his best to look anywhere but at his mad aunt. Beneath the gaze of her strange eyes, he was
self-conscious and his story of his first meeting with Gustav was somewhat jumbled. But when he came to the battle, he forgot Ranessa, forgot his uncle, forgot the elders. He once again relived the glorious fight and he described the scene with a warrior's attention to detail, not forgetting to give the dwarf due credit for his mimicry of the horsebane fly.

The villagers rewarded Jessan with their nods, and their liking for the dwarf markedly increased. When Jessan described how the knight had plunged his sword clean through the chest of his enemy—armor and all—several of the warriors lifted their voices in shouts of triumph, while others spoke prayers for his recovery from his wounds.

“He will not recover,” Ranessa stated in ringing tones, her voice cold and harsh. “His death is on him. As for the thing he killed, it was dead when he killed it. And it is not dead now.”

Turning, her black hair whipping like a flail, she cast them a look filled with enmity and scorn and stalked off. At her departure, everyone let out a collective sigh. Her presence was like a dark cloud over them and the sun seemed to shine more brightly when she was gone. Jessan cast a wry glance at his uncle, who merely shrugged and shook his head.

“What is that you have wrapped in the blanket?” his uncle asked, to take his mind off their crazy relation.

Jessan had been prepared to proudly reveal his treasure, but Ranessa's strange pronouncement put him in mind of the knight's warnings. The young man was forced to admit to himself that the lack of a body inside the armor—while convenient—had been a bit unnerving.

“It is a gift,” Jessan replied. “For my uncle.”

No more was said. Gifts are private and personal matters. One does not flaunt one's good fortune before others, good fortune that might foment jealousy and discord in the village.

The elders stated their pleasure in Jessan's and Bashae's safe return, commended their courage and then departed, heading for the house of healing to inquire after the wounded knight. The rest of the villagers added their good wishes, then went back to their work.

“Come to my dwelling place, Jessan,” his uncle said. “Bring your bundle. That is a gift for me?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Jessan said, as they walked through the village together.

“From Wild Town.” Raven frowned. “You have not squandered what you earned, Nephew?”

“No, Uncle. I traded the pelts for steel arrowheads. They are good quality. I inspected them, as you taught me. I have them here.” Jessan patted the pouch that hung from his belt. “The gift that I brought you is from the field of battle. The spoils of war. Armor from the knight's foe.”

“Such armor rightly belongs to the knight,” Raven said.

“He does not want it,” Jessan replied, shrugging. “He said we were to bury it or sink it in the water. But you will see, Uncle. This armor is very valuable and not to be wasted. I think the poor man was raving,” he added confidentially.

“It is possible,” Raven conceded. “I am curious to see this wonderful armor. Did you bring your aunt a gift?”

Jessan hesitated. The only other object he had on him that he could give her was the knife he had taken from the body of the black-armored knight. The knife was a curiosity, for it was made of polished bone, not metal. The bone blade was sharp, but so thin and fragile-looking that Jessan wondered what possible use the dead knight could have made of it. Hilt and blade were one, fashioned from the bone of some animal. The knife was obviously old, for the bone was yellowed and worn smooth. Jessan wanted to keep this unusual knife, considering it a battle-trophy. He would cherish the knife and do it honor. His aunt would probably use it to gut fish.

“No, I didn't bring her a gift. Why should I, Uncle?” Jessan asked. “She hates me. She hates everyone. If Bashae and I had died out there, it would have been all the same to her. She shames our family, Uncle. You don't know what happens when you're gone. She says hurtful things to everyone. She laughed when she heard that Briarthorn's baby was stillborn. She said that we should rejoice, not grieve for a child that had been spared a world of suffering and torment. I thought Elkhorn was going to kill her when he heard about
it. I had to make them a gift of meat to ease the insult. And when I tried to talk to Ranessa about it, she called me a foolish little boy and said that it was well my mother was dead, so that she would not see what a fool she had brought into the world.”

Jessan's voice trembled with anger. His memories of his mother were few and they were sacred to him.

“Ranessa has a talent for hurting people. Do not take what she says to heart, Jessan,” Raven said. “I don't believe she means it.”

“I do,” Jessan muttered.

“As for Elkhorn, he confronted me with the tale the moment I set foot in the village. I will add a gift of a weapon as an apology. He did say that you had handled the situation as an adult.”

Raven eyed his nephew, saw the young man unhappy and downcast on what was a special day. “Never mind. We will say nothing. Now come show me this wonderful armor.”

He put his arm around his nephew's shoulder. They walked companionably to the dwelling they had shared since Jessan's parents had died and left him orphaned. Jessan thought of telling his uncle about the knife, of showing it to him. He was reluctant to do so, however. He knew what his uncle would say. The knife had belonged to the dead knight, therefore it now belonged to the knight who had bested him. But the knight was dying, he had no use for the knife, anymore than did the corpse from which it had been taken. The dying knight had not wanted the armor. He wouldn't want the knife.

I helped the knight in battle, Jessan reflected. I earned the right to this knife. I earned the right to carry it. I'll show it to my uncle, but not just yet. We would only argue about it and I don't want anything to spoil this day.

Jessan touched the bone knife at his belt. The bone had a warm feel to it, as though it shared his pleasure at their secret.

G
ustav looked upon the hideous face of a mummified cadaver. The skin was withered and brown as old parchment, pulled taut against the bones of the skull, the lips were stretched in a rictus grin. The eyes of the corpse were the eyes of the living with a frightening intelligence in their cold and empty depths. Those eyes searched for Gustav.

Or rather, they searched for what he bore.

The eyes scanned the horizon, starting with the edge of the world. The eyes moved by increments, studying every person they encountered, questing, seeking, probing. They had not found him yet, but they were drawing nearer and nearer and when they touched him, the eyes would devour him, drown him in the fathomless darkness.

Hide! He must hide! They were almost upon him…

He woke with a gasp and a shudder to find eyes staring down at him. These eyes were black, but not empty. These eyes were bright and soft and quick as a bird's, set in a face that was nut-brown, nutshell wrinkled.

“Easy, lie easy,” said the old woman, speaking through a mouth
that had no lips. Gustav was reminded of a nut-cracker he'd once seen in the Vinnengaelean court. “Dreams may touch you but they cannot seize you.”

Gustav gazed up at the face in baffled confusion, then looked at his surroundings. He was naked, his body covered above and beneath with several layers of wool blankets. Hot rocks, wrapped in blankets, had been placed around him. He had the feeling he was inside a permanent structure, though he could see little of walls or ceiling through the fragrant smoke rising from a bowl near him. Occasionally the person with the nut-cracker smile would use a red feather of the cardinal to waft the smoke over him.

The bone-numbing cold that had been creeping steadily over his body ever since he'd been attacked by the Vrykyl receded. He had the sense of being pleasantly warm, of being safe, of being able to rest without fear of hearing footsteps outside his tent or the galloping hooves of his pursuer. He would have liked to have rested here for a long while, but he dared not linger. The eyes had not found him but that was only temporary. They were still searching for him and, even here, they must soon catch him.

“Thank you…” he said and was astonished and irritated to hear how weak his voice sounded. “Thank you, goodwife,” he said again, more strongly. “I must go now. If you could…hand me my clothes…”

With great effort and true regret, he struggled to rise from his warm bed.

He was barely able to lift his shoulders.

He exerted his will, he fought to sit up, but, in the end, he was too weak. He sank back down. Sweat beaded his forehead and lip. His muscles trembled as if he had tried to lift a heavy load, when he had tried only to lift his wasted body. He thrust aside the thought of failure, held it at arm's length.

“I have not eaten,” Gustav said. “I will feel better with some food in my belly. I need only food and a few hours rest. Then I will be able to continue my journey.”

He told himself this as he held failure, held death, away with a hand that was so weak he could not even lift it from the blanket.

He closed his eyes against the knowledge with bitter despair, felt two hot tears seep beneath the eyelids and roll down his cheeks. He lacked the strength to wipe them away.

A small nut-brown hand did that service for him.

“You have taken grievous hurt, Sir Knight,” said Bashae softly. “You must lie still. The Grandmother says so.”

The pecwae shifted his gaze to the old woman who squatted comfortably beside Gustav. “He tried to ride away even after the fight, Grandmother. He said he was on urgent business, something about the gods. He said he was dying, but I knew you could heal him, Grandmother.”

The old woman's hand hovered over Gustav. He felt something cold and hard being placed on his forehead. The hand went to his bare chest and again there was a sensation of cold. He saw, to his astonishment, that the Grandmother was adorning his body with rocks.

“What—” he asked, frowning.

“Bloodstones,” she said. “To draw out the impurities. Now is not the time to make decisions. That time will come soon, but you must be stronger. You will sleep now.”

Gustav felt sleep steal over him. He was about to give in to it, when he noticed the dwarf, who had been crouched in a corner, out of the way. Gustav's eyes opened wider. Wolfram dipped his head in awkward acknowledgment.

The sight of the dwarf started a new chain of thought in the knight's mind. He wanted to continue stringing together the links of the chain, but he was too weary. First one link fell from his mental grasp, then another. But they would join together for him. He had only to be patient. Sleep, sweet sleep, dreamless sleep, flowed over him.

He felt the hand of the old lady place one more stone upon him, this one on his breast.

The stone was a turquoise.

He did not dream of the eyes again.

 

Raven's dwelling place that he shared with Jessan was large, the dwelling of a married man. The dwelling was a single room with a
hole cut in the roof to allow smoke to escape when the home fires were kindled in the winter. Sunlight poured in holes cut in the walls, holes that allowed the air to circulate. The holes had no coverings now during the summer months. Only when winter's winds blew cold would his uncle hang blankets over them to keep out the chill and the snow. The fire pit was cold and swept clean. The dwelling's floor, hard-baked dirt, was covered with deer skins.

If a woman had inhabited the dwelling, there would have been baskets and pots containing dried beans, berries and corn meal. Hand-woven blankets, with her own special pattern, would have covered the floors and hung on the bare walls. If she was a warrior, her shield would stand next to that of her husband's. As it was, Raven's shield stood alone. There was no food in the house. Jessan ate his meals with Bashae, bringing gifts of fish and deer skins in payment. (While the pecwae will not eat the flesh of any mammal, they will eat fish, creatures the pecwae find to be stupid and uncommunicative.)

Raven had once had a wife, but she had died in childbirth. Their tiny son had not long survived her. Shortly after, he had traveled south with a contingent of warriors to sell his services to the army of Dunkarga.

Thirty-two years old, Raven was tall and well-built. His hair had once been as red as Jessan's, but was now a dark auburn. He had his share of battle scars and wore them proudly, along with an assortment of trophies, including his favorite, a necklace of finger bones strung around his neck. His eyes were gray and narrow beneath heavy brows—in these heavy brows he resembled his sister but that was the only feature the two shared in common. An enemy that sought to tell by Raven's eyes what he was going to do invariably failed.

Ravenstrike had adopted Jessan when the young man's warrior parents had both died fighting in Karnu. The young man, then age sixteen, had moved into the dwelling place, living there by himself when Raven was gone. Jessan was old enough that he would soon be ready to take up the warrior life. One of the reasons Raven had left Dunkar to return to his village was to take Jessan back to the city with him. It was time the young man found his warrior's name.

Jessan deposited the bundle on the floor. His face flushed with the excitement and pleasure of the gift-giver, he opened the bundle.

The ends of the horse blanket fell back. The black armor shone sullenly in the sunlight that formed a bright pattern on the floor.

Jessan was not watching his uncle. He was looking at the armor with the pride of acquisition and so, thankfully, he missed his uncle's initial expression of alarm and disgust. The black armor, lying on the floor, looked like the desiccated carapace of some enormous insect, whose head had been torn off and whose shell had been hacked to pieces.

Jessan expected his uncle to express his pleasure. Hearing nothing but an indrawn breath, Jessan looked up quickly, worriedly, to see what was wrong.

“Don't you like it, Uncle?”

By that time, Raven had managed to work his face into some semblance of a smile.

“It is fine armor,” he said. “The finest I have ever seen.”

That was the truth. It was fine armor. It was also the most awful, hideous looking armor Ravenstrike had ever seen. His admiration for the knight who had battled this apparition increased four-fold. Raven was not sure but that he would have fled the field had that monstrosity ridden at him. And he was a man who could not wear all the trophies he had taken in battle or else they would have weighted him down so he would have been unable to move.

Jessan's face relaxed in a smile. “I thought you would like it, Uncle. The knight wanted to throw it in the lake. Can you imagine? Waste good armor like this?”

Raven discovered that he'd involuntarily taken a step back from it. He couldn't understand his reaction, was half-angry at himself. It wasn't that the armor came from a dead man. Raven had hacked off fingers from every one of his victims and taken valuables from the bodies. What need have the dead of swords or breastplate? This was fine armor. His friend, the army's blacksmith, could repair the hole made by the knight's sword. The strange-looking spikes that jutted out from the shoulders and elbows would turn any blade or even a spear.

“Would you like to try it on? I will help you with it,” Jessan offered eagerly.

“Uh, no,” Raven said. Seeing Jessan's smile start to fade, the older man added quickly, “It is bad luck to put on armor when there is no battle in the—” He paused, looked toward one of the windows.

“What?” Jessan followed his gaze.

“I thought I heard something,” he said. Walking over, he peered out the window, but if someone had been listening, the person was gone now. “That's odd. Why would someone be spying on us?”

“The dwarf,” Jessan guessed. “He wants the armor for himself. He tried to trick me into leaving it back on the trail so that he could return and claim it.”

It was on the tip of Raven's tongue to tell the lad to give the armor to the dwarf and be rid of it, but he swallowed the words before they had a chance to inflict pain.

Jessan crouched down to begin examining the armor more closely, proudly exhibiting its finer points.

Raven forced himself to overcome his squeamish reluctance and squatted down on his haunches beside his nephew. “I see no blood,” he said. “And yet the knight's blow must have struck to the heart.”

“There was no blood,” Jessan said. “There was not even a body. Just piles of dust.” He grinned at his uncle's astonishment. “I know! Strange, isn't it?”

Raven felt the hair rise up on the back of his neck. The sight of his nephew touching the armor made his stomach shrivel. This armor was about death and suffering. Yet, he had seen death before—battlefields littered with the bodies of the dead, the carrion birds pecking out eyeballs, the pi dogs fighting over chunks of flesh, and he had never blenched.

“Wrap it up, Jessan,” he said harshly. “You should not keep it in plain view.”

“You are right, Uncle.” Jessan busily tied the ends of the bundle back over the armor and stowed it in a corner.

“Perhaps we should not even leave it in the house,” Raven suggested, knowing he would never sleep at night if the armor was
around. “If the dwarf is intent upon stealing it, this is the first place he would look.”

“Right again.” Jessan pondered. “But what should we do with it?”

“You could take it to the storage cave,” Raven suggested. “When we are ready to leave for Dunkar, we will stop and pick it up.”

He had spoken of leaving casually, so casually that, at first, Jessan did not catch the implication. He replied with a dutiful, “Yes, Uncle,” and started to head out the door with the bundle on his back.

Raven watched, grinning to himself. Jessan came to a sudden halt. His head jerked around. Seeing his uncle's grin, Jessan dashed back into the dwelling.

“You said ‘we'!” He was panting with excitement. “You said ‘we' travel to Dunkar! Do you mean it, Uncle? Am I to go with you this time?”

“It was the reason I returned,” Raven said. “I have spoken to my commanding officer. He says that another one of our family will be most welcome. Worth three of any other.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Jessan said huskily. “I will not let you down. I—”

He could not speak further. Shaking his head, he turned and bolted out the door, the armor clunking and rattling as he ran. Raven was not offended at this sudden departure. He had seen the tears of pleasure glimmering in the young man's eyes. Jessan would need time to compose himself alone and in private, another reason Raven had sent him with the armor to the cave.

As to the armor, Raven would have to find some means to dispose of it before they left on their journey. The Little Blue river ran deep and fast and it was not far from camp. He could toss it in the river and be quit of it. He could always tell Jessan that it had disappeared of its own accord. Not unbelievable. After all, the body the armor held had disappeared. Jessan would be disappointed, but in the excitement of traveling to Dunkar, he would soon forget all about it.

His mind still on the armor, Raven went to the house of healing, hoping to question the knight about both the armor and the dread
foe who had worn it. When he arrived, the Grandmother told him that the knight was asleep and must not be disturbed. Raven looked in the door, saw the man, saw the gray tone of the flesh, heard the shallow, rapid breathing and thought that, for once, Ranessa's dark pronouncement was accurate.

The knight had his death on him.

 

The village held a feast in honor of Jessan and Bashae and their guests that night. Bashae brought Wolfram along with him—the two having been dismissed from the knight's side by the Grandmother. Now that the armor was safely hidden away, Jessan could take pleasure in the dwarf's company. An artful story-teller, Wolfram held the Trevenici and pecwae enthralled with his tales of the far-distant lands he had traveled and the people who inhabited them.