Journey into the Void (10 page)

Since the beak reference was to Damra's rather prominent nose, it was just as well she did not understand the language. All the crew members chuckled obligingly—the captain had made a joke, after all—but their chuckles had a halfhearted sound.

The captain himself released the rope that held the boat to the dock, then went back to waiting and watching for Baron Shadamehr.

The orks bent to the oars before Damra had a chance to make her way through the press of bodies. The boat shot out from the dock so swiftly that the motion threw her off-balance. She lurched forward, stumbled into her husband's arms. He lowered her safely onto the bench beside him.

“Thank you, my dear,” she said, huddling thankfully into his embrace, adding remorsefully, “I'm sorry I was cross with you back there.”

“We're both tired,” he said, holding her close. “Tired and hungry. And I could not bear to see you hauled out of the river like a drowned cat.”

“Speaking of being hungry, I don't like to think of what we'll find to eat on board,” Damra said with a shudder. “Whale blubber, like as not.”

“Orks don't eat whales, my dear. They consider the whale sacred. I believe that bread is a staple of an ork's diet.”

By the time the elves reached the ship, however, neither of them was
thinking of food. Being a landlocked people, elves have never had any need for boats or ships. They are fair swimmers, but not good sailors. Even the gentle motion of the waves in the river made Damra queasy, and Griffith, being tired, was in worse shape than his wife. He was heaving up his guts before the boat reached the ship.

The orks rolled their eyes in amusement at the landlubbers, who were sick in waves that would not have rocked a babe to sleep. The orks said nothing, however, fearful that the strange elf might summon some magical wind to snatch them up and carry them off.

Damra was as sick as Griffith by the time they reached the ship. She had only a vague awareness of being hoisted aboard and being led, staggering, to a small cabin that smelled of pitch and fish. Her stomach roiling, she collapsed on an uncomfortable bed beside her groaning husband. An ork crew member thoughtfully left them two slop buckets, then shut the cabin door and departed.

Damra had never been so sick in her life. She did not know it was possible to be that sick. She lay on the wooden-plank bed, which pitched and rolled and lurched and rocked, and wondered when death would come to claim her.

“I hope it's soon,” she muttered, reaching for the bucket.

The door banged open.

“Elves, is it?” boomed a voice from the darkness.

Damra flinched, her nerves jangled.

A lantern flared right in her eyes, blinding her. An ork face peered down at her. At the sound of the voice, Griffith lifted his head.

“Quai-ghai!” he gasped. Then, with a moan, he sank back down on the bed.

Orken women wear the same clothing as men. They have the same massive build, with buxom breasts and a slightly different manner of shaving the head.

By her dour expression, this ork might be there to kill them. Damra sank back on the bed, too exhausted and ill to care.

The ork stared hard at Griffith. Pursing her lips, she cocked her head. “I think I know you. You weren't green the last time I saw you, though.”

“I'm…seasick!” Griffith managed to blurt.

Quai-ghai gave a bark that was apparently a laugh. “A fine jest!” she said, chuckling.

Griffith groaned, and the ork's laughter died. She eyed him suspiciously.

“What is wrong with you, elf? If you have brought plague aboard ship—”

Griffith leaned over the side of the bed, made use of the bucket. Rolling back, limp and shivering, he said, “I swear to you, Quai-ghai, my wife and I are seasick. First time…on a boat…”

Quai-ghai bent over Damra, sniffed at her. The ork did the same for Griffith.

“I never heard the like,” the ork said. “Seasick in a dead calm in the harbor. Still, you
are
elves. Wait here.”

Turning, she left the room, banging the door again. Damra flinched, gritted her teeth. The ork had hung the lantern from a hook in the ceiling. The lantern swayed back and forth with the motion of the ship. Damra felt her stomach heave and shut her eyes.

The ork returned with another bang of the door. She held a crockery bowl in one hand and a mug in the other and thrust the bowl in Damra's face.

“Eat this.”

Damra shook her head, turned away in misery.

Griffith propped himself up on one elbow. Taking the bowl from the ork, he eyed it warily. Inside was a thick, brown paste.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A concoction made from the seeds of the thorn apple,” said Quai-ghai.

“But that's poison!” Griffith exclaimed, horrified.

Quai-ghai shook her head. Golden earrings flashed in the light, as did a golden eyetooth. “Not if the seeds are distilled and mixed with the proper ingredients. The remedy is very old, a gift from the sea gods. Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—an ork is born whose own fluids are not in tune to the motion of the sea. Like yours, the fluids rise when the waves dip and dip when the waves rise. When that happens, he is sick, and we give him this.”

She gestured at the gooey paste. “This settles the fluids. First you will sleep. When you wake, you will feel better.”

Griffith continued to eye the paste dubiously. “I'm not sure—”

“Oh, for the gods' sake!” Damra gasped in Tomagai, snatching the bowl from him. “Being poisoned couldn't be any worse than this!”

She dipped a finger in the paste, brought it to her lips. The smell was not unpleasant, seemed to have a soothing effect. She nibbled a bit of the paste. Her stomach heaved, but she managed to gag it down.

Griffith shared the paste with her. “At least when we die, we'll be together,” he said to her.

Quai-ghai handed them the mug of cool, clear water. She insisted that they drink it down, for, she said, the sickness drained their body of fluids. She stood watching them, the gold tooth thrusting up over her upper lip.

“Either she's waiting for us to drop dead or get better,” Damra said. “I can't tell which.”

Griffith did not answer. He had fallen asleep. Damra felt sleep steal over her, sleep so soft and heavy that it was like sinking into a thick, feather mattress.

“Damra of Gwyenoc,” said a soft voice.

“What is it?” she answered drowsily. “Who is there?”

“I must speak to you. Can you hear me, understand me?”

“I'm sleepy,” she mumbled. “Let me sleep.”

“This is important. Time flows by swiftly. I must speak to you now or not at all.”

The voice was familiar. Damra felt a thrill at the sound of it and the thrill roused her. She opened her eyes.

The room was dark, for the elves were far belowdecks, and there were no windows. She could not see the speaker, but she knew his voice.

“Silwyth?” Damra was more confused than astonished. The sickness dulled her mind, or perhaps the drug. Anything seemed possible, even the unexpected appearance of the old elf on an ork ship in the middle of the Arven River.

A hand, strong and supple, closed over her wrist.

“It is Silwyth,” he said.

Lifting her hand, he guided her fingers to touch his face. She could feel the leathery skin, the folds and creases of the myriad wrinkles that were a testament to his age and the hard life he had led. She noted that his face was wet, as was his hand.

She called to mind the last time she had seen Silwyth, in the house of the Shield of the Divine. He had saved her life, then, prevented her from eating the poisoned food given her by the Vrykyl, the Lady Valura.
He had saved the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone from capture by the Vrykyl and placed the Sovereign Stone in her care. He had, by Griffith's account, saved her husband's life.

All this he did, so he claimed, to try to make reparation for the sins he'd committed during the time he was servant to Prince Dagnarus.

Feeling as this were part of a dream, not certain that it wasn't, Damra said confusedly, “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“As I told you in the house of the Shield, my life is devoted to following the Lady Valura. She meets on the other side of the river with her master, Lord Dagnarus. They discuss their plans for Tromek.”

“Their plans? What are their plans?”

“The Lady Valura has seduced the Shield, drawn him into the Void. He has become a Void worshipper, a fact he keeps secret from the living. He cannot keep such a loathsome secret from the dead, however. His own ancestors have repudiated him, will no longer come to aid him. Nor can he keep such a thing secret from the Wyred. They work against him. He has no need of them,” said Silwyth. “The Shield has the Void. Void cultists from Dunkarga and Karnu and Vinnengael work their foul magicks for him. Not openly, of course. Not now. That may soon change.”

Damra shuddered, sickened, but not surprised.

“He was ever an evil man, scheming and calculating,” she said. “The Void was already inside him.”

“The Void is inside each of us,” said Silwyth. “Thus the gods warned King Tamaros, when they gave him the Sovereign Stone. Do not split it open, the gods said, ‘for inside you will find a bitter center.' Yet, impatient and eager to bring this gift of the gods to the world, he refused to heed their warning. Once I thought him arrogant, and I blamed his arrogance for the disaster that he brought down upon his realm, upon his own family. Now that I am older, I believe that he truly thought he was acting for the best. If there was pride involved, it was the pride of believing that he knew what was best.”

Damra paid little heed to Silwyth's words. It is the way of the old to ramble. She cut him short.

“Who cares for this ancient history. What of the Tromek? What of my people?” she demanded. “What is happening to them?”

“The Shield and the Divine wage war against each other. Their troops have met in two separate battles. Victory has not yet been determined,
either way, but with each meeting, the Divine loses a little more ground. It is only a matter of time.”

“What horror is this?” Damra was dismayed. “Are you saying that the Divine will lose this war?”

“The Void is ascendant in the world,” said Silwyth. “The Void's power is on the rise, as the power of the elements wanes. ‘The center is bitter,' the gods warned Tamaros. So long as the Sovereign Stone remained intact, the Void was contained. When the Stone was split, the Void was unleashed. The Dagger of the Vrykyl surfaced after lying long hidden, and now the Void dominates. When the Shield wins—and he will win, for the Divine is not strong enough to stop him—he will hand Tromek over to Dagnarus, and the Shield will publicly worship him as Lord of the Void.”

“This is monstrous!” Damra cried.

“What is?” Griffith murmured sleepily. “What's wrong?”

“Sleep, dear one,” she said soothingly, sorry to have wakened him. “Nothing is wrong. Go back to sleep.”

He sighed deeply and rolled over.

Waiting until she heard his breathing even out, she said softly, “I must return to Tromek. I must bring the Divine the power of the Sovereign Stone—”

“No!” Silwyth exclaimed. His hand closed over her wrist with bruising force. “Tromek is the last place you must go, Damra of Gwyenoc! Valura expects that you will do just this, and she plans to lie in wait for you. You have earned her enmity, Damra. Valura blames you for her failure to bring her lord both the elven and the human parts of the Sovereign Stone. She has vowed to kill you and drag your soul to the Void.

“She and Dagnarus know you are here in New Vinnengael. They know you visited the palace. The young king is a Vrykyl named Shakur, one of the eldest and most powerful. You fought him at the Western Portal. He recognized you. The Vrykyl are searching for you even now. Valura is searching…”

“How do you know all this?” Damra demanded, her suspicions of Silwyth returning. “How do you know what this Valura thinks and what she and her evil lord plot? How did you find me? How do you come to be on this ship? Perhaps the answer to these questions is that you are Vrykyl yourself.”

“If I were a Vrykyl, Damra of Gwyenoc, you would already be dead.
I gave you my reasons in the house of the Shield. As for Valura, I have been following her, as I told you. I have listened to them plotting together. They take care to keep their voices soft, but I hear the very whispers of their souls. How not? Once, our souls were intertwined, tangled in a knot that they cannot now unravel. The Void is ascendant. But it has not yet won. The gods and other forces continue to fight against it.”

“But how can I fight if I am not to return to my homeland?” Damra asked, exasperated. “What good is the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone if it remains hidden away? Where am I supposed to go, and what am I supposed to do?”

“I have thought on this long, Damra. For many hundreds of years, in fact. The only way to reduce the power of the Void is to return the Sovereign Stone to those who made it.”

Damra blinked at him. Sick and weary, she was finding it hard to follow his reasoning. “The gods made the Sovereign Stone. You want me to return the Stone to the gods? Now, when humans have just found their part of the Stone? They would grow strong, and we elves would dwindle. Is that your idea?”

“I do not speak of returning only the elven portion. All four parts of the Stone must come together in the location where the Stone was given to Tamaros—the Portal of the Gods.”

Silwyth is an old man, Damra said to herself, and old men have strange fancies, harking back to the days of their youth. It would be impolite to challenge him, and I don't want to start an argument. I am too tired.

The medicine the ork had given her was working. She was no longer nauseated. She could endure the gentle rocking of the ship without feeling her stomach rock with it. Weak and wobbly, she wasn't going to be going anywhere for a while, and neither was Griffith. They would not be in fit shape to travel until tomorrow or the next day. By then, Shadamehr would be on board and she could explain matters to him and perhaps even obtain his help to return to her homeland. For that was where she intended to go, back to Tromek. And she would take the Sovereign Stone with her.