Journey into the Void (32 page)

Because Saumel's Unhorsed dwarves interacted with people of other races and actually got along with them (for the most part), Dunner had believed that the dwarves of Saumel would be more open to new ideas, and so he had brought the Sovereign Stone to the city of Saumel. He had been disappointed in his belief. The Stone had been there for over two hundred years, with no one but a group of ragged children to pay any attention to it.

“Trust the dwarves to want the Stone only after it is gone,” Wolfram told Kolost.

Ranessa set them down without incident in the foothills of the mountains. Her landings had improved on the flight, as had her disposition. Fire had been right. Away from Dragon Mountain, alone with her thoughts, Ranessa was finding her dragon skin much more comfortable.

Still and all, she was Ranessa. Wolfram had a sinking feeling that this good behavior must be putting a strain on her and that it couldn't last. He was right. No sooner had they set down than Ranessa shifted her form to that of her disheveled and wild-looking human self and announced her intention of coming to Saumel with them.

“No,” said Wolfram flatly.

“And why not?” Ranessa demanded, bristling.

“Because where we must go, humans are not allowed,” said Wolfram. “If you tried to enter those parts of the city, you would be turned back, maybe even arrested.”

Ranessa gnawed her lip and regarded Wolfram with deep suspicion. “I think you're lying. I'm going to go ask Kolost about this.”

“Go ahead,” said Wolfram.

Ranessa marched over to Kolost, who was repacking his gear. After speaking to him, Ranessa returned, her steps slow while she thought through her next ploy, which turned out to be flattery and charm.

She brushed back her untidy hair from her face to smile at Wolfram. “You will tell them to let me through. You're an important person. A Dominion Lord. Kolost says so. They'll listen to you.”

“Girl, dear,” said Wolfram, “I left Saumel twenty years ago, and I haven't been back since. No one knew me before I left. No one will know me now. Besides, the law is the law, and not even the Wolf himself could break it. What if I had walked into the village of the Trevinici, alone and uninvited? What would your people have done?”

Ranessa glowered at him. “You expect me to stay here, alone, with nothing to do and no one to talk to while you're out enjoying yourself?”

“I'm not going to be enjoying any of this,” Wolfram growled. “Besides, dragons are solitary creatures, so Fire tells me. You're supposed to enjoy being alone.”

“I do,” she said haughtily. “I much prefer my own company to the likes of you. I just thought you might need help. Considering that you're always getting into some sort of difficulty.”

Wolfram ignored her last remark. “There is one possibility.”

Ranessa eyed him warily. “What's that?”

“You could shape-shift into a dwarf.”

“I will not!” she stated with indignation.

Wolfram shrugged. “Well, then, I guess there's not much to say.”

Ranessa realized too late that she'd walked into his trap. “I've a good mind to fly off and leave you stranded here.”

“I do thank you for bringing us here, girl,” said Wolfram in mollifying tones. “Kolost and I both thank you. I wish you could come, I truly do, but you see that it's impossible. If you feel the need to go back to Dragon Mountain, I understand. But I'd like you to stay. If you do,” he added, struck by inspiration, “I'll bring you a gift.”

“You swear by this Wolf you're always talking about?” Ranessa eyed him suspiciously.

“I swear by the Wolf,” said Wolfram.

“Very well,” said Ranessa loftily. “You may go. I will wait here for you and for my gift. But you better not be long about it.”

“Trust me,” said Wolfram. “I don't plan to linger.”

 

Wolfram and Kolost entered Saumel on foot, passing through the Dwarf Gate, that took them into the heart of the city, as opposed to the Outsider Gate, that led into areas reserved for members of other races. Kolost had told Ranessa that Wolfram was an important personage among the dwarves, but, in truth, the important personage was Kolost. Knowing the customary reserve of the Unhorsed, Wolfram was surprised to see Kolost greeted with smiles and the backslaps that are the marks of respect among dwarves, and even a few brotherly handclasps.

Wolfram was amazed at this, for the Unhorsed were usually withdrawn and reticent around clan dwarves. Watching Kolost walk the streets crowded with dwarves, many of them afflicted with some sort of handicap, Wolfram saw that in the City of the Unhorsed, Kolost was an Unhorsed. He knew their language, he knew their customs. He knew and shared their pain.

“And when he rides the plains, he is a clan dwarf,” said Wolfram, impressed. “He knows
their
ways. He understands
their
problems. He can live in both worlds without offending either. I think I have underestimated him. He may well conquer the world.”

As he had figured, Wolfram was looked upon as an oddity, a dwarf who deliberately chose to live life apart from his own people, to live life among the Outsiders or, as some termed them, the Outlandish. He found his name recorded in the census book, however, though they had to flip
through a great many pages to find him. His name was written in alongside the names of his mother and father, both of whom were now dead. Gilda's name was next to his. He saw the notation beside her name, written in his own hand.

Dead.

He turned away.

Because he was in the census book, all areas of Saumel were open to him.

Although Wolfram had deliberately pushed all memories of the city of his birthplace out of his mind for twenty years, he still knew his way around. The city had grown, of course, and changed, but the old part was carved into the side of a mountain, and it had not changed.

Saumel was a city built by Earth magic, human magic, a gift of some long-dead Nimorean Queen in return for a forgotten favor done for her by the dwarves. The old city was like a honeycomb, with houses and shops built into the rock. With the numbers of the Unhorsed constantly growing, Saumel had been forced to expand. The city now spread into the bottom of the gorge and ran up the sides, spilled out into the river basin and meandered around the lake.

Wolfram had been born and raised in the old part of the city. The faces he saw as he walked the familiar streets were the same faces he'd seen when he left. Or rather, their expressions were the same: grave, solemn, without joy. Joy was galloping freely over the plains, something these dwarves would never know. The wonder was that more of the children of the Unhorsed did not seek their fortune out on the plains, as had Kolost. But dwarves have a strong sense of duty and family. Most know and accept their lot in life.

Like Kolost, Wolfram had rebelled against his lot. Unlike Kolost, Wolfram had turned his back on his people. Comparing himself with Kolost, Wolfram felt ashamed.

He trudged along the stone streets, worn smooth by generations of dwarven boots, his eyes roving here and there, seeking out familiar sights. He opened the gates and let memory flood through him. The memories weren't the bitter torment he'd feared. They left him feeling warm and softly saddened.

“I'm sorry,” said Wolfram, glancing at his Kolost. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you would like to share my dwelling,” said Kolost.

Wolfram shook his head. “No, thank you. I know where I must spend this night. It is the least I can do for them.”

Kolost understood. “You want to go there now?”

“Yes,” said Wolfram. “Enough time's been wasted already.”

“I see you know the way,” said Kolost, as they turned into a little-used side street.

“I am not ever likely to forget it,” said Wolfram.

T
HE DWELLING PLACE OF THE SACRED SOVEREIGN STONE WAS A
tent in the old part of the city. Most of the homes and shops of this part of Saumel were built cavelike into the mountain, following the natural shape of the mountain, so that some dwellings and businesses wandered up the mountainside and tumbled down.

Dunner had pitched the tent in a large plaza intended to be a recreational area by the human builders, who did not know that recreation was something unknown to any dwarf—clan or Unhorsed. The plaza was unique in that no dwelling places or businesses were built near it. The plaza was surrounded on three sides by rock; the fourth looked out over the lake.

Dunner had hoped that the dwarves would build a permanent temple for the Sovereign Stone, but that had not happened. The tent was the same tent Dunner had pitched there over two hundred years before. The tent was a bit more worn than Wolfram remembered, with new patches sewn crudely into the leather. He couldn't imagine what was holding the tent together.

All in all, the tent and the plaza were just as he remembered it, except for one thing—the number of dwarves gathered in the plaza.

Wolfram regarded the crowd in amazement. This had always been a quiet, out-of-the-way corner. He wondered what they were doing here.

“They come to pay tribute to the Children,” said Kolost, answering Wolfram's unspoken thoughts.

“A little late,” Wolfram remarked bitterly.

“They know that now.”

Wolfram halted on the outskirts of the crowd. The dwarves stood in silence, giving the dead the gift of their respect before going back to their daily lives. The sight of all these people standing around the tent, so different from what he was used to, made Wolfram uneasy. Then it made him angry.

“They are trying to make amends,” Kolost explained.

Wolfram snorted. Walking up to the tent, he listened to the stillness that came from inside. He didn't have the heart to enter. Not yet.

“Tell them to leave, will you?” he said to Kolost. “I can't think with all these people about.”

Kolost seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. He went to the dwarves, spoke to them in quiet tones, and, after a few curious glances at Wolfram, the dwarves left the area. All except one. A female dwarf remained behind, holding her ground with stubborn tenacity. She wore her hair loose, unbraided—a sign of mourning among some dwarves. She said nothing, either with her mouth or her eyes. She watched in silence, not venturing near, but not leaving either.

“She is the mother of one of the murdered Children,” said Kolost in a low voice. “She was the one who found them.”

Wolfram glanced at her, then looked away. “She can stay.”

He paused another moment outside the tent, then, taking a deep breath, he plunged inside. Kolost followed after.

The tent was typical of those used by the clan dwarves. Made of hides, it had an opening in the top that was used for both light and ventilation. The interior of the tent was cool and shady, and it took a moment for Wolfram's eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight gleaming off the rocks outside. When he could see, he stood confused, for images of what had been overlaid what was and, for a moment he couldn't tell one from the other. So much was the same and, at the same time, so much was horribly different.

“All is as it was,” said the woman standing at the entrance. “I wouldn't let them touch anything. Except they took away the bodies. My child runs with the Wolf now.”

“I'm sorry,” said Wolfram gruffly.

“You are one of the Children, aren't you?” the woman said.

“How did you know?” Wolfram asked, too startled to deny it.

“You're not like the rest of us,” said the woman. “You don't look guilty. You look angry. I knew one of the Children would come back, sooner or later. That's why I made them leave everything the way it was. That's why I waited.”

“Am I the only one to come?” Wolfram asked.

“That I have recognized,” the woman answered. “If others came, their anger did not burn the way yours does.”

Wolfram could recall them all. There had been six in his time, counting him and Gilda. He wondered what had happened to the rest, decided he didn't want to know.

Kolost held back, staying out of the way, keeping quiet. The woman remained outside.

Wolfram walked closer to the altar—a horse blanket spread atop a wooden box. The horse blanket was worn and threadbare from long exposure to the elements. It had been worn in Wolfram's day, but no one ever thought of replacing it, for legend had it that the blanket had belonged to Dunner himself. The Sovereign Stone had been given the place of honor atop the blanket. Placed directly beneath the opening in the tent, the Stone sparkled with myriad rainbows when the sun was overhead, rainbows that skipped and danced with the children.

The wooden altar had been smashed to splinters. The horse blanket lay trampled on the floor. The crude iron firebox had been overturned. The Sovereign Stone, suspended from a thong made of braided horsehair, was gone.

Wolfram knelt beside the blanket, lifted it to the light. The blanket was covered in reddish brown stains that had soaked deep into the fabric, stiffened it. Even after three months, there was no mistaking the smell of blood.

Wolfram glanced around. The walls of the tent, that had once danced with rainbows, were splattered with same brownish red stains.

Wolfram let the blanket fall from his hand. He searched halfheartedly through the debris, knowing he wouldn't find the Sovereign Stone among the broken bits of wood, but thinking he should at least make the effort. Whoever had murdered the Children had taken the Stone. That's why they had come.

He left the tent. Kolost came out after him, his face solemn.

The woman stood outside the tent, huddled in her shawl. “I am Wolfram, one of the Children of Dunner. Kolost has asked me to help him locate the Sovereign Stone and avenge the deaths of these Children.”

The woman nodded. “My name is Drin. I will tell you what I know. My boy was one of the Children of Dunner. I didn't think much of it, at the time. I didn't care where he went, so long as he wasn't up to mischief. I am a weaver by trade. I work at home, and he was out from underfoot. That's all I cared about.”

As she spoke, a tear slipped out of one eye and trailed down her face. “His father is a bootmaker, and he was very strict with Rulff. He wanted him home at supper, and he would send me to fetch him if he was late. When I would come here, I'd find him and the other Children sitting inside the tent, telling stories or some such thing.”

Another tear, the mate of the first, slid down the other cheek. “When I came to fetch him, they would playact like I was an enemy, trying to steal the Sovereign Stone. They would grab up the sticks they used for swords and surround the Stone, ready to defend it.”

She gazed up at Wolfram. “When I found his body, he had a stick in his hand. He lay right inside the entrance, the first to be struck down.”

Wolfram wiped his sleeve over his nose.

“After supper, Rulff would go back,” the woman continued, her voice soft. “Some of the Children had no homes, he told me, and they slept here. He always came home, though. We waited until midnight. His father was furious. I went to find him…”

“I am sorry, Drin,” said Wolfram, clearing his throat.

“There is one odd thing,” she said. “There were nine Children of Dunner. There were only eight bodies.”

“Maybe one of the children stayed at home that night,” said Wolfram.

“No.” Drin was positive. “This girl was one who had no home. She'd been recently abandoned by her clan. I had her to supper sometimes. Her name is Fenella, and no one has seen her since that night. I've asked around.”

Wolfram rubbed his chin. “Well, now, I'll take that into consideration. Do you have any idea who did this?”

Drin shook her head. “I paid a Fire magus to cast a scrying spell to try to see what had happened. He said his vision was blocked. He couldn't see anything. But there was something strange about it. He gave me my money back and told me not to try again.”

Wolfram glanced at Kolost, who nodded.

“Is there anything else you want to know?” Drin asked.

There was, but not from the boy's mother.

“No,” said Wolfram, “thank you for your help.”

“I can go home now,” Drin said heavily and, hugging her shawl close, she turned and walked away.

Wolfram watched her depart, then turned to Kolost.

“How did the Children die? What sort of weapon was used?”

“Her boy, Rulff, had been stabbed with a sword. The others suffered similar wounds, from what I was told. One little girl had her skull crushed.”

“No one heard anything?” Wolfram demanded, frustrated. “No screams or cries for help?”

Kolost shook his head. “I asked those who live near here. If anyone did hear cries, they said that the Children were always shrieking and carrying on. No one paid any attention to them. What do you make of this missing child?”

“Likely she'll turn up,” said Wolfram. “Why would anyone murder eight children and carry one off? She probably ran away and is too terrified to come back.”

“That was my thought,” Kolost agreed.

“This Fire magus. I take it you know him?”

“I already talked to him. He was no help.”

“Still, I'd like to hear what he has to say.”

“He lives not far from my dwelling. We will talk to him, then you will be my guest for dinner. Are you sure you don't need a place to spend the night?”

Wolfram glanced back at the tent. “I'm sure.”

 

The Fire magus was an elderly dwarf, who made his living selling his scrying skills.

“In eighty years of scrying,” he said, “I have never encountered anything like it. Do you know about casting, sir?”

Wolfram did, but he pretended he didn't to hear what the old man had to say.

“To cast a scrying spell, I have to do it in a place where a fire has burned in the past. I build a new fire where the old one burned, and I
can see in the flames what happened in the area. The Children generally built a fire for warmth at night, so there was no difficulty with that. I went to the tent and I built my fire and I looked into the flames. I saw the Children sitting around the fire, their faces glowing in the light. One said something about hearing a noise. He went to the tent entrance and”—the magus spread his hands—“that was all.”

“What do you mean, that was all?” Wolfram asked.

“A blackness rose before my eyes, as if the entire tent was filled with a thick, choking smoke. I could see nothing through it. I could hear nothing. I could not even see the flames of the fire. I felt as if the smoke were suffocating me. The feeling was a horrible one and very real. I lost my concentration, and the spell ended.”

“Did you cast another?”

“I would not,” said the Fire magus grimly. “I gave her back her money. It was the curse,” he added in dire tones.

“What curse?” Kolost demanded. “You said nothing of this when I talked to you before.”

“Ask him,” said the magus, and slammed his door shut in their faces.

“Did you try some other Fire magus?” Wolfram asked Kolost that night over their shared supper.

“I spoke to some others, but by then the old man had told his hair-curling tale, and no one was willing to risk it. Thus, my trip to Dragon Mountain.”

Wolfram pushed aside a half-full trencher and reached for his mug. He had a terrible thirst, but no appetite. Kolost's dwelling, like that of all dwarves held only his gear and a few cooking utensils. He and Wolfram squatted on the floor. The cook fire was their only light.

“What did the old man mean about the curse?” Kolost asked. “He didn't mention that before.”

Wolfram took a long pull at his ale. Reaching for the pitcher, he filled up his mug again.

“I suppose he means,” he said, wiping foam from his lips, “the Curse of Tamaros. You never heard of it?”

Kolost shook his head.

“Trust some old graybeard to recall it. It seems that when King Tamaros split the Sovereign Stone, he made the recipients swear an oath that should any one of the four races ever be in need, the members of the
other three should come to the aid of the one, bringing with them their portions of the Sovereign Stone. You know of the fall of Old Vinnengael?” Wolfram cocked an eye at Kolost, who nodded.

“What you probably don't know is that when the Lord of the Void threatened to attack Vinnengael, King Helmos sent to Dunner for his aid, required him to bring the Sovereign Stone to Old Vinnengael. According to legend, the Children of Dunner refused to hand over the Stone, saying that dwarves had naught to do with the wars of humans.”

“Nor should we,” said Kolost grimly.

“True, but it broke the oath,” said Wolfram. “The elves did not send their portion, nor did the orks. Old Vinnengael fell. And thus many believe that the oath-breakers were cursed by Tamaros from the grave and that they will be called to account someday.”

Kolost frowned. Dwarves are not as superstitious as orks, nor are they as bound up in their own honor as elves. Dwarves do have a strict moral code, however, and to break one's sworn word is a very serious misdeed, one that had often resulted in a dwarf being cast out of his clan.

“If the human king did curse us, it was his right,” said Kolost.

“I suppose so,” said Wolfram, unconvinced. He took another pull at his ale.

“Do you think we are cursed?” Kolost asked.

“Yes,” said Wolfram after a moment's thought. He waved his hand. “I don't believe that rot about Tamaros cursing us from the grave. From what I've heard, he was a good man who wouldn't have cursed a flea for biting him. What I do believe is that we have inherited the problem. The living should have dealt with the Lord of the Void two hundred years ago. Just like those who heard the screams of the Children,” he added bitterly. “Instead of crawling out of their warm beds to go to find out what was wrong, they pulled the blankets over their heads and went back to sleep.”