Journey into the Void (33 page)

“This Dagnarus, the new King of Vinnengael, is he the one they call the Lord of the Void?”

Wolfram nodded.

“But what has he to do with us?” Kolost demanded.

“He has a great deal to do with us,” said Wolfram. “If you want the Sovereign Stone back.”

Kolost's eyes widened in astonishment, then narrowed in anger. “He stole our Sovereign Stone!”

“I think his minions stole it,” said Wolfram. “And murdered the Children.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” said Wolfram bluntly. “I don't see how we can ever be sure.”

“Then how do we get the Stone back?”

“You can't,” said Wolfram, draining the last of his ale. “Call it Tamaros's curse, if you like, or the dwarves' own curse. They should have cared for the Stone while they had it, not after it was gone.”

He rose to his feet. “I bid you a good night and good fortune, Kolost.”

“You're leaving Saumel?”

“In the morning.”

“But aren't you going to help us?”

“There's nothing I can do,” said Wolfram shortly.

Kolost walked him to the door and opened it for him.

“I wish you'd—” Kolost stopped in midsentence. His gaze shifted to a point behind Wolfram.

“What?” demanded Wolfram irritably, whipping his head around to look. “What's out there?”

“Nothing. My mistake,” said Kolost, shrugging. “Have a good journey.”

“I intend to,” stated Wolfram.

He peered intently up and down the street, but the hour was late, and most dwarves were in their beds. The street was empty. Wolfram glanced back suspiciously at Kolost.

The clan chief stood in the door, watching him.

Wolfram was not looking forward to spending the night in the bloodstained tent, but it was the least he could do for them, the murdered Children of Dunner. It was his punishment, his penance. With a parting wave at Kolost, Wolfram trudged into the night.

Kolost smiled to himself as he watched Wolfram depart.

Trotting along behind the dwarf, as he wended his way through the dark city streets, was the shimmering form of an enormous silvery gray wolf.

W
OLFRAM RETURNED TO THE TENT THAT HAD ONCE HOUSED THE SOVEREIGN
Stone and made ready for the long night. He did not build a fire in the firebox, though the air was chill. He wanted to keep the darkness. He'd seen too much for comfort already. Before he slept, he sat on the floor of the tent and gathered the souls of the murdered Children around him. He'd never seen them before, so he gave them the faces of the Children he'd known, of those who had been his friends and companions. He wondered what had become of them. Dead, he thought, like Gilda. Guilt-ridden, like himself.

“You must not blame yourselves,” Wolfram said, speaking to the Children. “That darkness the Fire magus talked about. The one that choked him. That was the Void. The creatures who took the Sovereign Stone were creatures of the Void. They're terrible beings, these creatures called Vrykyl. I've seen two of them, and I never want to see any more. They have the power of the Void behind them. Maybe if every dwarf in the city had risen up against them, they could have stopped them. But maybe not. You didn't stand a chance.”

Wolfram sighed, sat in silence for some time. At last, he said, “You may have lost the Sovereign Stone, but you kept the most important treasure. You kept your souls. Because you stood up to the Vrykyl, because you fought back, the Void couldn't take you. We'll get on without the Stone. We've gone for two hundred years without it. We'll manage two hundred more. I want you to go to sleep now. There won't be any more
bad dreams. I promise. Go to sleep and when you wake up, you'll run in the sunshine. Run forever. The Wolf will be with you.”

The faces of the Children were solemn. He didn't know if they understood or not. He hoped they did. He made himself comfortable, a bit too comfortable, seemingly, for the next thing he knew he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because the tent flap opened and Gilda stood there.

Wolfram had banished her memory a long time ago. He had not brought her face to mind for twenty years. Seeing her, he regretted that. He realized how much he'd missed her. He found a comfort in her. The pain was still in his heart, but it was no longer a torment to him. The pain was sad and softened, warmed with the happiness of their childhood days together.

“Gilda!” he said softly. “I'm glad you've come back to see me. It's been a long time.”

“Too long,” she said.

“I don't understand, though. Why did you come to me now?”

“I came when you called, Brother,” Gilda answered with her own mischievous smile. “Don't I always when you call?”

“No. Hardly ever, as I remember. Yet,” he added, his tone softening, “we were never far apart for long.”

“We've been apart for twenty years. I was beginning to think you would never call me, Wolfram.”

“I don't remember calling you now, Gilda,” he said, embarrassed. “I'm glad you came, but I don't remember—”

“But you did remember,” she said. “You summoned the memory that you buried in the long grass with my ashes.”

“I had to forget,” Wolfram said. “I couldn't have gone on otherwise. I buried part of myself in that grave.”

“I know,” she said gently. “And that is why I have walked with you all these years, though you never knew it.”

“You have walked with me?” He was astonished and yet he wasn't. Part of him seemed to have known this already. He looked at her closely. “What are you wearing, Gilda? It looks like armor.”

“It is armor,” she said, smiling. “The armor of a Dominion Lord.”

The armor was of dwarven design, not the full plate and chain-mail armor of a human Dominion Lord. Gilda wore the leather armor favored
by dwarves, the type of armor Wolfram had worn for the few, brief, anguished moments he'd been a Dominion Lord. The leather was hand-tooled and adorned with silver, with silver buckles. She wore silver bracers on each wrist and a silver open-faced helm. A silver battle-ax hung at her side. She wore on her breast two medallions, both adorned with the head of a snarling wolf.

“I don't understand,” said Wolfram, just for something to say. Reaching beneath his shirtsleeve, he pinched himself, hard. He was ready to wake up now.

“This is not a dream, Wolfram,” said Gilda. “I am here, and I have the two medallions. Our medallions. The ones Dunner gave us when we became Dominion Lords.”

“But you didn't!” Wolfram protested angrily. “You died! They killed you!”

“I can explain, if you are ready to hear,” Gilda said. Removing the second medallion from her neck, she held it out to him. He glowered at it, did not touch it.

“When I underwent the Transfiguration, Wolfram, the Wolf appeared to me. He said that the time was coming when the power of the Void would be on the rise, and the power of the other elements would wane. In that dark time, the Dominion Lords of all the races would be called upon to fulfill their oath and bring the pieces of the Sovereign Stone together. The choice would be theirs, and upon their choices would hang the destiny of the world.

“You were the Wolf's chosen, Brother. You would be a Dominion Lord, the only dwarven Dominion Lord, for after us, the power of the Void would grow strong, and no others would come to seek Dunner's grave.”

“It should have been you, Gilda,” Wolfram said. “You should have been the Dominion Lord. Not me. You wanted it more.”

“I wanted it for the wrong reasons. My heart was filled with hatred and vengeance. I wanted to be a Dominion Lord in order to get back at our people, to punish them for what they had done to you and me and the rest of the children. I wanted to punish them for the suffering of our parents and for the hardships we endured. The Wolf saw into my heart, and he made me see the Void that was inside me. He gave me a choice. I could fail the Test and live out my life as I was—bitter and vindictive
and filled with rage. Or I could be your guide as you walked into the darkness.

“I chose the latter, Wolfram,” said Gilda. “I have walked with you a long time, though you have not known it.”

“What do you mean—you've walked with me?”

Gilda grinned. “Do you recall the bracelet the monks gave you? The bracelet that would grow warm when you met someone you were supposed to follow? The bracelet grew warm when you met Jessan and Bashae, didn't it?”

Wolfram nodded, perplexed.

“The bracelet's warmth led you to Lord Gustav and the Sovereign Stone.”

“Yes,” said Wolfram.

“The warmth did not come from the bracelet, Wolfram,” Gilda told him. “The warmth you felt was the warmth of my hand.”

“I wish you had told me,” he said, blinking back tears.

“I thought you would understand without the need for words. We always understood each other before.”

Wolfram looked into his own heart and saw the truth.

“I did understand, Gilda. But I was angry. I pretended to be angry at the gods, but I wasn't. I was angry at you. You were all I had left in the world, and you chose to leave me.”

“I didn't leave you. You know that now. Take the medallion, Wolfram. Be what you were meant to be. The Wolf has need of you.”

“I don't know…It's been so long…”

Wolfram woke with a start to find the half-light of early morning filtering in through the hole at the top of the tent. He had fallen asleep under the bloodstained horse blanket and, with a shiver, he threw it off. His dream was fresh in his mind, so fresh that he looked around the tent in the hope that he might see Gilda again.

The tent was empty, except for himself. Still, he felt a peace he had not known in many years, a peace he hadn't found in all his restless wanderings. He stood up, stretched to get the kinks out. Leaning down to pick up his pack, preparatory to departing, he felt something thump on his chest.

He looked down to see a silver medallion, adorned with the head of a snarling wolf.

The medallion of a Dominion Lord.

“You're back,” said Kolost, opening the door to Wolfram's knock.

Wolfram stumped inside. “You don't seem surprised.”

Kolost smiled. “I saw the Wolf follow you last night. I knew the Wolf would reason with you.”

Wolfram grunted, not inclined to explain. “I've had an idea. I'm going to do a fire-scry myself. I think I may be able to see through the darkness.”

Kolost opened his mouth to protest that Wolfram was not a Fire magus and thus could not cast such a spell. He closed his mouth in time, before the words came out. One does not question the mysteries of the Wolf.

“I think you might want to be there,” Wolfram continued. “I'd like to do it while it's early yet. And we should seal off the area. Keep everyone out. I'm not sure what might happen.”

“That can be arranged. I will meet you at the tent,” Kolost promised.

Wolfram nodded and trudged back to the temple, as the Children of Dunner knew it. He clasped the medallion in his hand as he walked. The morning was cold, and the metal was warm. He felt, when he touched it, as if he were touching Gilda's hand. He thought of her remark about the bracelet on his wrist, and he shook his head wryly. He might have known. She was always getting him into trouble when they were kids. She was the adventurous one, forging ahead. He, the more cautious, lagged behind. He wished he had kept the bracelet, but he returned it in a fit of pique to Fire.

Reaching the plaza, Wolfram ducked into the tent and halted, alarmed. Someone had been here in his absence. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. He poked and peered around, but could find nothing missing, nothing rearranged. He emerged from the tent, walked around the plaza, staring intently into any recessed area, where someone might be hiding. He found no one. He did not discount his feelings, however. Instinct had saved his dwarf behind more than once. He'd be sure to tell Kolost to keep a sharp lookout.

Wolfram had brought with him some wood and kindling, enough to build a small fire. Returning to the tent, he picked up the maltreated firebox and placed the wood inside. Then he sat back and stared at it, bemused. Wolfram was no magus. He'd never cast a magic spell in his life,
had never wanted to cast one. Now he was going to attempt a grand spell, one that even experienced magi find difficult.

Wolfram wasn't worried about casting the spell. He was worried because he wasn't worried. He felt a warmth inside when he thought about the spell, a knowledge that he could do it, even though he had no idea how. And that bothered him.

Kolost peered inside the tent. Wolfram stepped out to meet him. The plaza had been sealed off. Dwarves stood guard at the entrance, waved away the curious.

“Someone's been in the tent,” said Wolfram. “Tell your people to keep a sharp lookout.”

“They're good men. They know what to do,” said Kolost. “Who was it? Do you have any idea?”

Wolfram shook his head. “Just a feeling, that's all. Come inside. Sit there.” He gestured to a place near the firebox. “If the spell works, we'll see everything just as it happened that night, as if we were there ourselves. But, of course, we won't be. It's just visions of the past.”

Kolost nodded to show he understood and took his place where Wolfram indicated. Kolost sat down with knees akimbo, placed his hands on his knees, and looked expectantly at Wolfram.

“I'm going to…uh…change,” Wolfram said, his face flushing with embarrassment. He didn't want Kolost to think he was trying to show off or that he was putting on airs. “It's part of being a Dominion Lord. The armor, that is.”

Wolfram eyed Kolost askance, waited tensely for him to ask questions. Kolost said nothing, however, merely indicated that he was ready to begin. Wolfram was relieved. He was liking this dwarf more and more.

Clasping his fingers tightly around the medallion, Wolfram brought to mind the remembered image of Gilda in her magical armor and, the next thing he knew, he was clad in armor of his own: fine, supple leather with silver buckles and a silver helm.

Kolost's eyes widened at the sight, but he kept his mouth shut.

The wondrous armor was as familiar as Wolfram's own skin, made him feel secure and protected. He knew immediately what he had to do to cast the fire-scry spell. The magic flowed from him at will. He had only to think it and it was done. The wood in the firebox burst into flame.
Wolfram stared into it, his thoughts concentrating on the night another fire had burned in this box.

Images of myriad nights flooded into his mind, so many that he was overwhelmed. He needed something to connect him to the one particular night. Reaching out his hand, he grabbed hold of a corner of the bloodstained horse blanket.

Fire swirled in the firebox, and the tent was filled with smoke, thick and choking. Wolfram couldn't breathe. He heard Kolost coughing and gagging.

“Get out!” Wolfram ordered the Void.

The smoke roiled furiously. Then there came a wolf's howl. A gust of wind shook the tent, sent the edges to flapping. The wind sucked the smoke out of the tent, carried it away. Wolfram could breathe again. He heard Kolost gulp air in relief.