Journey into the Void (52 page)

Cracking like a whip, a tendril snaked out, grasped Damra around the ankle and dragged her off her feet. Another curled around her neck, tightening, choking, and her illusions vanished. Damra writhed on the floor, tearing at the tendril to try to free herself, but the tendril was made of the Void. She grasped at nothing, yet nothing was killing her.

Shadamehr made a leap for her.

“Stand clear!” cried the Captain.

She swung her sword, which had been forged in the holy fires of Mt. Sa 'Gra. The blessed weapon severed the Void, freed Damra. With the downward stroke, the Captain sliced off Dagnarus's outstretched hand.

Dagnarus laughed for he assumed the Void would protect him. But Valura's dying warning proved true. The blessed weapon had the power to harm him. He saw his hand lying on the floor, the fingers upturned and curling in on themselves, the red blood pooling around the severed limb.

Then the pain hit, and the fury. He reared up. The Captain plunged the blessed sword into his chest.

The weapon pierced the black breastplate, slid through the Void, but it could not reach his heart. One of the many lives he had stolen, perhaps that of Valura or Shakur, perhaps that of the wretched Jedash or one of the countless others, died for him.

Using his left hand, Dagnarus plucked the sword from his body and, grasping it tightly, he squeezed it in his hand. The metal began to glow red, as if it were once again in the forge fire, and the sword dissolved, flowed into a silvery pool at the feet of the Lord of the Void.

The portions of the Sovereign Stone lay together in a pool of blood. His severed hand crawled toward the pieces of the Sovereign Stone, leaving a gruesome trail behind.

The fingers of the severed hand could touch the portions of the Stone, but only touch. The four parts would not come together.

“One part is still missing,” said Gareth.

“What part is that?” Dagnarus demanded, pain making him angry. He clasped his wounded arm to his body, glared down at the bloodstained crystals. “There are four here. My father split it into four.”

“He split it into five. The fifth part, I gave you. I gave it out of love, though it cost me my soul.”

“Speak plainly, Patch,” said Dagnarus. “No more riddles. I had enough of those during those damned Tests I took for a Dominion Lord.” He paused, drew in a breath. “That's the answer! You didn't want me to take the Tests. You tried to stop me by bringing me a dagger.

“K'let!” Dagnarus ordered peremptorily. “Give me the Dagger of the Vrykyl.”

There was no reply.

Dagnarus turned to look into the darkness that massed at the edges of the dome of heaven. K'let stood in the shadows, the dragon-shaped dagger clasped tightly in his hand.

“K'let,” said Dagnarus, “I forgive your treachery. I will make you a king. Bring me the dagger.”

Slowly, the taan walked forward. He did not wear the armor of the Vrykyl. He kept the guise of the taan that he had been, his pallid hide roped with scars, the claws on his feet scraping the stone, his face unreadable to those who saw only its bestial snout and fangs and small, alien eyes.

But they were not empty, those eyes. Not empty as the eyes of a Vrykyl should have been empty. The life had not completely drained out of them.

Only one person in the room saw the shadow in the taan's eyes. Raven, huddled against the wall, his soul shrinking as he watched spirits of the dead walking, spirits of the murdered speaking, husks of the dead dying. The darkness was too deep for Raven to see Dagnarus, the light too bright for him to see the Dominion Lords. He could see K'let, however. He had come to know K'let in their long journey together. Raven saw the shadow, like smoke drifting over still, dark water.

K'let came to stand before Dagnarus. K'let held out the Dagger of the Vrykyl, held it in his palms, the blade resting on one hand, the hilt on the other.

“You were different from the others, K'let,” said Dagnarus. “You alone gave your life to me willingly. You alone had the will to rebel against me. I have always said that we were brothers.”

“So you did,” said K'let. “And you killed your brother.”

Clenching his hand over the hilt of the dagger, the taan drove it with all his strength into Dagnarus's breast.

The taan gave a hideous cry as the Void shredded him, tore him apart, ground his flesh and bone into nothing. All that remained of him was his skull, bestial, alien. Grinning.

Dagnarus stared down at it and, at first, it seemed he might laugh. But then he felt the pain. Understanding, swift and terrible, came to Dagnarus. K'let had buried the dragon-shaped dagger deep. The accursed blade, sharp as hatred and bitter as jealousy, pierced the black armor. The Dagger cut through all his lives in a single slice to find the last life, Dagnarus's own, buried at the bottom.

Dagnarus slumped to the floor, crouched on his hands and knees above the four shards of the Sovereign Stone.

A spasm of agony made him clench his teeth, but he did not scream or cry out. Grimacing, he clasped the hilt of the Dagger and, with a gasp, wrenched it free.

Blood spewed from the wound, flowed over the four parts of the Sovereign Stone. Dagnarus, his hand shaking, placed the Dagger in the center. He began to gather up the pieces of the Sovereign Stone, one by one.

“My son.” Tamaros came to stand beside the shuddering body of his
dying child. “The gods are merciful. They are loving of their children, and they understand their weakness.”

“Like you, Father?” Dagnarus struck at the spirit, tried to banish it. “Patch!” he gasped, blood trickling from his lips. “Patch, come to me!”

Gareth came to him, stood over him, looked down on him.

“You promised me the god's greatest gift,” Dagnarus said accusingly.

“The gods hold it out to you. You have only to ask for it, as I did.”

Gareth knelt beside Dagnarus, looked into the eyes of his prince. “The gods' greatest gift is forgiveness.”

Dagnarus raised his gaze to the dome of heaven. “No,” he said defiantly. “
You
will ask forgiveness of me. For I have…the Sovereign Stone.”

Grasping the four parts of the Sovereign Stone in one hand, he jabbed the Dagger of the Vrykyl, wet with his life's blood, into the heart of the jewel.

The Sovereign Stone began to glow, its light at first pale and chill, then growing stronger, brighter, more radiant, shining with the aching brilliance that was the mind of the gods. The pure fire illuminated Dagnarus, so that for an instant he was ablaze with argent light. And then the darkness consumed him.

N
O ONE SPOKE.

The Dominion Lords were too awed to be able to put their feelings into words.

Raven was too shaken.

Shakur was too busy assessing his situation.

The Vrykyl had overheard the conversation between Dagnarus and K'let. Shakur knew Dagnarus meant to banish him to the Void. Shakur might have stopped K'let from slaying Dagnarus, but he chose not to. Expecting to fall into the Void with his master, Shakur was astonished to find himself still here.

He did not know why, except that the Void was always.

Astonishment gave way to pleasure. The Dagger of the Vrykyl was gone. He remained. He had the Blood-knife, made from his own bone. He could continue to use it, continue to steal souls, continue his existence, an existence he hated, but one that might come to be bearable.

“For now I have no master,” said Shakur. “No one to order me about, to tell me to go hither or do this. I am free to go where I please, do what I choose. Other Vrykyl are out there. Other Vrykyl who, like me, are now masterless. They will need a leader and who will they look to, now that their lord is gone, but to me.”

Shakur had long had plans of his own, plans that he could now put into action. The Vrykyl was not as ambitious as Dagnarus. Shakur had no desire to rule the world. He had other, more modest goals. Shakur slid
into the Void, became one with the darkness, and left before the Dominion Lords could find him.

 

The Dominion Lords looked into the dome of heaven, saw only a ceiling made of wood covered over with plaster, a small room furnished with a bed, a desk, a chair. A single candle, burning with an unwavering flame, stood on the desk. The open door led out into a corridor. The Captain, with a shrug, turned and, ducking her head, walked out the door.

Wolfram started to follow, then he stopped, paused, looking for Gilda. He could not see her and he knew then that he would never see her, not until he joined her to run with the Wolf. But she would always be with him. Sighing, smiling he walked out alone.

Raven retraced his steps down the dark corridor, hoping to avoid talking to anyone. He couldn't move very fast, however, for he had no light, his body was bruised and aching, and he was trembling with the reaction to the overwhelming and mind-numbing sights he had witnessed. He had not gone very far, therefore, when he heard heavy footfalls clumping behind him.

“Wait up, Raven,” called out Wolfram.

Raven came to a halt, turned around.

The dwarf had found an oil lamp. He flashed the light in Raven's face, then on his own. “It's me, Raven. Wolfram. Didn't you recognize me?”

“I didn't,” Raven lied. “I'm sorry.”

“Probably that silver armor I was wearing,” said Wolfram, looking embarrassed. The armor was gone, replaced by the dwarf's own comfortable traveling clothes. He looked quizzically into Raven's face. “What are you doing here, anyhow?”

“It's a long story,” said Raven. “And one that I don't have time to tell. It is good to see you again. I wish you a safe journey.”

Raven started off down the dark corridor.

“Hey, wait!” Wolfram said, doggedly pursuing him. “You're alone. You don't have a light. Do you know the way?”

“No,” said Raven. “But I'll manage.”

He kept walking, and so did the dwarf.

“Where are you going?” Wolfram asked.

“Back to my people.”

“Back to Trevinici lands, huh.” Wolfram grunted. “Well, good luck to you.”

“Thank you,” said Raven. He wasn't going back to Trevinici lands, but the dwarf didn't need to know that. “What about you?”

Wolfram could see that the Trevinici was trying to get rid of him. He slowed down, halted.

“I'm going back to my people,” he said, startled to find out that was his destination. He hadn't known it until the words came out. He felt the need of some explanation. “I'm a Dominion Lord. The only one they've got.”

Raven didn't understand, but he nodded. “Good luck to you,” he said, and went on his way.

 

Damra waited for Shadamehr, who was aimlessly poking and prodding, looking at the bed, peering into the desk and underneath the chair.

“Lord of Seeking,” she said. “Truly a wise choice for you. What do you seek now?”

“I don't know. Some crumb of the Stone, maybe. Left behind by accident.”

“I don't think you will find one,” she said.

“No. I suppose not.” He sighed, stood up. He looked at her, his expression somber. “The Sovereign Stone is gone. That makes me the last of the Dominion Lords.”

“Then you must be a good one,” said Damra gravely. “And live for a very long time.”

“Two of the Vrykyl are gone, but one escaped,” said Shadamehr. “I saw it disappear into the shadows, just before the light faded. They are still out there, and who will fight them?”

“The power of the Void has diminished, but it will never be vanquished. Nor should it, as Tamaros said. That is the lesson we have learned.”

“I suppose you're right,” said Shadamehr. He gave another look around. “I wonder who will be given the Sovereign Stone again.”

“Let us hope it is someone wiser than we have been,” said Damra.

“Or more foolish,” said Shadamehr with a mischievous grin. “Where will you go now, Damra?”

“To find Griffith. We must return to Tromek, take up the battle against the Shield. What about you?”

“I'll find Alise. Or rather,” Shadamehr amended cheerfully, “she'll find me. We always seem to, you know. Find each other. It's the knowing what to do with each other that is the hard part.”

He looked out the room and into the darkness, an emptiness that was yet filled with possibilities. He thought at last he was beginning to understand, if only just a little.

“The throne in Vinnengael is vacant,” suggested Damra, half-teasing, wholly serious. “Perhaps you will be king someday?”

“The gods forfend!” said Shadamehr, alarmed at the thought. “Being a baron is trouble enough. Perhaps Alise and Ulaf and dear old Rigiswald and I will go help the Captain take back her sacred mountain. Or maybe we'll go hunt down these Vrykyl. Or come help you and Griffith fight the Shield.”

“Thank you,” said Damra firmly. “But I think we can manage.”

“Well, if you're sure…”

He took one last look about the room, the Portal of the Gods. Then, bending down, he started to blow out the candle.

“No,” said Damra, stopping him. “We are meant to take it with us.”

Shadamehr lifted up the candle, carried it out the door, and shut the door behind him. Turning around to look, he saw only darkness.