Guardians of the Lost by Margaret Weis

Vrykyl but a pile of greasy, gray dust.
    The sight frightened Wolfram more than the most hideously mutilated corpse, raised the hair on the dwarf’s arms and neck and prickled the hairs of his mustache on his lip. The taint of Void magic was so thick it made him queasy.
    Jessan was not bothered by it. Trevenici are very literal minded. They believe in what they can see, what they can feel, what they can touch. They know that there are certain things in nature that cannot be explained. What keeps the bird in the air and the man on the ground? No one knows. Does this matter to the bird? Not in the least. Nor does it concern the Trevenici. Thus they view magic—without awe, without even much interest, so long as it has nothing to do with them.
    Down on all fours, Jessan peered into the empty black armor in search of the body. “Where did it go?” His voice echoed hollowly. His breath displaced the greasy dust, sending it into the air in little puffs.
    Wolfram felt a fear-laugh bubbling up in his throat. He choked it back, knowing that once he started, he would not be able to stop.
    His tongue was thick, his mouth dry. “Leave it be, son.”
    He put his hand on the young man’s arm.
    Jessan cast the dwarf a fierce, proud look and Wolfram swiftly withdrew his hand, noted that it trembled visibly.
    â€œIt’s a creature of the Void,” Wolfram tried desperately to explain. “A thing of evil. Best not to come too close or look too hard or ask too many questions.”
    Jessan glowered, eyes dark and accusing. “Pah! You are a coward. You tried to run away. I saw you.”
    â€œSo should you, if you had any sense,” Wolfram returned. “And because of me, you’re still alive, young warrior. But don’t thank me on that account!”
    Favoring his hurt ankle, he limped as far from the black armor as he could manage. “You should tend to the knight now,” he said over his shoulder. “He made you his squire.”
    â€œThat is true.” Jessan left off poking and prodding the black armor—much to Wolfram’s relief.
    Jessan knelt down, searched for some means to remove the man’s helm. His hands fumbled at the visor, hoping to lift it, but it seemed to be welded shut. There were no visible fastenings, buckles or leather straps.
    â€œHow does this come off?” Jessan asked helplessly.
    Staring in awe-struck confusion at the knight’s intricate armor, he reverently touched the gleaming helm, that was fashioned in the image of a fox’s head. Jessan was not the least impressed by a vanishing corpse, but the beautiful armor of the Dominion Lord brought the young warrior near to tears.
    â€œI have never seen the like,” he added, awed. “Not even Uncle Raven’s armor is as wonderful as this.”
    Wolfram could well imagine that. Uncle Raven’s helm probably doubled as his stew pot.
    â€œYou won’t find the secret to that armor,” Wolfram advised the young man. “He’s a Dominion Lord. Their armor is magic, given to them by the gods.”
    â€œThen why does he lie injured?” Jessan demanded, personally affronted. “Surely the gods would protect him.”
    â€œNot from that evil,” said Wolfram, glancing askance at the empty black armor. “That was a Vrykyl, a creature of the Void, as I keep trying to tell you. Still, you have a point. I did not see the thing hit him. Perhaps the knight has only fainted.”
    â€œBashae!” Jessan summoned his companion peremptorily. “Leave the horse. He can look after himself. Come here and see if you can figure out what is wrong with the knight.”
    â€œThe horse grieves for his master,” Bashae reported, approaching their group with wary awe. “The horse spoke to me of their journey. He says that their foe attacked his master almost a fortnight ago. The master battled it and thought he had killed it. But the thing did not die.