Wrath of A Mad God

Book Three of The Darkwar

RAYMOND E. FEIST

Copyright

HarperVoyager An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.com

First published by HarperVoyager 2008

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2008

Cover Illustration © Nik Keevil

Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007244317

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007347506

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To Lacy,

With thanks for sticking around and keeping your sense of humour.

Table of Contents

Cover page

Title page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Map

Chapter One: Escape

Chapter Two: Gambit

Chapter Three: Upheaval

Chapter Four: Empire

Chapter Five: Captives

Chapter Six: Slaughter

Chapter Seven: Pursuit

Chapter Eight: Threats

Chapter Nine: Discoveries

Chapter Ten: Summons

Chapter Eleven: Accord

Chapter Twelve: Disclosure

Chapter Thirteen: Secrets

Chapter Fourteen: Disaster

Chapter Fifteen: Investigation

Chapter Sixteen: Sun-Elves

Chapter Seventeen: Prelude

Chapter Eighteen: Invasion

Chapter Nineteen: Counterstrike

Chapter Twenty: Return

Chapter Twenty-One: Truth

Chapter Twenty-Two: Warnings

Chapter Twenty-Three: Onslaught

Chapter Twenty-Four: Oblivion

Epilogue

Continue the Adventure …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Map

• CHAPTER ONE •
Escape

MIRANDA SCREAMED.

The searing agony that seized her mind relented for the briefest moment, and in that instant she found what she had been seeking. The preponderance of her awareness was occupied with the battle of wills with her captors, but a tiny fragment – a disciplined fraction of her consciousness – had been readied. Over the days of interrogation and examination she had used every respite to partition off this one sliver of her intellect, to somehow overcome the blinding pain, and observe. During the last four encounters with the Dasati Deathpriests she had achieved that detachment and willed her body to withstand the pain. It was there, she knew, inflamed nerves protesting about the alien energies coursing across the surface of her mind, probing it, seeking insights into her very being, but she had learned to ignore physical pain centuries before. The mental assaults were more difficult, for they attacked the root of her power, the unique intelligence that made her a supreme magician on her home world.

These Dasati clerics lacked any pretence of subtlety. At first they had ripped open her thoughts like a bear pulling apart a tree stump looking for honey. A lesser mind would have been savaged beyond recovery on the first assault. After the third such onslaught, Miranda nearly had been reduced to idiocy. Still, she had fought back and knowing there was no victory if there was no survival, she had focused all her considerable talents first on endurance, then insight.

Her ability to shunt aside the terrible assault and focus on that tiny sliver of knowledge she had gained kept her sane. Her determination to overcome her captivity and return with that knowledge gave her purpose.

Now she feigned unconsciousness, a new ploy in her struggle with her captors. Unless they possessed finer skills than she had so far encountered, her charade was undetected: to them she appeared incapacitated. This counterfeit lack of awareness was her first successful conjuration since her captivity began. She risked just enough body awareness to ensure that her breathing was slow and shallow, even though she suspected the Deathpriests who studied her still knew too little about humans to understand what physical signs to observe. No, her struggle was in the mind, and there she would eventually triumph. She had learned more about her captors than they had about her, she was certain.

Individually the Dasati were no match for her, nor even for one of her more advanced students back home. She had no doubt without the snare concocted by Leso Varen to disorient her, she would have easily disposed of the two Deathpriests who had seized her. But Varen was a force to reckon with, a necromancer with centuries of experience, and she alone would be hard pressed to best him: three times one of his bodies had been killed that to her knowledge, by multiple foes and taken by surprise, but still he survived. Between Varen and the Deathpriests, she had been quickly overwhelmed.

Now she knew the Deathpriests for what they were, necromancers of a sort. Throughout her life, Miranda had chosen to ignore clerical magic, as was common for most magicians on Midkemia, as being some sort of manifestation of the gods’ powers. Now she regretted that oversight. Her husband Pug had been the only magician with whom she was familiar who had some insight into clerical magic, having made it a point to learn as much about it as he could, despite the tendency of the various orders to be secretive. He had learned a great deal about this darkest of magic because of his repeated encounters with the Pantathian Serpent Priests, a death cult with their own mad ambitions. He had confronted several attempts on their part to wreak havoc throughout the world. She had listened indifferently to several discussions on the subject, and now she wished she had paid closer attention.

Now, however she was learning by the minute; the Deathpriests were clumsy and imprecise in their investigation and often revealed as much about their own magical nature as they learned about hers. Their lack of subtlety worked in her favour.

She heard her captor leave, but kept her eyes closed as she slowly let her consciousness return to the upper levels of her mind, every instant clinging to the insight she had just achieved. Then clarity returned. And with it, pain. She fought back the urge to cry out, and used deep breathing and mental discipline to manage the agony.

She lay up on a slab of stone, but stone that had its own evil nature, a sense of energy alien to Miranda. Simply touching it was uncomfortable, and she was strapped to it without benefit of clothing. She was drenched in perspiration and nauseous. Her muscles were threatening to cramp and with her limbs restrained, the additional pain was unwelcome. She employed every trick at her disposal to control the urge, calm herself, and let the pain flow away.

For almost a week she had undergone the Dasati examination, enduring humiliation as well as pain, as they sought to learn as much about her and the human race as possible. She was secretly grateful for their heavy-handed approach for it provided her with two advantages: they had no experience with human guile and they vastly underestimated her.

She put aside her speculation on the Dasati, and turned her attention to escape. Once trapped by Leso Varen and the Deathpriests, she had quickly realized that her best course of action was to give her interrogators just enough truth to make credible everything said. Varen, his malignant consciousness currently inhabiting the body of the Tsurani magician Wyntakata, had not appeared since she had been taken, a fact for which she was grateful, as he would have given the Dasati a far greater advantage in dealing with her. She knew he had his own mad agenda and had only been in league with the Dasati for as long as it suited him, and cared nothing for the success of their insane ambitions, only for his own.

She opened her eyes. As she expected, her Dasati captors were gone. For an instant she had worried that one might have lingered quietly to observe her. Sometimes they spoke to her in a conversational manner as if chatting with a guest, at other times they subjected her to physical violence. There seemed little pattern or sense to their choices. She had been allowed to keep her powers at first, for the Deathpriests had been supremely confident and had wished to see the scope of her abilities. But on the fourth day of her captivity, she had lashed out at a Deathpriest with the full fury of her magic when he had presumed to touch her naked body. After that, they had reined in her powers with a spell that had frustrated every attempt at using her magic.

The screaming nerves of every inch of her body reminded her that they were still in torment. She took a long, deep breath and used all her skills to lessen the pain until she could ignore it.

Miranda took another deep breath, and tried to see if what she had just learned from her captors was true or merely grasping at vain hope. She forced her mind to work in a new fashion, applying a minor spell, saying it so softly there was barely any sound. And the pain slowly leached away! At last she had discovered what she had sought.

She closed her eyes, reclaiming the image she had gained while being tortured. She knew intuitively that she had found something critically important, but she was still uncertain of exactly what it was. For an instant she wished she could somehow communicate with Pug or his companion Nakor, for both had keen insights into the nature of magic, down to the very bedrock of the energies used by magicians – what Nakor insisting on calling ‘stuff’. She smiled slightly and took another deep breath. She would have laughed had she not been in so much discomfort.

Nakor would be delighted. Her newfound intelligence on this realm of the Dasati was something he would take great pleasure in: the ‘stuff’ of this realm was similar to those energies familiar to every magician on Sorcerer’s Isle, but it was … how would Nakor put it, she wondered? It was bent. It was as if the energies wanted to move at right angles to what she knew. She felt as if she were learning to walk all over again, only this time she had to think ‘sideways’ to move forward.

She reached out with her mind and let mental ‘fingers’ touch the buckles of her restraints. It took almost no effort for her to unfasten them. Quickly she freed herself.

Sitting up, she flexed shoulders, back and legs, feeling circulation returning and a soreness that seemed to run to her marrow. Miranda had lived a lifetime measured in centuries, but she looked no more than forty years of age. She was slender, but surprisingly strong, for she took delight in walking the hills on Sorcerer’s Isle and taking long swims in the sea. Her dark hair was dusted with a little grey, and her dark eyes were clear and youthful. The effects of magic, she had come to believe, gave a long life to certain practitioners.

She took another deep breath. The churning in her stomach subsided. At least the Dasati hadn’t used hot irons or sharp implements, being content for the time being merely to beat her when they thought it might provide better information.

If she ever saw Nakor again she’d kiss him, for without his insistence that magic was somehow composed of a fundamental energy, she would never have understood what made it work differently here within the Dasati realm …

She was certain she was still on Kelewan, in the black energy sphere she had observed moments before she was captured. This ‘room’ was nothing more than a small compartment and high above was an inky void, or at least a ceiling so high it vanished into the gloom. She glanced around, studying what she should see clearly, now that she wasn’t lashed to the slab. The enclosure was curtained off, but she could see the curve of the dome rising above her head, for the stanchions and rods holding the curtains were only about ten feet high. The material was uniformly dark grey-blue in colour, if she could judge from the light in the room, a pulsing glow from an odd-looking grey stone placed upon a table nearby. She closed her eyes and let her mind extend and after a few seconds she encountered what could only be the shell of the sphere.

How then, she wondered, had the familiar rules of magic been replaced by Dasati rules? It was as if they brought their own world with them …

She stood up. Suddenly she understood. They weren’t just going to invade Kelewan; they were going to change Kelewan, convert it into a world in which they could comfortably live. They were going to colonize it!

Now it was imperative that she get free of this prison, find the Assembly at once and return to warn the Great Ones. The Dasati needed only to enlarge this sphere. It would not be easy, but it was straightforward. Given enough energy and this sphere would encircle the entire world, converting it into one like those in the second realm of reality, or at the least turn it into one like Delecordia, the world Pug found that somehow existed between the two realms.

She sent out her mental probes. Keeping them tiny and weak, preparing to withdraw them the instant they touched anything sentient, lest they alert a Deathpriest or some other Dasati that she was free.

She glanced around the room, saw her clothing tossed into a corner and quickly dressed. While she had no problem appearing naked in the halls of the Assembly of Magicians, and while the Tsurani were far less concerned with nudity than many of the cultures on Midkemia, there was something simply undignified about it.

Miranda hesitated. Time was pressing, yet she wished she could linger, investigate more, and return to the Assembly with better intelligence. For a moment she wondered if she could contrive a spell to make her invisible, so as to creep around in this … bubble. No, better to carry the warning and return with the might of the Assembly behind her.

She closed her eyes and probed at the shell above her. It was painful, and she quickly withdrew, but she had learned what she needed to know. It was the boundary between her realm and the Dasati realm, or at least the part they had carried with them to Kelewan. She would be able to traverse it, but she required more time to prepare.

Wondering how many captors were with her, she sent out a tiny fibre of perception, a minuscule feeler to sense life energy. It should arouse no notice if she managed it correctly. She felt a brushing of energy as faint as a dandelion seed carried by the breeze touching the cheek, and she recoiled instantly, lest she be noticed. That was one. Again and again she quested, until she was certain that only two Deathpriests were presently in the dome.

She took a deep breath, and readied herself. Then she hesitated. She knew the wise choice would be to flee, to find her way to the Assembly as quickly as possible and then return with a host of Black Robes to crush this intrusion into Kelewan. But another part of her wished to know more about these invaders, to better understand who they faced. A sense of dread in her completed the thought: in case Pug did not return from the Dasati world.

She was confident in her power that she could overcome both Deathpriests, and perhaps take one of them prisoner. She would welcome the opportunity to return the hospitality shown to her. She knew however that Varen had most likely returned to the Assembly, and when asked as to her whereabouts, would have simply said she had returned to Midkemia unexpectedly. It could take weeks for word to reach Kelewan that she hadn’t returned home and then the Assembly would begin enquiries into her disappearance. One of the disadvantages of being who she was, of being an agent for the Conclave, was the secrecy associated with much of what she did. It could be a month or more before she was missed.

She studied the ‘wall’ nearest to her. Probing gently with her senses, she tried to feel the rhythm of the energies. This would be a tricky proposition as she knew little of the surrounding terrain, and a long-distance jump to a familiar spot, say in the Assembly, through the dense magic sphere also presented unknown problems.

She decided it was wiser to jump a short distance away, to a rise she remembered because the lordsbush flowers were in vivid bloom, something she had noticed just before cresting the rise and seeing the sphere.

Then she felt a presence. At once she turned only to find a Dasati Deathpriest raising a device of some sort, pointing it towards her. She tried her best to apply what she had learned about magic here and sent out a spell which should have merely knocked him off his feet. Instead, she felt energies rush from her, as if yanked from her body, and saw the shocked expression on the alien face as he was slammed by an invisible force that propelled him through the curtain.

Beyond the curtain was a wall constructed of some alien wood. It exploded as the Deathpriest’s body crashed through it and into the cubicle beyond. His lifeless corpse left a bloody smear on the floor and Miranda was surprised to note that Dasati blood was more orange than red.

The unexpected ferocity of the attack had one unanticipated benefit. The second Dasati Deathpriest was lying on the floor, stunned senseless by the impact of his companion as he had flown across the gap between them.

Miranda quickly inspected the two Dasati, and confirmed that the first was dead and the second unconscious. She looked in all directions to see if anyone else might have escaped her probes but after a moment she accepted that she was now alone with a corpse and a potential prisoner.

With one wall shattered and another knocked flat she finally saw her prison in its entirety. The sphere was no more than a hundred feet in diameter, partitioned by wooden walls and curtains inside which were two pallets with bedding, a table with writing materials and another of those alien stone lamps, a chest and a large woven mat over the earth floor. She quickly scouted the other spaces and found an almost incomprehensible array of items. The one thing she failed to discover was the device that had provided the means to make the journey from the Dasati realm to Kelewan. She had anticipated something large, similar to the Tsurani rift machines, or at least something like a pedestal upon which to stand, but nothing presented itself as an obvious choice.

She was already angry, and now the frustration of the moment drove her to the edge of rage. How dare these aliens come into this realm and assault her! All her life Miranda had battled a violent temper, a heritage from her mother and while she maintained a relatively calm demeanour most of the time, when she finally lost that temper her family had long since decided that giving her a wide berth was the only practical choice.

A stack of papers, oddly waxy, lay around the floor, and Miranda knelt to grab a handful. Who knew what was written upon them, in this alien language? Perhaps some insight into these creatures might be forthcoming.

She heard a soft groan, and saw the still-living Deathpriest start to twitch. Without thought she stood up, took one step and kicked his jaw as hard as she could. ‘Ow!’ The side of the Dasati’s jaw felt like granite. ‘Damn me!’ she swore, thinking she had broken her foot. With the papers in one hand, she knelt next to the unconscious form and gripped the front of his robe. ‘You’re coming with me!’ she hissed.

Miranda closed her eyes and turned the entirety of her attention to the walls of the sphere she was probing until she felt the peculiar flow of energy and then attuning herself to it as if turning pegs on a lute to change the pitch of the strings.

When she judged herself ready, Miranda willed herself outside, a short distance from the other side of the wall. She screamed as her entire body was torn for a moment by cascading energies, as if ice were cutting into her nerves, then she found herself kneeling on the dry grass in the hills of Lash Province. It was morning, which for some reason surprised her and she could barely stand the pain that came even from breathing.

Her entire body protested the reversion to her native environment. Whatever the Dasati had done to provide her with the means to live in their realm, or that piece of it under the dome, the translation back was agony.

The Deathpriest appeared to have also survived the transition. She knelt beside him, clutching his robe as if it were the only tether she had to consciousness. A moment passed and the pain lessened, and after another, she felt herself beginning to adjust. Taking a deep, gasping breath, she blinked to clear her vision before immediately closing them again. ‘That’s not good.’

Taking another deep breath, she ignored the searing pain that opening her eyes had caused her, and willed herself to the Pattern Room in the Assembly.

Two magicians were in the room when she appeared. She cast her captive down in front of them. ‘Bind him. He is a Dasati Deathpriest.’ She did not know if these two were privy to the knowledge Pug had passed to the Assembly since the Talnoy had been brought to Kelewan for study, but every Great One living had heard of the Dasati. Finding one lying unconscious at their feet caused them to hesitate for a moment, but then the two Black Robes hurried to do her bidding. The stress of escape and bringing a captive had taken Miranda to the end of her already-depleted resources. She took two staggering steps, and then slumped unconscious to the floor.

Miranda opened her eyes and found herself in quarters reserved for her or Pug when they came to visit. Alenca, the most senior member of the Assembly of Magicians sat on a stool beside her bed, his face composed and untroubled, looking like a grandparent waiting patiently for a child to awaken from an illness.

Miranda blinked, then croaked, ‘How long?’

‘One afternoon, last night, and all this morning. How are you?’

Miranda sat up, gingerly, and discovered that she was wearing a simple white linen shift. Alenca smiled, ‘I trust you don’t object to our having cleaned you up. You were in quite a state when you appeared before us.’

Miranda swung her legs out of bed and carefully stood up. Her cleaned, pressed robes waited for her on a divan in front of a window overlooking the lake. The afternoon sun sparkled off the water. Unmindful of the old man watching her, she slipped off the shift and put on her robes. ‘What about the Dasati?’ she asked, inspecting herself in the small mirror on the wall.

‘He is still unconscious, and it appears, dying.’

‘Really?’ said Miranda. ‘I didn’t think his injuries that severe.’ She looked at the old magician. ‘I need to see him and we need to call as many members as you can to the Assembly.’

‘Already done,’ said the old man with a chuckle. ‘Word of the captive quickly spread and only those members too ill to travel are absent.’

‘Wyntakata?’ asked Miranda.

‘Missing, of course.’ He waved Miranda through the portal to the hallway and followed her, falling into step beside her. ‘We assume he is either dead or had some hand in this.’

‘He’s not Wyntakata,’ said Miranda. ‘He’s Leso Varen, the necromancer.’

‘Ah,’ said the old man. ‘That explains a great deal.’ He sighed as they rounded a corner. ‘It’s a pity, really. I was fond of Wyntakata, though he tended to ramble when he spoke. But he was clever and always good company.’

Miranda found it difficult to separate the host from the parasite that occupied it, but realized the old man was sincere in his regret. ‘I’m sorry you lost a friend,’ she said, ‘but I fear we may lose a great many friends before this business is over.’

She stopped at a large intersection and glanced at her companion, who indicated they should turn down a long corridor. ‘We have the Dasati in a warded room.’

‘Good,’ said Miranda.

Two grey-robed apprentice magicians stood guard at the door. Inside the room a pair of Great Ones stood beside the figure of the Dasati Deathpriest.

One, a man named Hostan, greeted Miranda while the other kept watch over the unconscious figure on the sleeping pallet. ‘Cubai and I are convinced something is very wrong with this … man.’

The magician inspecting the Deathpriest nodded. ‘He has not shown any signs of reviving, and his breathing appears to be more laboured. If he were human I would say he has a fever.’ He shook his head in dismay. ‘But with this creature, I don’t have a remote idea what to look for.’

Cubai was a magician who was far more curious about healing arts than most Black Robes, since it tended to be the province of healers of the Lesser Path of magic and clerics of certain orders. Miranda thought him an ideal choice to be watching over the Deathpriest.

Miranda said, ‘While a prisoner, I deduced some things about these creatures.

‘The Dasati are not that different from humans, at least in the sense that elves, dwarves and goblins are similar: roughly human-like in form, standing upright on two legs, eyes in the front of a recognizable face, all the rest you can see, and I know they have two genders, male and female, the women bearing their young within their bodies. I gleaned that much while being closely examined by the Deathpriests. I can’t speak their language, but I did pick up a word or two along the way and now have some sense of what they presume about humans.’

She turned to a handful of magicians who had come into the room when word had spread she was up and with the Deathpriest. She raised her voice so all could hear. ‘They are physically stronger than us by a significant margin. I judge it to be a quality of their nature magnified by their presence on this world. But I think they have some difficulty with the differences between the two worlds, hence the dome of energy they created in which to reside. But one of their average warriors can overpower all but the most powerful human, be it Tsurani warrior or Kingdom soldier.’ No time like the present to start planting the idea of Midkemian help, she thought.

She looked down at the Deathpriest and tried to reconcile what she saw with what she had observed while he and his companion had experimented on her. ‘He doesn’t look well, that is clear.’ She leaned over and saw a sheen of moisture on his brow. ‘I think you’re right about the fever, Cubai. I think his colour is pale, but that may be the difference in light in the two …’ Her voice trailed off as she saw the creature’s eyelids flutter. She stepped back. ‘I think he’s waking!’

Instantly two magicians began incanting wards while others readied spells of confinement, but the Dasati did not awake or rise. Instead, with a low moan of agony, his body arched and began to convulse. Miranda was hesitant to touch him and that hesitancy prevented her from stopping him from flopping off the pallet onto the floor.

As he thrashed violently now, his skin started to blister. Not quite sure why, Miranda shouted, ‘Stand away!’

The magicians drew back. Suddenly a flame engulfed the Deathpriest’s body and then a huge discharge of heat and light nearly blinded those standing nearby, singeing hair and causing everyone within proximity to fall back.

The stench was that of sulphur and rotting meat being cooked, and many were gagging from the smell. Moving backwards from the site of the immolation, Miranda saw only the faint outline of a body in white ash on the floor.

‘What just happened?’ asked Alenca, obviously shaken by the experience.

‘I don’t know,’ answered Miranda. ‘I think that outside the dome they are unable to deal with the abundance of energy that we take for granted. I think it proved too much for him and … well, you saw what happened.’

‘What now?’ asked the old magician.

‘We go back to the dome and investigate,’ answered Miranda, assuming command of the situation without being asked. ‘That incursion is a threat to the Empire.’

That alone was reason enough to mobilize the Great Ones of the Empire. Alenca nodded. ‘Not only must we investigate, we must eradicate this dome.’ He turned to another magician and said, ‘Hochaka, would you be good enough to carry word to the Light of Heaven in the Holy City? The Emperor must be made aware of what is taking place, and convey to him our intentions of providing a fully-detailed report after we finish.’

Miranda was amused by the steely tone taken by the old magician: in his youth he must have been an impressive figure. He was the type of man who often surprised others when he took control, a quiet authority figure, effective at gaining attention when other louder voices are demanding it and being ignored.

Miranda followed his lead. Quietly she said, ‘I had to … sense my way around inside the dome before I could escape.’ She paused for effect before saying, ‘I ask that you allow me to guide you in this.’

The Great Ones in the room looked taken aback by the request – a woman, and an outlander at that, leading them? But others looked to Alenca who quietly said, ‘It is only logical.’ With those four words he handed the power of the Assembly of Magicians, the single most puissant gathering of magic on two worlds, over to Miranda.

She nodded. ‘Please ask as many of the Assembly as can be here to gather in the Great Hall of Magicians in one hour’s time. I will tell what I know and suggest what I think should be done.’

Magicians quickly left to use their arts to summon as many of the members of the Assembly as they could reach. Miranda knew that whatever else might be true, once word of a threat to the Empire reached even the most distant member, all would return to hear her warning. Only those out of touch or too ill to travel would not be in the Hall when she explained that the Empire of Tsuranuanni, and the entire world of Kelewan, now faced the gravest threat ever known.

Miranda retired to her quarters. She slumped down onto the soft divan. She dared not lie down on the bed as she knew she would quickly fall asleep again. One night’s rest and a meal didn’t undo the damage the Dasati had wrought on her. She had to stay focused on the task at hand using fear, pain and the need to act quickly as if they were food and drink, for she knew time was working against them.

Whatever processes the Dasati had begun would only become more difficult to interrupt as time went by. A knock at the door announced the arrival of a grey-robed apprentice, one of the few young women now a student of magic. She carried a tray bearing a porcelain pitcher, a cup, and a platter of fruits and breads. ‘Great One, the Great One Alenca thought you might need refreshment.’

‘Thank you,’ said Miranda, indicating that the girl should put the tray down. As soon as she left, Miranda realized she was starving. She fell to eating and quickly felt energy returning to her aching, damaged body. This was one of those times she wished she had been more disposed to study clerical magic, as her husband had. Pug had called upon those arts several times and Miranda knew he would soon have had her feeling as if she had slept a week and had not endured days of humiliation and torture with an incantation or a draught of some foul-tasting but effective elixir.

Thinking of Pug made her pensive. She couldn’t imagine three people better able to withstand the journey into the Dasati realm – the second level of reality as Pug called it. Yet she worried. A complicated woman with complex feelings, Miranda loved her husband deeply. Not with the passionate abandon of youth – she had outgrown that when Pug was still a child – but rather with a deep appreciation of his unique qualities and why they made him perfectly suited for her as a life companion. Her sons had been an unexpected benefit of powerful life-magic, and had proven a blessing she had never anticipated. She might not be the best mother by some people’s judgment, but she enjoyed being one.

Caleb had been a challenge, when it was discovered he possessed no overt talent for the magic arts, especially after Magnus proved to be such a prodigy. She loved both her sons – with that special feeling for a first-born she had for Magnus, and that equally special feeling for the baby of the family, amplified by her awareness of how difficult Caleb’s childhood had been in a community of magic-users. The other children’s pranks had been especially cruel, and Magnus sticking up for his younger brother had been both a blessing and a curse. Still, both children had grown to be men of exceptional qualities, men she looked upon with pride and love.

She sat silently for a moment, then stood up. Those three men – Pug, Magnus and Caleb – were as much a reason as she needed to destroy the Dasati world if need be, for they were more important to her than any three beings in her long history. She found herself growing angry and knew that if he were here, Pug would be telling her to rein in her fiery temper because it only clouded her judgment.

Miranda stretched, ignoring protesting muscles and aching joints. She would find time later to deal with her own physical discomfort. Right now she had an invasion to deal with.

A knock at the door announced Alenca’s arrival. ‘They are here,’ he said.

Miranda nodded. ‘Thank you, old friend.’ She walked with him to the Great Hall of the Assembly of Magicians.

As she anticipated, nearly every seat was filled and the low murmur of voices fell away as Alenca took his position on the podium.

‘Brothers … and sisters,’ he began, reminding himself there were now female Great Ones scattered around the room. ‘We are here at the behest of an old friend, Miranda.’ He stepped aside letting her take his place. No one in the Great Hall needed to be told who Miranda was. Pug’s status as one of the Great Ones had been established even before Alenca had been born, and Miranda benefited from this association as well as being a powerful magic-user in her own right.

‘Kelewan is being invaded,’ Miranda said without preamble, ‘At this very moment, a dome of black energy is being expanded in a vale in the far north. At first I saw it as a beachhead, much like the rift your forebears used to invade my home world.’ The reference to the Riftwar was intentional. She knew that every student in this Assembly had been taught the entire tragic history of that ill-fated invasion in which the lives of so many had been spent in a bid of raw political power. The deadly ‘Game of the Council’ had seen thousands of Midkemian and Tsurani soldiers dead as a ploy on behalf of a political faction in the High Council. Several Black Robes had been party to that murderous plot, to establish the then Warlord and his faction in an unassailable position of power. Only the intervention of Pug, and the rise to power of a remarkable woman, Mara of the Acoma, had changed that deadly game.

Miranda continued. ‘Each of you here knows why the Riftwar was conducted, so I will not lecture you on what you already know. This is not an invasion for political gain, wealth in booty, concessions in victory, or any sort of conventional war.

‘This is not merely an invasion, but the beginning of a colonization, a process that will end with the complete annihilation of every life form on this world.’

That brought a collective intake of breath and murmurings of disbelief. Miranda held up her hands and continued. ‘Those who have studied the Talnoy and the Dasati Deathpriest prisoner, I urge you to disseminate to as many of the other members as to what you know.’

She paused, looking around the room, making eye contact with as many members of the Assembly as possible. Then she said, ‘Here is what I know. The Dasati wish to remake your world. They will change it, utterly and completely, to resemble their own. They will seed every square inch of land taken with their own world’s creatures, from the smallest insect to the largest beast.

‘The water will become poisonous to drink, the air will burn your lungs, and the touch of even the least creature from that world will pull the life out of your body. This is no tale made up to scare children, Great Ones. This is what the Dasati are already doing under that black dome from which I escaped.’

One of the younger members shouted, ‘We must act!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Miranda. ‘Quickly and certainly, but not in haste. I suggest a group of those among us who are most masterful in the arts of light, heat and other aspects of energy, along with those of us who are masters in the arts of living beings – and perhaps we need the most powerful of the Lesser Path magicians we can contact, as well – must go at once to that valley to weigh and study the threat, and then we must destroy the dome.’

‘When?’ asked the young magician who had spoken out.

‘As soon as we can,’ said Miranda. ‘We must contact the Emperor, and we will need soldiers. The Dasati will not sit idly by, I fear, and let us destroy their dome. We are likely to face beings who are unafraid to die, beings who are able to counter our magic, and we will need strong arms and swords to deal with them.’

Alenca said, ‘I suggest you break up in to smaller groups and discuss what has been said and tonight we will reconvene here, after the evening meal. At that time we will discuss Miranda’s warning and choose the course of action most appropriate to this threat.’ He slammed down the heel of his walking stick on the stone floor, emphasizing that the meeting was over.

Miranda turned towards the exit and whispered to Alenca, ‘You asked that youngster to stir things up?’

‘I thought his timing was perfect.’

‘You are a very dangerous man, my old friend.’

‘Now we wait,’ said Alenca. ‘But I think we’ll have a full agreement tonight, and I cannot see any other course of action than the one you suggest.’

As they walked back towards Miranda’s quarters, she said, ‘I hope so, and I hope my plan works. Otherwise we must ready the Empire for war against the most belligerent warlord in your history.’

Two hundred men stood ready, honour guards from four of the nearest estates in the province, answering the call of the Great Ones of Tsuranuanni without hesitation. They were arrayed in two groups, each under the command of a Great One awaiting orders from Miranda. While peace had reigned throughout the Empire for more than a generation, Tsurani discipline and training remained unchanged. These were tough, determined men ready to die for the honour of their lords’ houses.

Miranda and a dozen Great Ones walked slowly up the ridge to where she had first caught sight of the Dasati dome. She spoke softly, ‘Everyone ready?’

Men nodded and glanced at one another. Not one living Great One of the Empire had seen any sort of conflict: the last Great One to die in combat had done so in the Riftwar, more than a hundred years ago. These were scholarly men, not warriors. But these magicians were those best able to bring incredible power to bear if the need arose.

Slowly the thirteen magic-users, arguably the most powerful practitioners of the arcane arts, moved up the hill. At the rise, Miranda actually stood up on tiptoe to peer over, and then she said, ‘Damn!’

Before them was an empty vale, the only evidence of Dasati occupation being a large circle of blackened earth where the sphere had been.

‘They’re gone,’ said one of the younger magicians.

‘They’ll be back,’ said Miranda, turning her back. Taking a breath, she said, ‘I suggest you spread the word to every house in the Empire, that every village and farmstead, valley and dell, every isolated nook and cranny be inspected, searched, and searched again.’ She looked at every face nearby. ‘They will be back, and next time it won’t be a small dome. I think next time they’ll be coming to stay.’

• CHAPTER TWO •
Gambit

JOMMY FROWNED.

Sitting under a canvas cloth hastily rigged to provide shelter from the pitiless rain, he hugged his knees to his chest, he said, ‘But what I don’t understand is why?’

Servan, huddled next to the young officer, replied, ‘We don’t ask why; we simply follow orders.’ They sat on a hillside, overlooking a distant cove: a vantage point that prevented anyone from arriving without being noticed. The problem for the moment was that the rain shrouded the area and lowered visibility to the point at which someone was required to sit close by; in this case, that someone was Servan, and Jommy had been selected to sit with him.

His dark hair matted wet against his forehead, Jommy regarded his companion. In the last few months his slender face had aged dramatically. An arduous life on the march had drained pounds from his youthful frame, while days in the sun and sleeping on the ground had given a tough, leathery quality to his skin. The court-bred noble who Jommy had come to know well over the last few months had been replaced by a young veteran embarking on his third campaign in as many months.

Never friends, the two, along with their other four companions – Tad, Zane, Grandy and Geoffry – had come to appreciate one another as reliable colleagues. In the relatively short time since they had been unceremoniously taken from the university at Roldem and cast into the role of young soldiers of rank, they had received an intensive tutelage in the realities of military life. To Jommy’s unending irritation, Servan had been appointed senior for this campaign, which meant Jommy was expected to follow his orders without question. So far there had been no hint of reprisal for the mischief Jommy had inflicted on Servan during the last operation, when Jommy had been appointed senior, but Jommy just knew it was coming.

The two young officers had been detailed to a position low in the foothills of the region known as the Peaks of the Quor, a rugged, mountainous peninsula jutting northward from the eastern side of the Empire of Great Kesh. About a hundred men, including these two young officers, had been deposited on this beach a week earlier, and all Jommy knew was that a landing was expected here, though the exact identity of the invaders had not been shared with the young officers. All Jommy knew was they wouldn’t be friendly.

Jommy also had aged, but as a farm youth and caravan worker, already used to a harsher life than his companion, he revealed less dramatic evidence of his recent experiences. Rather, his already cock-sure brashness had evolved into a quiet confidence, and his time spent with the other young officers from the university at Roldem had taught him a fair dose of humility; all of them were better at something than he was. Even so, one part of his nature remained unchanged: his almost unique ability to see humour in most situations. This one, however, had tested his limits. The downpour had been unrelenting for four days now. Their only source of warmth was a fire built in a large cave a mile up a miserable hillside, and the enemy they had been told to expect had shown no evidence of arriving on schedule.

‘No,’ said Jommy, ‘I don’t mean why are we here. I mean why are we here?’

‘Did you sleep through the Captain’s orders?’ came a voice from behind them.

Jommy turned to see a shadowy figure who had approached undetected. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ he complained.

The man sat down next to Jommy, ignoring the fact that half his body was still outside the scant protection offered by the make-shift shelter. ‘I wouldn’t be much of a thief if I couldn’t sneak up on you two in a driving storm, would I?’ he replied.

The newcomer was only a few years older than them, yet his face showed premature ageing, including an unexpected sprinkling of grey hair in his dark moustache and beard, a neatly trimmed affair that revealed a streak of vanity in an otherwise chronically unkempt and slovenly person. He was nearly as tall as Jommy, but not quite as burly, yet his movement and carriage betrayed a lean hardness, a whipcord toughness that convinced Jommy he’d be a difficult man to contend with in a stand-up fight.

Servan nodded. ‘Jim,’ he acknowledged. The young thief had somehow managed to get caught up in the same net of intrigue that had bought Servan and Jommy to this lonely hillside. He had put in an appearance the week before, arriving on a ship with supplies for what Jommy had come to think of as the ‘Cursed Expedition’.

Servan and Jommy were both currently serving in the Army of Roldem, though Jommy came from a land on the other side of the world. Servan was nobility, royalty even – somewhere in line to be king, should perhaps ten or eleven relatives expire unexpectedly. Yet they were now assigned to what could only be generously called an unusual company, soldiers from Roldem, the Kingdom of the Isles, Kesh, and even a contingent of miners and sappers from the dwarven city of Dorgin, all under the command of Kaspar of Olasko, former duke of what was now a province of the Kingdom of Roldem. Once a hunted outlaw with a price on his head, sometime over the last few years he had managed to rehabilitate his reputation and now had special status with both Roldem and the Empire of Great Kesh. His adjutant was a Roldem captain named Stefan who happened to be Servan’s cousin, which also made him another distant cousin to the King of Roldem.

The arrival of the newcomer had revealed another puzzling aspect of this expedition. Jim was one of half a dozen men who were not by any stretch of the imagination soldiers, yet were billeted with the soldiers, sent out on missions with soldiers, and expected to follow instructions without question, as if they were soldiers. All Jommy and Servan could get from the usually voluble self-confessed thief was he was part of a special group of ‘volunteers’ who were here to train with the combined forces of Roldem, Kesh, the Kingdom, and a scattering of officers from the Eastern Kingdoms.

The usually curious Jommy was beside himself with curiosity to discover what was going on, but the last few months of serving with various forces from Roldem had taught him that a young officer’s best course was to keep silent and listen. Servan had that knack by nature.

Still, Jommy’s curiosity couldn’t be entirely stemmed, so he thought perhaps a different approach to the subject might get him some hint of what was going on. ‘Jim, you’re from the Kingdom, right?’

‘Yes,’ said the young thief. ‘Born in Krondor; lived there all my life until now.’

‘You claim to be a thief—’ began Jommy.

Jim shifted his weight, lightly brushing against Jommy, then with a grin held up Jommy’s belt pouch. ‘This is yours, I believe?’

Servan tried hard not to laugh while Jommy snatched back his belt-purse, which had been tucked up under his tunic. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘you are a thief.’

‘A very good thief.’

‘A very good thief,’ Jommy conceded. ‘But what I want to know is how a very good thief from Krondor finds himself out here on the edge of the world.’

‘That’s a story,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve travelled a lot, you see.’

‘Oh?’ said Servan, welcoming the distraction from the tedious rain.

‘Yes,’ said the agreeable thief. ‘Been to some very odd places.’ He smiled, and years dropped away from his visage, showing an almost boyish glee. ‘There was this one time when I was forced to seek shelter from just this sort of driving rain in a cave on a distant island.’

Jommy and Servan exchanged a glance, and both smiled and nodded, silently communicating the same thought: not one word of what they were about to hear would be true, but the story should be entertaining.

‘I was … taking a journey out of Krondor.’

‘Business?’ asked Servan.

‘Health,’ said Jim, his grin widening further. ‘It seemed like a good idea to be out of Krondor for a while.’

Jommy tried not to laugh. ‘So you went …?’

‘I took ship out of Krondor, bound for the Far Coast, and then in Carse found a likely bunch of lads who had come by some information on a … venture that would net all involved a handsome living.’

‘Pirates,’ said Jommy and Servan at the same moment.

‘Freebooters, out of Freeport in the Sunset Islands.’ Jim nodded. ‘At the time the captain claimed they sailed under a letter of marque from the Crown, though I never saw it. But being a trusting lad at the time, I took his word.’

Jommy doubted there had been a single moment in the thief’s life when he had ever been a ‘trusting lad’ but he let the comment go.

‘Well, I find myself on this island, in this cave, with this elf lass …’

‘Did you leave something out?’ asked Servan.

‘Oh, a lot actually, but I’m talking about strange places I’ve been.’

‘Let him go on,’ said Jommy with ill-concealed mirth.

‘Anyway, the lads I had shipped with were out looking for me, as I had tumbled to their less-than-honourable intentions as to my share of the treasure—’

‘Treasure?’ began Servan, but Jommy held up his hand. He wanted to hear this story.

‘Well, that’s another part of the tale,’ said Jim. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I was hiding in this cave when I encounter this elf lass, name of Jazebel—’

‘Jazebel,’ echoed Jommy.

‘Jazebel,’ repeated Jim. ‘And she had her own story of how she’d got there. She was trying to keep from being killed by these bears, only they weren’t rightly bears, more like big furry owls.’

‘Big furry owls,’ said Servan, open astonishment now on his face. Jommy could barely contain himself, all cold, wet misery forgotten in the moment.

‘Well, as I was saying, it was an odd place, far outside the Sunset Isles. She was gathering eggs for some elf magic. But anyway, she and I managed to fend off the creatures long enough to let my bloody companions pass by the cave, then we slipped out and got to a safe spot.’

‘How did you ever get home?’ asked Jommy.

Jim grinned. ‘She had this magic stone, some elf thing, and once we were where she could do some magic, it took us to Elvandar.’

‘Elvandar? Is that near Cloud Land?’ Servan asked, invoking the name of a mythical land from children’s tales.

Jommy said, ‘Elvandar’s real, Servan. I know people who’ve been there.’

‘Next you’ll be telling me you know some elves, too.’

Jommy smiled. ‘Not personally, but I know people who do.’

‘Well,’ said Jim. ‘As I had helped saved the girl and all that, the Queen and her husband feted me with a supper, gave me their thanks and told me I was welcome any time I wanted to come calling. Then they helped me get to the outpost at Jonril – the one up in Crydee Duchy, not the one in Kesh it’s named after – and from there I got back to Krondor.’

‘Amazing,’ said Jommy.

‘More than amazing,’ said Servan, shivering again. ‘Unbelievable.’

Jim reached inside his tunic and pulled out a leather cord around his neck bearing a beautifully carved trinket. ‘The Queen herself gave me this,’ he said. ‘She said any elf would recognize it and I would be named Elf-friend.’

Both Jommy and Servan leaned forward to inspect the trinket more closely. It was a pattern of interlocking knots, carved in what looked to be bone or ivory, and there was something about the design and shape that seemed more than human.

Suddenly serious, the thief said, ‘I’m a lot of things, lads: rogue, adventurer, thief and, when needs be, downright murderous thug, but no man has ever called Jimmyhand a liar.’

‘Jimmyhand?’ asked Jommy.

‘My … professional name, as it were. After a famous old thief from back in the day, Jimmy the Hand. Some say I’m a lot like him. Others say he might have been my great grand-da – but I think that was my mum trying to make me feel special. So, when I was a wee tyke I’d say, “I’m Jimmyhand”, ’cause I never quite got the “the” part right. So it stuck. I’m rightly named Jim Dasher.’

In the time he had spent with Caleb and his family at Sorcerer’s Isle, Jommy had heard a fair number of ‘back in the day’ stories from the old timers, not a few of which revolved around the notorious Jimmy the Hand, a thief who according to legend became an agent of the Prince of Krondor, then later was given a noble title, rising to the rank of Duke of both Rillanon and Krondor, the two most powerful offices in the Kingdom after the King.

Jommy studied the thief. He hardly knew him, but found him agreeable company, his outrageous stories were a welcome relief from the tedium of days spent waiting for an enemy who might never appear. He had no doubt Jim was every bit as dangerous as he claimed to be, but there was a quality under the surface that Jommy had learned to recognized at an early age out on the road alone: an instinct about who he could trust and who he couldn’t. He nodded, then said, ‘Jim, I’ll never call you a liar until the day I catch you out.’

Jim stared at Jommy for a long moment, then the grin returned. ‘Fair enough.’

Servan turned his attention back to the distant beach they had been assigned to watch. ‘How much longer?’

‘As long as it takes,’ said Jommy.

‘Which won’t be much longer,’ said Jim, pointing off into the rainy gloom. ‘Boat coming.’

‘How can you—’ began Servan, then he saw it, a tiny dark speck that grew larger by the moment as a longboat came into the cove.

‘Must be a ship lying off,’ said Jommy.

‘I’ll tell the Captain,’ said Servan, scrambling from under the lean-to. ‘You watch them.’

Jommy also got out from under the shelter. ‘Let’s get a little closer.’

Jim held him back. ‘Wait. There’s another boat.’

After a moment, Jommy could see a second longboat coming out of the gloom, following the first by a dozen yards. ‘Now,’ whispered Jim, though they were far too distant to be overheard, ‘what do you think of that?’

Jommy said, ‘Well, I can say the intelligence the Captain received was correct so far.’

‘Not about the second boat,’ corrected Jim.

‘Picky,’ Jommy muttered.

The two longboats rowed in to shore, and men leaped out of each and pulled them up on the sand, securing them with stakes and ropes. ‘Looks like they plan on being here for a while,’ said Jommy.

‘What’s that?’ asked Jim, pointing to the second boat.

The crew of the two boats were dressed like common seamen, though each sported a black headcloth, tied behind the left ear. Most were barefoot, marking them as sailors, though some wore heavy boots. But the last man leaving the second boat wore robes of dark orange trimmed with black. His features were masked by a hood, but the other men seemed deferential to the point of fear. None offered to help him exit the craft and all gave him a wide berth as he came ashore.

‘Magician,’ said Jim, almost spitting out the word, ‘I hate magicians.’

‘I’ve met a few I like,’ Jommy said quietly.

‘Well, I haven’t. Damn near had my head removed by a magical trap down in Darindus one time. There’s no trap made by the hand of mortal man I can’t puzzle out with enough time, but magic …’

‘Well,’ said Jommy, ‘I’ve met a few who are all right.’

Jim fell silent as the men in the boat spread out. It was clear that they were checking the surrounding area to see if they were observed. Jommy and Jim reached up and quietly took apart the hastily constructed lean-to, hiding the canvas behind the tree, then they both moved to a denser stand of bushes to the right. Without a word, they shared the same thought: in a few minutes an armed company of men, numbering twice those on the beach, would come over the rise behind them, but until that moment, it would be a good thing not to be seen by these men.

Jommy felt Jim’s hand tighten on his shoulder. Jim pointed at himself and Jommy, then back up the hill. Jommy pointed to a small outcrop a hundred feet back up the trail, and Jim nodded. They moved through the rain which was letting up a bit, causing Jommy to curse under his breath. He wanted more cover, not less, and the weather had picked a very inconvenient time to become more clement after days of punishing him.

When they reached the outcrop they both lay down, ignoring the soaking mud. The men from the boats had spread out to form a perimeter and a few began unloading what looked to be supplies.

‘Looks like they plan on staying a while,’ repeated Jommy.

‘A third boat!’ whispered Jim.

The third boat put in to the right of the others and more sailors leaped out, hauled it on to the beach and quickly began unloading provisions. More crates were passed along and Jim observed, ‘They may be murderous dogs, but they’re disciplined.’

Jommy observed their efficiency without comment.

Jim whispered, ‘Those head-scarves. Saw something like that on some corpses down in the south Sunsets, about a week’s sailing out of Freeport.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Wouldn’t rightly know: these are the first ones I’ve seen who weren’t dead. We came across a smoking hulk, burned down to the waterline, beached on an island with no proper name. The ship was known to my captain, but the corpses wearing those head-scarves were unknown to any sailor on that ship. Bit of a mystery as no man living was around to tell us the story of what had happened. We can only assume that the captain and crew of the burned ship had been carried off as slaves.’

The sound of movement from behind them caused both young men to turn around. Kaspar and Captain Stefan were coming down the hill in a crouch. Stirrings amongst the undergrowth revealed that men were moving into position to encircle the landing party.

‘How many?’ asked Kaspar, his eyes scanning the cove.

‘About thirty,’ said Jommy, ‘and they have a spell-caster of some kind in their midst. The crew seems downright afraid of him.’

Jim said, ‘Looks like some pirates out of the Sunsets, General.’

Kaspar muttered, ‘What are they doing here?’

Jim whispered, ‘If you sail straight west out of the Sunsets …’

‘You end up in the Sea of Kingdoms,’ finished Kaspar. ‘I know how they got here. What I want to know is why.’ To Captain Stefan, Kaspar said, ‘Pass the word. I want prisoners. Especially that magician if we can manage it.’

‘Magicians,’ said Jim, as if it were a curse word.

Jommy exchanged glances with Kaspar. ‘I said I’ve known some good ones.’

Kaspar’s smile was rueful. ‘And I’ve know some who were bloody monsters,’ returned the General. ‘Captain?’

‘Sir?’

‘Are the men in position?’

The Captain turned and made a slight hand gesture. Wherever he looked up on the hill, Jommy couldn’t see the returned signal, but the Captain said, ‘In position, sir.’

Kaspar nodded. ‘Captain, whenever you’re ready—’

‘What is that?’ asked Jim, pointing.

The others didn’t need Jim to explain what ‘that’ was, for they saw it too. The magician was holding a staff above his head and a pillar of light appeared around him, reaching up into the clouds. A hollow voice speaking in a language unfamiliar to either onlooker answered seemingly from the air around the magician.

Then a figure appeared before the spell-caster, a shadowy thing draped in smoke. Even through the constant sound of the rain they could hear the air thrum with energy and crackle as if sparks were dancing off metal. The thing spoke and again that hollow voice echoed alien words. The magician replied in the foreign tongue and the creature looked around, surveying the area.

The hair on the back of Jommy’s neck stood up as it seemed to lock gazes with him. The figure began to resolve itself into a man-like form, easily seven feet tall. Its shoulders were impossibly broad, and it appeared to have no neck. The creature’s ‘skin’, dark-grey blue without any apparent blemish, rippled and pulsed, as if air flowed under a silk cloth, and the face was featureless, save for two red flames where eyes should be. The skin hardened and began to look like black rock.

‘Now, Captain,’ said Kaspar softly.

Captain Stefan stood up, holding a white cloth in his left hand, and made a single chopping motion.

Chaos erupted.

From the ridge behind them shouts rang out, while arrows arched through the air to strike several of the men on the beach. Instantly three things occurred, as Jommy drew his sword. The men on the beach fanned out in precise order, not panicking, keeping their wits about them, and seeking cover wherever possible – behind the bulwarks of the boats, ridges of sand, and some large piles of driftwood. Several bowmen on the beach returned fire, but they were shooting blindly into the thicket on the hillside while those above had clear targets on the sand.

Men raced past Jommy’s position, soldiers wearing Keshian and Kingdom tabards, and Jommy leaped to his feet, shouting, ‘Come on, Jim!’

The conjured creature roared. It stood defiantly, arms spread as if ready to charge or be charged, and the men approaching could feel waves of heat coming from it as the volume of smoke rising from its black-rock skin increased.

Men faltered as they raced towards it, whilst those waiting for the onslaught were emboldened. Jommy half-ran, half-fell down the hillside, passing several soldiers who were brought to a halt by the demonic being’s outcry. Suddenly he realized he was passing the vanguard and in front of him waited weapons poised to cut him down, plus some creature from an impossible nightmare.

Jommy started to back away, but one of the raiders charged him, ignoring arrows that were still raining down from the hillside. The raider took a step forward then was impaled by a long shaft which knocked him backwards. Jommy crouched, waiting for the others to catch up. He glanced backwards, and saw the soldiers were either motionless or retreating.

He understood why a moment later. The conjured creature was growing! The thing was now a good two feet taller than it had been before and much broader across what Jommy considered to be its shoulders. The arms appeared brawnier, and decorated with what seemed to be burning metal bands, twisting rods of some hot metal that gave off so much heat that Jommy could feel it through the rain. Cracks in the rocky ‘skin’ now appeared and from them tiny flames issued.

‘Jim!’ shouted Jommy, ‘Let’s get out of …’ He glanced around and realized Jim Dasher was nowhere in sight. ‘Damn,’ muttered Jommy as he quickly backed away. ‘He’s either a coward or a lot smarter than I am!’

A pirate raced at Jommy and swung a vicious overhead blow with a weighted cutlass, a blow that was likely either to break Jommy’s blade or cleave him from shoulder to stomach. Training and experience lent the young man the reflex to knock the blade to the right while dodging to the left, avoiding most of the force. The sand on the beach was terrible footing, so Jommy ignored the impulse to spin and slice the man’s spine, instead electing to throw a right elbow at his jaw. Pain shot up his arm to his shoulder as he connected, and the man’s eyes glazed over. Stepping back, Jommy slashed sideways with his blade, slicing the man’s neck. As blood spurted upwards, Jommy continued to back away, unable to take his eyes off the horror that rose up before him.

Kaspar’s voice cut through the air: ‘Hit them hard: now!’

The soldiers were well trained, and despite their growing sense of dread as the conjured being rose up to a height of nearly nine feet, they charged. Those on the beach were dedicated, fanatics even, but they were not trained soldiers, and suddenly the left side of their defence collapsed.

With nowhere to retreat, they fought viciously, but within seconds the soldiers of Kaspar’s command had killed half a dozen and had the rest retreating through the water to the scant protection offered by beached boats. Jommy faced a more determined defence, as soldiers from the Kingdom, Roldem and Kesh joined him in attacking the middle, mere yards away from the creature.

The raiders fought like men possessed, as if they were more afraid to retreat back to where the smouldering creature waited than die facing mortal men. Then the creature strode forward, and the man next to Jommy howled in agony as the diabolical being snatched him up by the neck. The sound of searing meat replaced the choked-off cry and the apparition tossed the soldier aside like a broken toy. Jommy saw flame coming from the creature’s hands and could feel heat waves emanating from it as its appearance continued to evolve. The grey-blue skin was now crisscrossed with glowing red cracks, looking like nothing so much as molten metal under a rock crust, and where rain struck it sizzled and gave off tiny explosions of steam.

Jommy leaped backward, almost falling as he crashed into a soldier coming up behind him. ‘Sir!’ the man shouted in his ear. ‘Another two boats have put in to the north and more of the bastards are coming down on our right flank.’

Jommy hesitated, then realized the soldier must be waiting, and that he was a senior officer, or at least as far as the men near him were concerned. Something had to be done to avoid a total rout. ‘On me!’ he shouted. ‘Rally to me!’

Men hurried to him while the now-flaming monster snagged another screaming man and ripped his arm off while his torso was engulfed in fire.

‘Form circle!’ shouted Jommy, and the men nearby gathered in a tight knot around him. To the soldier who had warned him of the move on their flank, he shouted, ‘Find the General, and tell the others to fall back to wherever he is. We’ll hold them here! Go!’

The messenger ran off.

‘Shield wall!’ was Jommy’s next command, and the trained soldiers linked shields and suddenly he and two others, both irregulars from Krondor, stood in a tiny fortress of shields.

He had no faith in his order. Jommy knew that should the advancing monster strike the front of the shield wall, several of them would be instantly incinerated and the defensive position would collapse. But it was the only thing he could think of doing to buy a few minutes for the rest of the men to fall back to wherever Kaspar waited.

The creature stood motionless for a moment, and the magic-user pointed at the men clustered around Jommy with his staff and shouted something in the alien tongue. The creature took a great stride towards them and Jommy shouted, ‘Steady!’

The creature halted for a moment, and raised his fist up high above them. Jommy shouted, ‘Turtle!’ He dropped his sword and sat down hard, yanking the two men next to him down to keep them from injury.

The men raised their shields overhead, and braced themselves as they would for a barrage of falling arrows. The flaming monster’s fist, now the size of an anvil, crashed down on a pair of shields, causing one man to go to his knees and the other to collapse completely.

‘Bloody hell!’ said one of the irregulars, his eyes wide in terror.

‘Scatter!’ shouted Jommy: confusion was the only way to save as many men as possible. The two irregulars crawled away, while the soldiers did as they had been trained, each man running off directly away from the centre of the turtle, putting as much space as possible between themselves and their comrades. Those in the front fell straight back, then turned and fled.

Kaspar’s own archers had attempted to hurt the creature, but their arrows were having no effect, the iron heads bouncing off the thing’s hide while the shafts burst into flame. Waves of heat rolled over Jommy, as if he were standing before an open oven.

With a sweep of arms now as long as a spear, the creature knocked men aside as if he were playing with children. Whatever he touched burst into flames: men lay screaming and dying.

As Jommy pulled back, the creature seemed to notice him, and started towards him. Jommy braced himself, sure that in an instant he would be either crushed or burned to death. As he raised his sword to defend himself he saw beyond the creature a figure rising out of the surf. Water dripping off his face, his clothing soaked through, Jim Dasher seemed to appear out of nowhere as he came up from a low crouch to stand behind the magician. With a deft move so fast Jommy could barely follow it, the Krondorian thief raised his hands before him, crossed at the wrist, and flipped something over the magician’s head. Suddenly the spell-caster was yanked backwards as Jim brought his knee up into the magician’s spine, and even with the pounding of the surf, the tattoo of the rain and the screams from dying men Jommy could hear the snap of the man’s spine. Blood sprayed from the magician’s neck and he waved his arms for a brief instant before going limp.

As the magician died, the creature faltered, and then stopped and looked around as if waiting to be told what to do next. He howled, an echoing sound that grated on the ears and sent shivers through Jommy’s body. Then the monster lashed out, first one way, then another. Men scattered, even those wearing the black head-cloths more intent on putting space between themselves and the apparition than in continuing the fight. Jommy threw himself backwards, avoiding a sudden reversal of direction by the flaming creature, and rolled on the sand, coming to his feet in a crouch, his sword ready.

Then he saw Servan running in his direction, shouting something that Jommy couldn’t make out, but pointing directly at him. At the same instant Jommy sensed someone behind him and realized that Servan wasn’t pointing at him, but at something behind him. He fell to his left, rolled and turned, seeing the blade cut through the air that would have taken his head had Servan not warned him.

Jommy didn’t even think of trying to stand, but instead lashed out with his sword, cutting the man across the heel, severing the tendon. The man screamed and almost fell on top of Jommy. Jommy now shoved his sword point into the raider’s armpit. Blood flowed down the man’s side as the raider tried to retaliate with a looping blow designed to take Jommy’s arm off.

Jommy rolled again hearing the sword strike sand. Now he was on his back. Knowing this was as poor a position for a fight as could be, Jommy kept rolling until he could again see his opponent. Then someone stepped over him and a sword point thrust down, ending the raider’s life.

Servan reached down and pulled Jommy to his feet. ‘We’ve got to fall back!’ shouted the young nobleman. ‘That thing is still killing anything near it, and it’s getting hotter by the minute.’

Jommy didn’t need his companion to tell him that; he could feel waves of heat rolling off the creature. Steam exploded from every step it took in the wet sand. Men on all sides were still locked in struggle, but there was nothing remotely organized about the conflict, and Jommy knew there was no way to coordinate any sort of counter-attack or even organize an orderly withdrawal. ‘We need to have everyone fall back to that big rock over there!’ Jommy shouted, pointing with his sword.

Servan nodded. ‘I don’t know where the General or the Captain are.’

They paused and looked up and down the cove, until Servan cried, ‘Up there!’

Jommy saw Kaspar and Captain Stefan fighting back to back twenty yards up the hillside as half a dozen pirates circled them. Jommy looked at Servan.

‘What now?’

Jommy was a good leader in the field and had a rudimentary grasp of tactics, but Servan was a born leader, a first rate strategist as well as an instinctive tactician. ‘That big rock is our rally point, and I’ll try to get to them—’

Jommy looked over again to where Kaspar and Stefan fought, and saw Jim Dasher – again seemingly out of nowhere – appear behind the two men fighting Kaspar. With a dagger in each hand he stabbed both men in the back of the neck, and they dropped instantly to the ground. Suddenly it wasn’t six against two, but four against three, and as one of the men turned to see what happened to his companions, Kaspar ran him through and it was three against three.

Jommy shouted, ‘I’ll go this way, you go that, get the men moving! Get word to the General where we rally!’

Servan nodded and ran off, circling away from the flailing tower of flames that howled and lashed out in all directions. Jommy headed down the beach to where a knot of his men faced off against an equal number of pirates. Both sides seemed more concerned with getting untangled than with killing one another. Jommy shouted, ‘To me!’

Breaking off the fight, his men retreated towards him, and within moments a fairly orderly withdrawal was underway. Moving to the agreed-upon position, Jommy motioned for the men to follow. ‘Rally at that rock. Look for the General!’

Now the conjured creature, burning as brightly as the hottest fire Jommy had ever seen, lumbered in his direction. ‘Watch out!’ he warned and motioned for his men to move off and circle around to the rally point.

As they pulled away from the flaming monstrosity, men shouted that another boat was landing. ‘Things are getting out of hand,’ Jommy said to himself. As he glanced to see where the raiders were positioning themselves, he realized he was being flanked. If he wasn’t careful, the enemy he had left behind would use his retreating men as a screen, allowing them to loop around and hit Kaspar’s position from the rear.

‘You, you, and you,’ Jommy said pointing at the three nearest soldiers, two from Roldem and one from Kesh, ‘follow me.’ He gave a great war cry and charged at the closest raider.

From behind him he heard one of the soldiers from Roldem shout, ‘Are you mad?’

Jommy shouted back, ‘I want them to think so!’

The others followed and Jommy raced straight at the pirates who, seeing the men running straight at them, braced themselves for a charge. Just short of contact, Jommy shouted, ‘Run!’ and turned and fled back up the beach towards the hillside where Kaspar and Stefan were organizing a defensive position. A quick glance over his shoulder made Jommy wonder at the futility of that: the creature was becoming ever more enraged, thrashing out at anyone within reach. The only benefit this gave to Kaspar’s forces was that the raiders now had to consider the monster as much as the men they were fighting. The difference was that Kaspar could organize his forces and pull them up the hillside to the base camp on the ridge a mile away if he had to. The raiders had nowhere to go but try to launch the boats, but now two of them were flaming from the horror’s touch and no man looked willing to brave getting past it to the remaining boats. Some would no doubt flee up the coast to where the fourth boat had landed, but Jommy doubted it could hold all who wanted to escape the monster.

‘They’ll be coming this way in moments,’ he shouted. ‘Get to the General and dig in!’

Already fatigued from the short but intense struggle on the beach, men ran uphill in the mud, and suddenly Jommy realized there was no sound of fighting behind him. All he could hear was the echoing bellows of the monster, the rain in the woods above, and the panting of men nearly out of breath as they struggled to get to safety.

They reached Kaspar’s position and saw men furiously making defensive positions, with brush and rocks and digging small trenches with swords and daggers. All the while the bowmen struggled to keep their strings dry enough to be effective against the enemy who were surely only moments behind those coming up the hill.

‘Here they come!’ shouted Kaspar.

Jommy reached the first line of defenders and turned. A knot of raiders had formed at the base of the path and were fanning out to attack. He glanced to the north and saw another band of raiders fleeing for the remaining boat. As if reading his thoughts, Kaspar said, ‘If we get through this we’ll send a squad that way to round up any stragglers.’

‘Why shouldn’t we get through this, General?’ asked Servan, still out of breath.

‘They’re attacking uphill and we’re ready,’ said Jommy.

‘I’m not worried about those cutthroats,’ said Kaspar. ‘It’s the thing following them that bothers me. It’s stopped getting bigger, but it’s setting fire to everything it touches.’

‘And we’re standing uphill,’ said Captain Stefan.

‘Ah, maybe we should pull back and get on the other side of the ridge?’ observed Jommy.

‘No time,’ said Kaspar. ‘Archers!’ he shouted.

A few arrows arched overhead and the attackers scattered, but the bow fire was ineffective. ‘Damn rain,’ said Servan.

The men hurrying up the hill looked at those waiting for them and just kept coming. Jommy flexed his knees, his sword ready to parry or strike; and then it struck him. The only battle cries were from his own men: those coming at them were labouring, their panting breath barely able to meet the demands of the climb, let alone enabling them to shout or scream. There was a grim resignation on their faces. They were determined but they didn’t show the usual edge of madness that Jommy had seen in other confrontations. These men knew they were going to die.

Jommy made his way back until he was next to Kaspar. ‘General, those men are going to let us kill them.’

The former Duke of Olasko nodded. ‘They have that look, don’t they?’ He turned and shouted, ‘I want prisoners!’ Then with an eye on the flaming monstrosity behind them, he quietly added, ‘Should any of us survive.’

The creature had wandered aimlessly lashing out at anything it could, but now it seemed to have turned its attention to the hillside. Jommy said, ‘I think it’s seen us.’

‘I have no idea if the thing even has eyes,’ said Kaspar, ‘but we’d better get this under control, because it’s definitely coming this way.’

The first half a dozen raiders to reach the defenders threw themselves forward with manic ferocity. Several of Kaspar’s men were wounded, but every attacker was cut down. Jommy waited, but no one approached him directly. He saw there were a dozen corpses on the ground just below where he waited, and farther down the hillside a knot of perhaps two dozen men watched. One of them said something and others nodded, then they broke forward, and now Jommy could hear shouts and cries. He did not recognize the language, but the intent was clear: they meant to kill as many of Kaspar’s men as they could before dying in their turn.

Jommy saw one of the raiders turn, run down the hill and taunt the creature. How he had managed to do this, Jommy couldn’t imagine, but it mattered little because the man had attracted the monster’s attention. He slowly led the fiendish being up the hill and then waited. Jommy’s eyes widened in astonishment as he saw the raider put down his sword and let the creature crush him as a man would an insect. The man’s scream was short and high-pitched and came to an abrupt halt. His body had exploded into flames a second before the creature’s fiery hand had touched him: even at this distance, those on the hillside could feel the heat.

A second man raced down, halfway between the monster and Kaspar’s position just as the attackers reached the defensive position. But this time instead of a furious assault, the tempo was more that of a probing attack, something Jommy had come to understand was what soldiers did at times when they were trying to gauge the enemy’s strength.

Suddenly he understood. ‘General!’ Jommy shouted.

‘Yes?’ replied Kaspar as he easily slapped aside a half-hearted thrust from a raider who had got between two soldiers. The General slashed with his blade and the raider fell dead, his throat fountaining crimson.

‘They’re bringing that thing up to us! They’re dying in order to bring it here!’ Jommy said.

‘Idiots,’ said Servan, but he looked distinctly nervous.

Jommy was forced to admit their tactic was effective, if you didn’t mind dying to make it work. A third raider had now given himself up to the creature, and the ferocity of the heat was almost unbearable.

As if recognizing the hopelessness of their position, a handful of the enemy feigned attacks and purposefully left themselves open for killing blows.

‘Prisoners!’ shouted Kaspar. ‘Keep one of them alive!’

Jommy couldn’t stand his ground; everyone started to retreat before the forge-like heat of the monster. At the same time the raiders advanced and Jommy was forced to fight while backing up a steep hillside. The footing was wet and treacherous. Jommy killed one man only to almost die as another man shoved his companion into Jommy’s blade. Only a quick blow over Jommy’s shoulder by another soldier gave him the seconds he needed to pull his blade free.

Jommy almost lost his balance as his heel caught on a rock, and he barely avoided an enemy’s sword thrust. He lashed out wildly and even though his opponent was willing to die, he pulled back out of reflex. When he sprang again Jommy was ready and the man died silently.

A desperate struggle ensued as men wishing to live tried to give way to men willing to die. Jommy felt the tempo of the conflict change and he recognized a difference in the battle around him: panic was imminent. The men of Kaspar’s company were becoming desperate as they attempted a nearly impossible organized withdrawal, and the attackers were becoming frantic as they sought to keep from being captured while leading the monstrosity to their foes.

As they struggled to retreat up the hillside, a loud thrumming filled the air.

The creature was abruptly bathed in light as a shaft of white brilliance shot down from the clouds. It became transfixed, unable to move, and several men took wounds because they had stopped fighting in order to watch it.

Jommy killed a man in front of him, and glanced over the dying raider’s shoulder. The enemy appeared to have sensed that the day had been lost, and they began to back away.

Abruptly both sides disengaged. Jommy shouted, ‘General?’

‘Wait,’ came the order and Jommy did so. He watched the creature below as the raiders moved towards it, never taking their eyes off Kaspar’s men. The rain now appeared to be cooling it off, as if the creature’s mystic fire had lost its power. The sizzling sound of steam exploding off its surface diminished and its colour faded from a brilliant hot yellow back to the red-and-black appearance of molten rock. Jommy looked over his shoulder at Kaspar, and saw another figure high on a rock behind him. ‘Look, General,’ he said, pointing.

A being dressed in buckskin leather, with long flowing golden hair, stood holding a staff above his head. He appeared to be chanting. It was obvious to Jommy and Kaspar this was the author of the mystic light.

With a shudder, the creature dissolved like hot rocks falling apart. Great clouds of smoke filled the air.

‘Prisoners!’ shouted Kaspar: too late. The raiders, seeing no escape, wordlessly turned their swords on one another.

Jommy had seen enough men die in fights to know killing blows when he saw them. He turned to Kaspar and shook his head. The General’s expression was a mixture of disgust at losing his prisoners and open relief at the intervention of the newcomer, who was obviously a magician. With a sigh, he said, ‘Must be one of Pug’s, come to look out for us. Good thing, too—’

Jommy shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, General.’

Captain Stefan and Servan both came to stand by their commander as the figure on the rock put his staff down. ‘It’s an elf,’ said Servan. ‘As I live—’

Kaspar said, ‘I think you’re right, Lieutenant.’

The elf said something, a question from the tone of it.

‘I speak more than a dozen tongues and I don’t recognize it,’ said Kaspar.

The elf walked slowly down from his position above them, then halted half a dozen paces above Kaspar and studied them for a moment. ‘I said, who are you to be trespassing on the Peaks of the Quor?’ He spoke the tongue of Kesh, but with an odd accent and cadence.

‘I’m Kaspar, former Duke of Olasko and commander of this company. As for trespassing, I’m here with the permission of the King of Roldem and the Emperor of Great Kesh, both of whom claim this region.’

The elf’s features showed no emotion, then after a second resolved into an expression of dark humour. ‘Your masters’ vanities do not concern me. This land belongs to the Quor.’

Trying to remain civil, Kaspar said, ‘I want to thank you—’

‘Before you thank me for anything, human, realize I did not save you from the elemental creature. It was a thing of magic so foul I needed to dispose of it before I deal with you.’

‘Deal with us?’ said Kaspar.

‘Yes,’ said the elf. ‘You are all my prisoners.’

Instantly, men took combative stances, for while there was only one elf, they had just seen him vanquish the monster with seemingly no effort. Kaspar said, ‘And do you, alone, intend to capture all of us?’ There were still thirty combat-ready soldiers behind him.

‘No,’ said the elf and then he raised his voice and said something in the other language.

As if by magic elves appeared from behind rocks and trees, at least twice as many as Kaspar’s band. The one thing that stood out most about them was their appearance: all were blond, had sun-browned skin, and the same sky blue eyes as the magician. And all of them wore the same buckskin so that it was almost a uniform, save for a slightly different cut to a tunic or fringe on the sleeves. Some elves had feathers or polished stones woven into their braids or a warrior’s knot, and many wore their hair down, long past the shoulders. Most carried bows, with arrows pointed at them, and another half a dozen carried staves. Kaspar was certain they were magic-users like the elf before them. After a moment he said, ‘Throw down your weapons.’ Reluctantly the men obeyed, and Kaspar said to the elf, ‘We surrender.’

The elf nodded. ‘Gather your wounded who can travel, and come with us.’

It took a few minutes to find those able to move and render them aid so they could travel. A dozen men were too injured to move and the elf said, ‘Leave them. They will be attended to.’

Kaspar nodded and when his men were ready, elves began escorting them up the hillside, along the same trail that led down from the cave Kaspar had used as his base of operations. As they reached a point where the elf had first revealed himself, a strangled cry from behind them caused Jommy to flinch. As he started to turn, he felt a strong hand grip his arm. Jim Dasher said, ‘Don’t look. It’s better not to.’

Jommy nodded. The men too injured to move were being killed quickly by the elves, and although Jommy knew it was probably kinder than letting a man die slowly from a gut wound or exposure, he still hated the thought of it.

Slowly the captives wended their way up the hillside high into the mountains above.

The rain continued.

• CHAPTER THREE •
Upheaval

PUG LOOKED AT THE SUN.

He shifted his perception through the visible spectrum and then into the other energy states he could now recognize. No matter how hard he tried, he could not find true words to express what he was seeing. He had been on the Dasati home world for two weeks, hiding in a complex of rooms under the protection of Martuch, a Dasati warrior and secret follower of the White. He had taken the opportunity to fine tune his control of his abilities in this realm.

Nakor the Isalani, his companion and long-time friend, sat on another bench in the little garden, watching Pug. His charge, the strange young warrior Ralan Bek, was with Martuch, practising his role as Martuch’s protégé and mastering more of the subtleties of being a Dasati warrior.

Magnus, Pug’s older son, sat on the bench beside his father, lost in his own thoughts as the three magicians contemplated their mission. He trusted his father implicitly, but still had no idea what had brought them into this dark realm, to a place to which no human had ever travelled, seeking only his father knew what. Magnus recognized the threat posed by the Dasati, yet he had no concept of what they could possibly accomplish here, on a world an unimaginable distance from home. Distance, he corrected himself, was meaningless in discussing where they were. There was a good deal of proof that this world would have a twin in their own universe, perhaps even a world known to Magnus, but how they would get home to their own plane of reality was beyond Magnus’s understanding.

That last awareness sparked concerns in the young magician; he was, after his mother and father – and perhaps Nakor – the most powerful practitioner of magic on the world of Midkemia, and some day would most likely surpass even them. But for all his ability, talent and knowledge, he had no idea how they would return. He had tried to understand the nature of the magic employed to bring them here, and bits of it were … familiar, echoing things he knew about transporting the body from location to location, as well as being reminiscent of rift magic, but how it all came together, that was lost on Magnus. Martuch had indicated that in one way it was an easy transition to make, but had been vague on details.

As much as Magnus knew he must trust this Dasati renegade, deep within he harboured doubts. While they seemed to be serving roughly similar causes, they were not entirely after the same goals, and Magnus had no doubt that Martuch would put serving his own people’s needs ahead of the lives of the four humans from Midkemia.

Now the other reason for Magnus’s discomfort entered the tiny garden. It was, if he was to believe what his father had told him, his grandfather, the legendary Macros the Black. But the man who stood before him was not human, but Dasati. Yet the man had memories that could have only belonged to Macros, spoke flawless King’s Tongue, Tsurani, and Keshian, as well as any number of other languages from Midkemia and Kelewan, and in so many things demonstrated that he had the mind of a human from his home world. Yet the entire question of Macros’s presence on this world, in this form, raised questions that went far beyond troubling. Secretly, Magnus was frightened.

Macros had been absent most of the time since Pug and the other arrived, and Pug and he had had only minutes at a time to speak. The tall Dasati nodded a greeting and came over to stand before Pug and Magnus. ‘May I sit?’ he asked.

Magnus nodded, moving over on the stone bench to make room for the Dasati magician.

‘Even after weeks, my mind is reeling,’ said Pug. ‘I realize you have … changed, yet I can see … you are still you.’ He studied the features of the Dasati sitting next to him. ‘I’ve been, by any reasonable measure, patient, I think you’ll agree.’ He glanced at his two companions. ‘We understand from what we’ve pieced together that you are the leader of a group constantly in peril, and that you have many responsibilities. But you are here, now, so as we have this time, why don’t you tell us the complete story?’

Nakor rose from his bench and walked over to sit down before Pug. ‘As much as I enjoy a good story, it would be useful if we heard only the truth this time, Macros.’

Macros smiled. ‘Perhaps my most grievous sin was lying. At that time …’ He looked away as if into a painful memory. He took a breath. ‘It was so many years ago, my friends. I was an arrogant man who refused to trust others enough to tell them the simple – or in some cases not-so-simple – truth and let them choose whether or not to do the right thing.

‘I manipulated people with lies, so that I could ensure …’ He shook his head. ‘Another sin was vanity, I’ll confess. I was so certain back when … when I was young, when I was human.’ He waved his hand in a general circle. ‘This experience has been humbling, Pug.’ He looked at Magnus. ‘I’ve a grown grandson and I have missed every day of his life.’

‘You have two,’ said Magnus. ‘I have a younger brother.’

‘Caleb,’ said Macros to Magnus. ‘I know.’

Pug was still grappling with the fact of his alien existence, forcing his mind to accept what he could see with his own eyes. Once past that amazement, he was still left with another issue: that the man before him was Macros the Black, his wife’s father.

As he had just openly admitted, he was a man who had used people as one might use tools, and shamelessly lied to gain advantage. He had put people in harm’s way without their consent, and had made choices for others that had resulted in pain, suffering and death. As a result, trusting him was a difficult task. Then again, Pug had watched Macros die defending others against Maarg, the Demon King. It had been the highest act of sacrifice and almost certainly had saved Midkemia from horrors for which the Serpentwar would have been but a mild prelude. Maarg would have almost certainly destroyed the entire world given enough time.

Macros spoke calmly. ‘The time for duplicity is over.’ He looked at Magnus and reached out, his hand gently touching his face. ‘I’m younger than you, in this body,’ he said with a bitter smile, ‘despite being hundreds of years in memory, I’m but thirty years as the Dasati measure time.’ He took his hand away from Magnus’s face. ‘Around the eyes, you resemble your mother.’ Magnus nodded slightly. Macros’s gaze went from his grandson, to Nakor, then to Pug.

‘Start at the beginning,’ said Pug.

Macros laughed. ‘For this story, the beginning was my ending. As I told you, I died at the hands of Maarg, the Demon King.’ He looked across the garden, and gazed into the distance, focused on memory. ‘When I died …’ He closed his eyes. ‘It is difficult to remember, sometimes … the longer I live as a Dasati, the more … distant my human memories are, the feelings especially, Pug.’ He looked at his grandson Magnus. ‘Forgive me, my boy, but whatever familial ties I should be feeling are absent.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I haven’t even asked about your mother, have I?’

‘Actually, you did,’ said Magnus.

Macros nodded. ‘Then I fear my memory is fading very rapidly. Ironically, for a human who has lived the span of more than nine hundred years, it would seem that I am dying.’

Pug’s shock could not have been more evident. ‘Dying?’

‘A disease, rare in the Dasati, but not unheard of; should anyone besides our group and our Attenders suspect, I would be killed out of hand for weakness. The human ailments of the elderly are alien to the Dasati. Should the eyes fail or the memory fade, the person so afflicted is killed without thought.’

‘Is there anything—’ began Magnus.

‘No, nothing,’ said Macros. ‘This culture is about death, not life. Narueen said there may be something the Bloodwitches could do in their enclave, but that’s a continent away and time is of critical importance.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, if you’ve already died once, death is hardly something to fear, is it? And I’m interested to see what the gods have in store for me this time.’ He winced slightly as he shifted his weight. ‘No, death is easy. It’s dying that’s the hard part.’ He looked around. ‘Now, as I was saying, my memory seems to be fading, so I’d tell you what you need to know and then we can see if we can serve a common cause.’ Looking at Nakor, Macros said, ‘The gambler. The one who cheated me! Now I remember.’

Nakor smiled. ‘I told you how when you revived from your ascension to godhood.’

‘Yes … you slipped me a cold deck of cards!’ Macros looked amused at the memory. Then his eyes narrowed and he studied Nakor more closely for a moment. ‘You are more than you seem to be, my friend.’ He hiked his thumb in the direction of Martuch’s home and said, ‘As is your young friend. He has something within his being that is dangerous, very dangerous.’

‘I know,’ said Nakor. ‘I think Ralan Bek contains a tiny fragment of the Nameless One.’

Macros pondered this and then said, ‘In my dealings with the gods and goddesses I have come to understand a little of both their abilities and their limitations. What do you know?’

Nakor glanced at Pug.

‘We believe that the gods are natural beings, defined in many ways by the form of human worship. If we believe the god of fire to be a warrior with torches, he becomes that,’ Pug answered.

‘Just so,’ said Macros. ‘Yet if another nation sees that being as a woman with flames for hair, then that is what the deity becomes.’ He looked from face to face. ‘In ancient days, the Dasati had a god or goddess for almost every aspect of nature you can imagine. There were the obvious major gods: the god of fire, death, air, nature, and the rest of it – even a god and goddess of love or at least the fundamental male and female urge to create offspring. But there were also so many minor gods it would give a scholar a throbbing head just to catalogue them.

‘There was the goddess of the hearth, and the god of trees, and the god of water was served in turn by the god of the sea, and another god of rivers, a goddess of waves, and another for rain. There was a god for travel, and another for builders, yet another for those who laboured under the ground in mines. As I understand it, there were shrines at every street corner and along the roads, and votive offerings were placed upon them by a worshipful populace who dutifully attended the prescribed public worships, festivals, and dedications.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The Dasati were a race of believers who also had a sense of duty that would shame a Tsurani temple nun. They created a pantheon of thousands of gods and goddesses, and every one had their appointed day of celebration, even if that consisted only of laying a flower on an altar, or hoisting a drink in a tavern in the god’s name.

‘It is important to remember that these gods and goddesses were as real as any you’ve encountered in Midkemia, even if their realms were minute. They had a spark of the divine within them, even if their mandate was only to ensure lovely flowers in the field each spring.’

Of Pug, he asked, ‘What have you learned about the Chaos Wars since we last met?’

‘Little. Tomas has a few more of Ashen-Shugar’s memories to draw upon, and I’ve found an odd volume or two of myth and legend. But little substantial.’

‘Then listen,’ said Macros. He looked directly at Nakor. ‘The truth.’

Nakor nodded once, emphatically, but said nothing.

Macros began. ‘Before humanity came to Midkemia there were ancient races, several of which you know about, such as the Valheru, rulers of that world and masters of the dragons and elves. But other races existed as well, their names and nature lost before the dawn of human memory.

‘There was a race of flyers who soared above the highest peaks, and a race of beings living below the oceans depths. Peaceful or warlike, we will never know, for they were destroyed by the Valheru.

‘But above all others rose two beings: Rathar, Lord of Order, and Mythar, Lord of Chaos. These were the two Blind Gods of the Beginning. The very fabric of the universe around them was their province, and Rathar weaved the threads of space and time into order, while Mythar tore them asunder, only to have Rathar reweave them, over and over.

‘Ages past, Midkemia was a world in balance, the hub of that particular region of space and time, and all was well, more or less.’

Nakor grinned. ‘If you were a being of incredible power.’

‘Yes, it was not a good time to be weak, for it was rule by might and no hint of justice or mercy existed,’ responded Macros. ‘The Valheru were far more an expression of that epoch than they were evil; it can even be argued that good and evil were meaningless concepts during that time.

‘But something changed. The order of the universe shifted. More than anything I wished to know the reason for this shift, yet it is lost in time. A fundamental reordering of things took place – it’s impossible to say what the scale of time involved was, but to the races living on Midkemia at the time the result of that reordering seemed abrupt. Vast rifts in space and time appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and suddenly beings unknown on Midkemia entered the world: humanity, dwarves, giants, goblins, trolls and others as well. And races that came but did not endure, as well.

‘For years a war raged across the universe, and we mere humans …’ He stopped and laughed softly. ‘You mere humans could only apprehend the tiniest part of it. What we know is legend, myth, and fable. Shreds of history may be enmeshed in them, but no one will really know the truth of it.’

Nakor laughed. ‘For a man who can travel in time, you had a simple enough means to discover that truth.’

Macros grinned. ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? But the truth is I do not have the ability to travel in time, at least not in the fashion you’d imagine.’ Looking at Pug, he said, ‘I remember when you and Tomas came to find me in the Garden, at the edge of the City Forever.’

Pug remembered. It had been his first encounter with the Hall of Worlds.

‘Had I the ability to travel in time, I never would have permitted the trap sprung by the Pantathian Serpent Priests to fling us backwards through time.’

‘Yet you instructed me how to accelerate its unfolding many times, until we reached a point at which time was meaningless,’ observed Pug.

‘True, and while I lacked your talents in that regard, I also lacked the skills to manipulate time as the Pantathians had.’

‘In all our encounters with the Serpent Priests,’ said Pug, ‘we found them clever, but hardly brilliant, dangerous in numbers, but never individually.’ He mused for a moment, then added, ‘I never considered that the time trap was actually a spell of majestic complexity and required skills beyond their abilities. At least one of those priests was inspired.’

‘All things return to the Nameless One,’ said Nakor. ‘As he has touched Leso Varen, he must have so done with a Pantathian high priest. There was your inspired genius.’

Macros waved his hand. ‘Yes. Had they all had that level of talent, the war would have turned out very different, but other than that one savant, they were always a nuisance at most—’

‘Nuisance?’ interrupted Pug. ‘Tens of thousands died over the course of two wars because of that nuisance.’

‘You mistake my meaning,’ said Macros. ‘They created chaos, but as Nakor observed, it was the Nameless One at the root of it all.’

Macros stood and walked a pace, turned and said, ‘There is so much to tell, and it’s difficult to know where to begin.’ He glanced from face to face. ‘Should a question occur to you, perhaps it were best if you leave off asking until I make this following point.’ He waved his hand in the air, and a globe appeared, an illusion that Pug instantly recognized, for he had used such things to teach students at the Assembly on Kelewan, the Academy at Stardock, and upon Sorcerer’s Isle.

‘Consider this globe to be all that can exist,’ said Macros. ‘Surrounded by the void, it represents all of what we comprehend.’ He waved his hand and the globe was now banded with shades of grey, from a nearly black band at the bottom to an off-white one at the top. ‘Each layer represents a plane of reality, with the centremost one being our own … your own,’ he corrected himself. ‘As you noticed on Kosridi, it’s a physical match for Midkemia, as this world is a match for Kelewan.’

‘Kelewan,’ said Pug. ‘I had no inkling.’

Macros nodded. ‘You sit within a garden that is roughly in the middle of the great hall in the Emperor’s palace in the Holy City of Kentosani, if I remember my Tsurani geography. There’s an affinity between physical creations that I do not pretend to understand – it can even be argued that there is but only one physical expression and that the planes are overlays, spiritual realms that actually exist in the same space. It’s all very difficult and borders on the abstract debates ordinarily suitable only for students of natural philosophy. But I can appreciate your not recognizing Omadrabar being analogous to Kelewan, because this world has been occupied by the Dasati a great deal longer than Kelewan has been home to humanity.

‘Were you to rise up to a great height, you would find that while the seas would look familiar far more of this world is covered by construction.’ He paused. ‘Did you know that given the manner in which the Dasati farm, they’ve been forced to include gigantic farming enclaves within the cities, so they can feed the populace?’

Macros shrugged. ‘Enough digression. These levels or planes of reality have been stable for … well, I guess since the dawn of time and as you see them.’ He waved his hand, and suddenly there appeared a distortion, as if someone had stuck a long needle through the sphere from the bottom, pushing a small part of each layer upward, until it intersected the layer above. ‘Then came something I can only call the Disturbance.’

Pug glanced at his companions, but said nothing.

Macros continued. ‘Like the cause of the upheaval that brought humanity to Midkemia, we’ll never know the cause of the Disturbance.’

Nakor grinned. ‘Are they the same?’

Macros frowned like an annoyed schoolteacher. ‘If you find out, please let me know. This Disturbance is an … imbalance, a pressure upwards from the lowest to the highest realm of reality. Just as the Dasati are attempting to manifest themselves into our … your realm, so are creatures from the third realm attempting to rise up into this one.’

‘You’re describing a cataclysm of unprecedented scope,’ whispered Pug.

Macros nodded. ‘Yes, my friend. The entire fabric of the universe is being rent apart, and we must stop it before it gets worse.’

‘How?’ asked Magnus quietly.

Macros sighed, a very human sound coming from a Dasati. ‘I have no real knowledge, just intuition, and even that is … not compelling.’ He waved his hand and the conjured sphere vanished. ‘The Chaos Wars appeared to have been an attempt at reordering the balances within the entirety of reality, from the highest to the lowest plane. We can only speculate on what occurred in the other realms of reality, but I suspect balance was restored, else the crisis we face would be even more catastrophic. We’ve had no evidence of any interaction between your native realm, the one I used to live in as well, and the one above it, the first heaven.’

‘Because the Nameless One is imprisoned?’ suggested Nakor.

‘Most likely,’ said Macros. ‘So, the chaos comes from the lower realms. His Darkness, the Dark God of the Dasati, is so powerful in his supremacy that whatever incursions from below threatened this plane have almost certainly been dealt with.’

‘If I might ask a question?’ inquired Magnus.

‘What?’ asked his grandfather, barely hiding his impatience at the interruption.

‘Why here? Why Kelewan and Midkemia?’

Macros paused, then said, ‘Not a bad question.’ He smiled. ‘I suspect there must be a locus somewhere, or loci, where the incursions from one realm to the next manifest first, analogous to the first Tsurani rift into Midkemia, in the Grey Towers Mountains.

‘Remember, the gods of each realm are local expressions of a much vaster entity, spanning universes. The Nameless One is a manifestation of evil on an unimaginable scale, one that spans the entirety of the universe within which Midkemia resides, a universe of billions of worlds, with countless creatures on them, multitudes having visions of that evil, giving it a legion of guises. Yet, we can assume with some degree of certainty that just as the Nameless One was confined in Midkemia, so he was in many other places, the result of the conflict which seemed to centre on that world.

‘I expect the further one travelled from Midkemia, the less likely it would be that the history of the Chaos Wars remained unchanged. Remember the sphere? If you were at the extremities the ordering of the planes of existence seemed normal, unchanged. Yet if you were at the point of the incursion, you would be amidst chaos.’

‘You build a persuasive argument,’ said Pug. ‘But what I wish to know is how this applies to us, finding ourselves here?’

Macros nodded and smiled. ‘To the heart of the matter.’ He looked directly into Pug’s eyes. ‘The Nameless One is confined, but as you have witnessed, not without influence, even some power, albeit limited by the other surviving Greater Gods, the Controllers.

‘He doesn’t appreciate the incursion from ‘below’ by the Dark God of the Dasati. As much as possible, he’s working in concert with the other gods of Midkemia to restore the proper order of things.’

‘We’re working on behalf of the Nameless One?’ asked Nakor.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ replied Macros. ‘It is my belief that ultimately we all play a part in the Nameless One’s plans.’

‘That plan being?’ asked Nakor.

Macros’s expression became grimmer than before. ‘I believe we are seeing a struggle between gods, my friends. And I believe in some fashion we are weapons.’

‘Weapons?’ echoed Magnus. ‘We are just three magicians and a …?’ He glanced at Nakor.

‘Bek may be a weapon. There is little about him that is natural.’

‘There is a prophecy,’ said Macros. ‘A Dasati lord will rebel against the TeKarana, and prepare the way for the God Killer.’

Pug said, ‘You think Bek …’

‘Is the weapon,’ said Nakor. ‘It is almost certain.’

‘What I don’t know is if he is the weapon.’ Macros coughed, fighting back the impulse even as Pug saw his chest tighten and the spasm hit him. When he finished, he said, ‘Even the lowest of the low would attack me if they saw such an overt sign of weakness.’

A servant hurried in, and moments later a warrior in the garb of the Sadharin followed. ‘Master,’ said the servant. ‘Something—’

The soldier interrupted. ‘Word from Martuch. You must flee. Within the hour the announcement will come from the Palace. At sundown we shall begin a Great Culling.’

Macros drew himself up to his full height, his will overcoming his weakened body. ‘You know what to do,’ he said to the servant. ‘Take only what you must and get our people to the closest sanctuary.’

‘Master,’ said the servant, bowing his head and running off.

To the soldier he said, ‘Return to Martuch and tell him to meet me at the Grove of Delmat-Ama as soon as he is able. If possible, have him bring Valko and anyone else he thinks will serve. It is close to the time, I think.’

The young warrior nodded respectfully, then hurried off. Macros said to himself, ‘Please the gods they survive.’

Pug asked, ‘What is it?’

Macros said, ‘Get your things. We leave within minutes. The TeKarana has called the Great Culling, and at sundown everyone within the Dasati Empire will have licence to kill whomever they may. All truces are abated, all alliances put aside, murder is the will of His Darkness.’

‘What does it mean?’ asked Magnus.

Macros looked troubled. ‘It means the Dark God is hungry. It means the usual slaughter of his subjects is not enough to feed him. I fear it means he is ready to begin his invasion into the next realm.’

Pug, Nakor, and Magnus exchanged glances. Nakor said, ‘What about Bek?’

‘He’s fine with Martuch,’ answered Macros. ‘In some ways he is more Dasati than any Dasati Deathknight I’ve met. The next night and day will probably be the most fun he’s had in his life. I just hope he leaves Martuch alive.’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ asked Pug.

‘There are no allies or friends, save those arrangements made in the moment. Martuch and the other Lords of the Langradin will have safe houses and provisions put by close to the Langradin Great House, by habit if nothing more. But for most common people tonight is a bloody game of chance, and the prize is survival. If one can survive from sunset tonight until sunset tomorrow, the usual order will return. They may be bloody rules, but they’re rules.

‘But for one day there will be no rules. Want something that belongs to your neighbour, take it. Want to settle an old grudge with someone who is too well protected for you to attack, now’s the time. Or if you’re just ambitious and the death of a few better placed individuals in your own faction, your own battle society, or even your own family would benefit you, sharpen your blades. Every death will be seen as a gift to His Darkness, and every murder a benediction.

‘Bands of Deathpriests and Hierophants will be on the streets in every town and city. Anyone is fair game. Bands of ravagers will roam the countryside. Anyone with resources will hole up and barricade every door and window, or find a hole to hide in. We, on the other hand will be on the road, trying to reach a bucolic hamlet a day’s ride south of the city, and it will take us most of the night and day to reach the boundary of the city.’ He looked from face to face. ‘I have little fear for our safety. Any one of us should have enough skill to defend ourselves from whoever we meet along the way.’

‘But you fear discovery,’ said Nakor.

‘Yes,’ said Macros. ‘For if word of our existence reaches those who know what I am, or who might guess who you are, then the entire weight of the Empire, every resource of the TeKarana and the Dark God will be turned to destroying us.’

Pug said, ‘Then let us go.’

Macros smiled. ‘Yes, let us go. And if you have a prayer left in you after all you’ve seen, now would be the time to use it.’

• CHAPTER FOUR •
Empire

MIRANDA LOOKED DEFIANT.

Two members of the Assembly – Alenca and a magician named Delkama – had just finished conjuring a sphere of illusion, a translucent bubble scintillating with sheets of energy which arced across its surface, sizzling patches of bright gold light and brilliant steel blue. It had slowly expanded and caused more than one usually implacable Tsurani noble to flinch visibly. It was a ward, designed to ensure that no magical scrying could spy upon the proceedings about to commence. Moreover, should anyone be attempting to view the proceedings remotely, they would only see three magicians addressing the Emperor on matters unrelated to what was really being discussed. This elaborate charade was for the benefit of Leso Varen, should he be close by and able to use his considerable power to eavesdrop on the Council.

The other members of the Assembly of Magicians who accompanied Miranda looked alarmed. Despite being among those of highest rank in the Empire, even they were tradition bound to show respect bordering on awe to the Emperor. Yet Miranda stood before the Light of Heaven with her shoulders back, her eyes fixed on the young man, and her expression one of expectation. She had just instructed – no, almost ordered – the leader of the Empire of Tsuranuanni to say nothing until the protective measure was in place.

Rarely in the history of the Empire had an outlander stood before the Emperor. The chamber of the Imperial High Council was sacrosanct, as was the entirety of Kentosani, the Holy City, and those who had been there were either ambassadors or captive leaders. Even then it was unusual for the Emperor to attend in person, for he was the divine presence, the embodiment of Heaven’s bounty and a grace to the Tsurani people. Yet so terrible was the message from the Assembly to the Imperial Throne, that Sezu, First of that Name, Ruler of the Nations of Tsuranuanni, took it upon himself to grace the audience and listen in person to the alien woman’s warning.

The vast hall of the High Council was filled to capacity as every ranking noble – every man and the few women who were ruling lords and ladies of the hundreds of Houses of Rank in the Empire – had attended to hear Miranda’s warning. Dressed in a riot of hues, they wore robes of house colours – here one of yellow with crimson trim, there another of black trimmed with pale blue – each bedecked with beading and braids and adorned with precious stones and clasps of precious metal. They were arrayed according to Tsurani tradition in groups that constituted clans, but many who sat silently, waiting for the Emperor’s reply, stole glances at confederates in other parts of the hall, at members of their own political parties. Tsurani politics were not only deadly but convoluted and intricate, an ever-shifting balancing act on the part of each ruler, weighing blood loyalty on one side against expediency and opportunity on the other.

Miranda spoke. ‘Majesty, lords and ladies of the High Council, we come today with a warning, for as dire a threat as can be imagined now bears down on this world.’

Miranda had rehearsed all she would say as she and the Great Ones had awaited the gathering of the Council, and she moved quickly from the discovery of the Talnoy on her world by Kaspar of Olasko to the recent incursion of the Dasati into this world. She glossed over nothing, and she had no temptation to embellish. The unvarnished truth was frightening enough. When she had finished, she saw the Emperor sitting quietly and realized he did not look surprised by anything she had said. She glanced at Alenca who gave the slightest shake of his head indicating he didn’t understand the lack of reaction either. She knew that the Light of Heaven had been kept current as to what the Assembly was doing regarding the Talnoy in their possession, but she knew none of what had occurred since she had been captured had been communicated. The existence of the Dasati incursion had to have been a shock to the young Emperor, yet he sat calmly as if considering what to ask be prepared for his evening meal. Emperor Sezu had come to his office only recently, four years before, and like his father before him had ruled a relatively peaceful empire.

Miranda turned her attention from the Light of Heaven to the High Council. Once again she was astonished at the Tsurani mind, for although she had just delivered as dire a warning as could be imagined, she suspected as many as a third among the attending lords were wondering how to gain advantage from the coming chaos, and from their expressions, fully another third seemed incapable of fully understanding what it was they had just heard. It was the last third, who did understand the dangers of which she spoke, who realized they were all in peril, who showed the proper distress and who waited silently on the Light of Heaven’s pleasure. The impatient shifting of silks and the nervous scuffling of leather sandals on the floor was a counterpoint to the silence as all waited for the Emperor to speak.

Beside the youthful ruler stood another black-robed magician, Finda by name, an older mage with whom Miranda had only a passing acquaintance. He was the current advisor from the Assembly to the Imperial Throne and from his expression it appeared he would rather be just about anywhere else in the vast Tsurani Empire at this moment.

Miranda was not the expert on Tsurani society her husband was – he had lived among them for years – but she still understood it well enough to have a sense of what was likely to be the reaction among the ruling families. The warlike Tsurani traditions still dominated the politics of the Empire, the ‘Game of the Council’ as it was called, but rather than armed confrontation new means of domination and influence were employed: wealth, influence and social position. With the occasional murder, midnight raid, and abduction thrown in, Miranda thought. At times Tsurani politics reminded her of nothing so much as the criminal wars in Great Kesh; the Mockers of Krondor would have fitted right in.

Five great families – Keda, Minwanabi, Oaxatucan, Xacatecas and Anasati – still dominated the many clans and political parties that defined the governance of the Empire. Traditionally they had been the only families able to claim the title of Warlord, until the current Emperor’s great grandmother seized the throne for her son. And above all others there remained one constant: the Emperor. The Light of Heaven could overrule any judgment of the High Council. He could order war or force feuding clans to put down their arms at whim. Such was his power.

All waited as the Emperor upon the golden throne, seat of power for two thousand years in the Empire’s history, pondered his response. The assembled lords of the great and lesser houses were silent to a man. No one dared speak before the Light of Heaven.

Miranda took note of the empty chair at his side, set slightly lower on the dais. It had been placed there by Sezu’s great grandmother, the legendary Lady Mara of the Acoma, Mistress of the Empire, the only person in the long history of the Tsurani people to hold that title. In saving her house from bitter enemies, she had reformed a nation, freeing suffering millions from lives without hope. As a result of her acts a nation had risen that now placed as much importance on art, music and literature as it did on honour, bravery, and sacrifice in war. The Empire was not without its struggles and difficulties, but it had been reborn under the last three emperors despite attempts by traditionalists to steer the Empire back to old values and ways.

All eyes now turned to the Emperor as the Light of Heaven stirred.

Sezu, First of that Name, at last revealed his reaction: he looked deeply troubled. When his great grandmother had brought reform to the Empire she had also transformed the office of Emperor from an almost entirely ceremonial one to the ultimate seat of power within the Empire, and the weight of his responsibilities had already aged him beyond his thirty-six years. Softly he said, ‘Dire words, indeed, Lady Miranda. We have been a relatively peaceful nation for more than two generations. Some difficulties with our neighbours in the Thuril Highlands and across the Sea of Blood to the south have kept some of our young men mantled in glory and heaped honours upon their houses. But we have not fought a major war since our invasion of your homeworld.’

Miranda nodded. The Emperor had Midkemian blood in him: Mara’s Midkemian lover, Kevin, had been acknowledged father of Emperor Justin. And while that fact gave some vague sense of kinship, this young man was entirely Tsurani. Yet there was something else, something almost rehearsed in his next question. ‘Would it not serve if this Talnoy was removed from our lands and returned to your world?’

Miranda looked at Alenca, eldest of the Great Ones, who said, ‘Light of Heaven, we have considered that, and we think it pointless. It was the renegade, Leso Varen, who provided aid to the Dasati in establishing their presence here. They know now how to return, and we are sure they would do so.’ He paused as if weighing his words carefully, then said, ‘There is something about our world … Many of us think these Dasati have marked this world for a reason; we just don’t know what that reason is.’ He fell silent for a long moment, then added, ‘We think the nations need to prepare for invasion.’

The Emperor was silent for a very long time to consider this. Then he spoke in what Miranda could only term a precise manner. She realized this young Emperor was no fool. He knew what she and Alenca were going to say before they said it! Her instinct that he had not been shocked was justified. But she wondered how he had known. She was also sure that he had rehearsed his reply!

‘Attend me,’ said the Light of Heaven formally to the assembled Council, as he stood up. The assembled lords of the Empire stood at once, for it was not permitted for any lesser being to sit in the presence of the monarch when he was not also seated. ‘Our tradition is ancient, our ways time-honoured, but now we face new perils unlike any in memory. We are reminded of hallowed antiquity, of a time of myth, and the arrival of the nations over the golden bridge.

‘Our lore-keepers suggest that what we fled from the Home Before Time was too monstrous a thing to even bear accounting, so no word of description, no tale or song even suggests what it was that drove us to this world. It is merely that thing from which the nations fled.’ He paused for a moment, then added, ‘We fear that now such a horror returns to task the nations.’ He fell silent to let his words sink in. Miranda knew enough of Tsurani lore to know he had struck a chord with the lords of the High Council, for the root of Tsurani history was the Myth of Arrival. It was a tale Pug had recounted to her more than once, the image of the majestic golden bridge of light through a massive rift across which thousands of refugees flooded into Kelewan, fleeing the terrors of the Chaos Wars. It was the foundation of every Great One’s training, the birth of those people who later would become the Tsurani, instilling a deep sense of community that was the heart of every magician’s oath to serve the Empire.

‘It is the tradition that when the nations go to war, the Warlord is given the power to conduct the business of war. That office has remained empty for years.’ Miranda could see half a dozen ruling nobles looking on eagerly. One of them by rights would be granted the office, the second most powerful position in the Empire, historically at times even more important than the Golden Throne. It was the ultimate prize for any ambitious Tsurani noble. ‘It is to our cousin, Tetsu of the Minwanabi, I turn.’ He looked towards a grizzled noble, still powerful in bearing despite his heavy physique and grey hair. ‘Will you accept this heavy burden, my lord?’

Tetsu of the Minwanabi bowed his head, barely able to contain his emotions. ‘Gladly, Majesty. I live to serve: my life and honour are yours.’

The Emperor turned to the assembled lords. ‘Send word to your commanders, my lords. The nations go to war. Go now and return at the second hour after sunrise tomorrow and we shall ready ourselves.’ He turned to his First Advisor, an elderly man named Janain who had previously been his father’s First Advisor. ‘Send word to the Priests of Jastur. I will arrive at noon tomorrow to break the Holy Seal.’

Miranda glanced at Alenca, uncertain what this particular order meant. The old magician gave a slight shake of his head. But she could tell from the attitude of every man in the room that this announcement was both important and alarming.

The Emperor continued, ‘I will take the counsel with the Lady Miranda, the Great Ones with whom she arrived, and the Warlord.’ He paused for a moment, then ended the assembly with the formal dismissal, ‘Honours to your houses, my lords.’

He stepped down from dais and everyone in the room bowed, the common servants going to their knees. As the Emperor swept past, he glanced in Miranda’s direction, and indicated that she should follow.

As the newly-appointed Warlord fell into step behind the Emperor, Alenca held Miranda back for a moment. Without preamble, he said, ‘By breaking the seal on the temple of the War God, the Light of Heaven ensures all other matters become moot. No faction struggle, clan feud, or debt of blood may be undertaken until the temple door is again resealed, and that will not happen until final victory is achieved.’ He glanced around as if worried about being overheard. ‘You must understand the gravity of this. He has told them that not only are we preparing for the possibility of war, but that we are going to war.’

Miranda was confused. ‘Isn’t that what we wanted?’

Alenca said, ‘It is not what I expected. Moreover, I never believed any emperor would again revive the office of Warlord. To promote a Minwanabi to that position …’

‘What does it mean?’ asked Miranda, wishing not for the first time but with more fervour than ever before that her husband were here. Pug would understand all of this.

‘There is an old saying, one that I am certain you have among your people as well: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The Minwanabi were defeated by the Acoma, the Emperor’s ancestors, and rather than the usual obliteration, with every living member of that family put to the sword or sold into slavery, the great Lady of the Acoma, the Mistress of the Empire, in a gesture of mercy unimaginable to any Tsurani ruling noble, allowed the Minwanabi to survive. That made one of the original five great houses a vassal to a lesser house, an insult to our ancestors despite the generosity of the gesture.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Miranda.

‘You would have to be Tsurani to understand fully, I fear,’ said Alenca, motioning for Miranda to follow. ‘A minor cousin, one of the last surviving members of the last true Minwanabi lord was made ruling lord and he later married an Acoma cousin, further binding the two houses together, but the insult to the Minwanabi by the Acoma was never forgotten. I suspect that breaking the seal on the temple and putting the most dangerous man in the Empire in charge of the war is our Light of Heaven’s tactic to ensure that his most bitter enemy within the High Council is otherwise occupied for the foreseeable future and not exploring the possibility of regicide.’

Miranda took a deep breath to calm herself and wondered, not for the first time, if the Tsurani were truly mad.

Miranda continued to observe the young Emperor as he oversaw the conference in his private chambers. They had met only briefly on two previous occasions, the first when he was a boy in his father’s court, and the second time when he assumed the throne. The later event was so dominated by Tsurani tradition that she had been in his presence for less than five minutes, and the entire conversation had been between the young Emperor and her husband. Miranda had found it annoyingly ironic that she was soundly ignored by a tradition-bound young man who owed his position entirely to a tradition-breaking woman, his great-grandmother.

And again she was being left on the edge of the conversation while the newly-appointed Warlord and the Emperor directed the bulk of the questions to Alenca and the two other senior magicians from the Assembly. At one point in the hour-long interrogation she had verged on volunteering an observation, but Alenca had shot her a warning glance and a slight shake of the head and she had remained silent. Because of her husband’s affections for the old man and her previous dealings with him, she followed his lead, but wondered at what he was playing.

Despite the injury done to her pride and independent nature, Miranda was impressed by how deftly the Emperor manoeuvred the discussion in the direction in which he wished it to go, deftly controlling the flow of debate and manipulating opinion. After another hour of discussion, she was now certain that despite his youth, this Sezu of the Acoma, First of that Name, Emperor of all Tsuranuanni and Light of Heaven, was nobody’s fool. When the meeting came to a close, he had fashioned a consensus without once having to appeal to his own authority.

As she rose, the Emperor said, ‘Lady Miranda, a moment please.’

Alenca hesitated, then bowed slightly again to the Emperor and with an expression of curiosity indicated to Miranda that he’d wait outside for her. Once the Tsurani nobles and magicians had departed, the Emperor said, ‘May I offer you something? Wine? I have several very good reds from your Kingdom of the Isles, as well as some of those that have been cultivated here, though I fear our hot climate makes for difficult vintages.’

Almost charmed, Miranda realized he was attempting to get her to drop her guard. She said, ‘Water would be fine, Majesty.’

He signalled and almost before the gesture was finished a large ceramic goblet of fresh water was presented on a tray by a servant. While she drank, the Emperor waved away the servants and pointed to two chairs placed before a massive window looking out over the central courtyard of the palace. ‘Please, no formality,’ he said in the King’s Tongue, almost without accent.

She looked surprised.

‘My guards are sworn to protect me and my life with their own,’ he said, indicating the four remaining figures in the room, men clad in the traditional white-gold armour of the Emperor’s personal guard. ‘But they are men, and as such, likely to suffer the flaws of men. A word here, a chance remark there, and we are undone. So, while many here in Kelewan speak one or another of your homeworld’s tongues, I ensured that none of these do.’ He said this with humour, but his eyes were fixed upon Miranda and showed no mirth. ‘So, what do you really think?’

‘About what, Majesty?’ replied Miranda as she sat in the proffered chair, a well-cushioned divan that faced the Emperor’s. She studied his face. Like the Kingdom of the Isles and the Empire of Great Kesh on Midkemia, the Tsurani Empire was made up of diverse people, so there was no true Tsurani ‘look’, save that they were a short people compared to those from Midkemia. Sezu was a bit taller than average, perhaps matching Miranda’s five foot nine – most Tsurani men were an inch or two shorter; some were barely taller than dwarves.

Other than that, the young man appeared the icon of Tsurani nobility, poised, calm, and almost impossible to read. If there was one thing about the Tsurani in general that annoyed Miranda it was their seemingly implacable composure. One rarely heard a raised voice or heated exchanges in public.

The Emperor sat down. ‘You did well.’

‘Thank you,’ said Miranda, ‘I think.’

The young man smiled and years fell away from him. ‘I sometimes struggle to remember you’re quite old, for you appear not that much more older than me, say an older sister or very young aunt.’

Miranda said, ‘Very young.’

The Emperor chuckled. ‘I have been told certain things regarding your husband’s whereabouts. Are those reports accurate?’

‘As accurate as can be, given that he’s unreachable by any means, magic or mundane,’ she replied.

The Emperor leaned back, thoughtful. ‘He undertakes a journey of unimaginable risk.’

Miranda’s expression revealed her concern, despite her attempt to appear calm. ‘As I know all too well, Majesty.’

‘Then there are things I must know.’

‘What would you know, Majesty?’

‘The truth,’ said the young monarch. ‘Alenca and the others often think me still a boy – and I suspect from their vantage point of advancing age. I must be – but from your point of view they must seem as children.’

‘I learned a long time ago, Majesty, age has little to do with wisdom. One can endure a lifetime’s experiences in a few years or go through life blissfully unaware of the world’s troubles around you. It depends on the person. Alenca possesses a calm appreciation of the situation in the midst of chaos I can only envy.’

The Emperor was silent as he considered what she said, then he spoke: ‘My hallowed great-grandmother, Mara, had enough experience and wisdom for a dozen lifetimes, it seems.’

Miranda said nothing, wondering at the reference to the venerated woman.

‘I believe your husband knew her.’

Miranda said, ‘I’m not sure, Majesty. I know they met at least once over the years, but you must remember Pug was not always a welcome sight in these halls.’

The Emperor smiled. ‘The Imperial Games. Yes, I remember the story. My great-grandmother was one of the many nobles at those games when your husband shamed the Warlord publicly and ended his power. Did you know it took almost five years to fully repair the damage Milamber did to the great stadium?’

Miranda repressed a smile. Pug, Milamber as the Tsurani called him, was perhaps the most patient man she had ever encountered – a quality that she alternately respected and found annoying – but when he finally did lose his temper the display could be horrific. By all accounts his display at those games so many years ago could only be called heroic, even god-like. He had rained down fire, called up tornados and earthquakes, and had all of the Empire’s nobility trembling at his feet in terror. At last she said, ‘I had heard the damage was extensive.’

The Emperor lost his smile. ‘That’s not what I wished to talk about. The point I am making is that your husband and my great-grandmother caused more change in the Empire within a lifetime than had been seen for centuries previously.’ He looked reflective, as if choosing his words carefully, then softly added, ‘I am about to tell you something that no one outside my family knows – not our closest allies, not even cousins and uncles.’

Miranda said nothing.

‘When my grandfather had been on the throne for a short while, after his father returned from your world, the great Lady Mara took Emperor Justin aside and told him a secret. He shared that secret only with his son, my father; then when I was almost a man, my father shared it with me.’ The Emperor stood, but as Miranda started to rise he waved her back into her seat. ‘No need for formality, Miranda: I am about to share with you the single most closely guarded secret in the history of Tsuranuanni.’ He moved to a chest carved from a blond hardwood, its design intricate and ornate. It had been polished to a gleam and there was something about it that now caught Miranda’s attention.

‘It’s magic,’ she said softly.

‘Yes,’ said the Emperor. ‘I have been told it would bring instant death to any but myself or my blood kin even to touch it – one good thing about absolute authority is that no servant has even attempted to dust it.’ He paused for a brief second. ‘Though it never seems to need dusting.’ He reached out slowly, pausing as his fingers brushed the wood. ‘Each time I open this, I must admit to a moment of concern.’ Then he gripped the top and removed it. It came off easily and the Emperor put the lid to one side. He then reached in and removed a parchment.

Miranda felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. She had seen that parchment’s like before.

Without a word the Emperor handed the parchment to her. She unrolled it and read it. Then she let it fall from her hands, closed her eyes and slumped down in the chair.

After a moment of silence the Emperor Sezu said, ‘Apparently you understand what this means?’

She nodded. Rising she said, ‘If I may, Majesty, I need to consult with a few of my colleagues on my homeworld. I must seek other wise counsel before I begin to interpret this; its true meaning may be eluding me.’

‘The box has been in my family’s care for over a century,’ said the Emperor, ignoring formality and kneeling to pick up the fallen parchment. He rolled it up and returned it to Miranda. ‘A few more days will have little bearing on what we do next. No matter what you decide this means, we must still mobilize.’

‘Now I understand why you put the nations on a formal war footing.’

A look of sadness came over the young man. ‘No one must suspect what we are going to attempt until I am ready to order the nations to act. That is vital. My High Council is composed of very privileged rulers who will instantly obey like any good Tsurani soldier … until they’re given time to think. At that moment a civil war would be born.’

‘Alenca and some of the Great Ones need to be alerted.’

‘As few as you can, only the most trustworthy, and no one else, not until the precise moment I give the order.’

Miranda nodded. ‘Very well, Majesty, but first I must return home immediately. If this is going to be your course of action, I have a great deal of preparation that must be started, as well as some very difficult people who are going to need convincing. Then I will return to speak with Alenca and the others.’

‘I shall leave word that you are to be permitted access to me at any time of the day or night, Lady Miranda. I shall provide you with whatever I may on this side of the rift.’

Miranda said, ‘Farewell, Majesty and might I suggest there is one thing we can both do: pray.’

The Emperor was suddenly left looking at an empty chair, for Miranda had vanished from sight. He glanced at the four guards in the room, but they were motionless, as they always were, their eyes locked forward, unmoved by the sight of a woman vanishing before them. Sezu, First of that Name, and Ruler of All The Nations of Tsuranuanni, sat down in his chair and began to compose himself. For whatever was coming, until it arrived, he had an empire to govern.

Caleb looked up and felt an instant sense of relief at the sight of his mother. ‘I was starting to worry …’ Her expression stopped him ‘What is it?’

Miranda said, ‘That animal Varen got me captured by the Dasati.’

Caleb said, ‘Are you …?’ He let the question fall away, realizing that as far as he could see his mother was unhurt and had obviously escaped.

‘Only my dignity was injured. Pain, as you know, goes away.’ She sat down in the other chair, a rolled parchment on her knees. ‘What news?’

‘Rosenvar and Joshua stand watch over the Talnoy, and Rosenvar reports that your experiments with Nakor have yielded good results. The control crystals work as well as the ring, with apparently no ill-effect.’ He began to sift through a pile of parchments and papers. ‘I have his report here somewhere.’

‘I’ll read it later.’ She sighed. ‘I know it’s pointless to ask about your father, brother and Nakor?’

Caleb nodded. There had been some hope that Pug might devise a manner in which to send communication back to his son and wife, but everyone counted it a very slim hope.

‘No word from Kaspar’s expedition, either.’

‘The warning from … what do they call themselves?’

‘The Circle,’ answered Caleb.

‘They’re interested in the Peaks of the Quor … that report was vague on any specific time, wasn’t it?’

Caleb picked up another parchment. ‘Simply that we should expect them to appear in some force down on the lee side of the peninsula before the Spring Festival.’

‘That’s another week, so they could be dealing with them now.’ She glanced at her son. ‘Are you worried?’

The dark-haired hunter pushed himself back from the table. ‘Always. Especially when you and father leave me in charge.’ He rose and paced around the desk. ‘You know I am here only because I’m your son. There are others in the Conclave who are better suited—’

‘No,’ she cut him off. ‘I know it is not your first choice, and you’d rather be out tramping through the woods or climbing some mountain, but the fact is you’ve been groomed all your life to take charge should anything happen to the rest of us. You know things, thousands of tiny details that no one else, not even Nakor, knows. You just don’t know you know.’ She was thoughtful. ‘But I think we need to find you an assistant, a magician – perhaps that young girl …’

‘Lettie?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. She’s not the best student we’ve had, but she’s got an uncanny grasp of how things fit together. Yes, I’ll have her sent here and you can begin to train her. I didn’t realize it until now, but we have no one ready to step in should anything happen to you.’

‘What is all this?’ asked Caleb. ‘You’re usually not this concerned with … contingencies.’

Miranda looked at her younger son. She could see a hint of her husband around his mouth, and the way in which he cocked his head to one side when thoughtful. Otherwise, he resembled his mother, from the high forehead and narrow chin to the way he moved, and his tall slender build. Like many parents she was occasionally and unexpectedly struck by how much she loved her children. ‘Two things, actually,’ she said. ‘Had that madman Varen’s plan worked, I would probably still be strapped to a Dasati table being examined by their Deathpriests or I’d be dead and dissected. Many bad things besides my discomfort and ultimate demise would have occurred, the least of which was you being the only member of this family still here.’

‘We knew that,’ said Caleb, putting his hand on his mother’s shoulder. ‘There’s something more. What is it?’

‘This,’ she said handing him the parchment she had received from the Emperor.

‘Tsurani,’ said Caleb. ‘Father’s hand.’

‘Another of those damned notes!’ Miranda wasn’t irritated by the fact that notes kept appearing mysteriously from some future date – warning of threats, instructing them on actions to take – she was annoyed that they were always cryptic, and it was never clear as to how, exactly, to deal with the information provided. Moreover, she was truly annoyed that her husband had taken years to tell her about them, and had told Nakor before her!

Caleb read the note. There were three lines of text above his father’s signature:

Listen to Miranda.

Give this to her.

Prepare to evacuate.

Milamber.

‘Prepare to evacuate?’ asked Caleb. ‘He’s telling the Emperor to prepare to evacuate … what? The palace? The Holy City?’

Frustrated, Miranda shook her head. She knew in the pit of her stomach that she stood a very real chance of never seeing her husband again, and with equal certainty she knew what the note meant. ‘No,’ she said, emotion making her voice hoarse. ‘He means, prepare to evacuate the world. He’s telling the Emperor the Tsurani will have to leave Kelewan.’

• CHAPTER FIVE •
Captives

KASPAR LAY DOUBLED OVER IN PAIN.

An elf stood over him ready to strike him again if Kaspar resisted the order to move. Servan reached down to assist the General to his feet and Kaspar’s look showed that he had no intention of forgetting this elf any time soon. He had tried to prolong the first break during the long march and for his trouble had received the butt end of a staff in the stomach.

The elf who had first spoken to them now approached Kaspar. ‘We have no time to waste. You humans are slow. We must hurry: we still have a steep climb to Baranor.’

‘Baranor?’ asked Kaspar.

‘Our home,’ said the elf. ‘We need to be there before sundown and for that reason you cannot tarry.’

Nursing his sore side, Kaspar threw one more dark look at the elf who had struck him and said, ‘Your friend made that abundantly clear.’

The elf who had struck him stood glaring at Kaspar, his blue eyes fixed on the former duke.

Speaking without looking back at Kaspar, the leader of the elves said, ‘Sinda thinks you should all have been killed at the water’s edge. It would make things simpler.’

Jommy muttered, ‘Sorry for the inconvenience,’ as he helped one of the wounded soldiers back to his feet.

‘No inconvenience.’ The leader said. ‘We can still kill you if we must. But I have instructions that you’re to be brought to Baranor to be questioned.’

‘Instructions from whom?’ asked Kaspar, still nursing his side where the staff butt had struck.

‘Our leader.’

Kaspar said nothing, but from his expression, Jommy could tell that the General was maybe thinking of a way to escape, even though Jommy thought that an impossibility, even if they had twice the number of men. Jommy had come to the conclusion that the half-dozen or so elves with the long wooden staves were magicians or sorcerers, or whatever they called elf magic-users.

He looked behind him and saw Jim Dasher glancing around. Jommy didn’t have to read minds to know what was on the thief’s: he was noting hiding places and escape routes. Jommy didn’t think much of the notion of fleeing – though if anyone could elude these elves in their own forest, it might be Jim; Jommy was still wondering how he had apparently arrived out of nowhere to kill that magician on the beach.

Still, if he reached the beach it would be another week before a longboat was sent to re-supply Kaspar’s forces, and if he tried to work his way around to the hidden cove to the north where Kaspar’s ship lay at anchor, it would take more than a week on foot. Then there was the almost impossible swim out to where Kaspar’s ships were at anchor, through rough waters and rocks, not to mention sharks and other predators. Jommy wondered if the enterprising thief was thinking of such a mad plan. And if he got there after the re-supply boat found the camp empty, he might reach the anchorage in time to watch the ships sailing away, for that would be their orders: if anything happens to Kaspar’s forces, leave at once.

The captives trudged up the hillside, those able-bodied helping the wounded. As the shadows lengthened, the elves seemed to be showing hints of a rising sense of urgency. Jommy whispered to Kaspar, ‘General, do the elves look a little edgy to you?’

Kaspar nodded. ‘For the better part of an hour now, I’d say. I don’t know how much farther we have to travel, but it’s a certainty that they want to be there before nightfall.’

Soon Jommy’s observation was borne out. The elves insisted that the prisoners pick up the pace, and were unforgiving to the plight of the wounded. As the sun dipped behind the western mountains pairs of able-bodied men were forced to carry those unable to keep up.

Kaspar shouted, ‘What’s the danger?’ but was ignored as the elves began turning all their attention towards the woods rather than watching the prisoners as closely as they had been.

Suddenly, the leader shouted a warning in their language. Kaspar could see that the elven warriors and magicians were well-drilled as they spread out to counter what appeared to be some sort of attack. Kaspar shouted to his men, ‘Get down!’ and himself fell to the ground.

A thrumming sound filled the air and the shadows between the massive boles of the trees appeared to shift, as if darkness had achieved tangibility and could move.

‘Void-darters!’ the leader of the elves said to Kaspar. ‘Let none touch you.’

‘Then give us our weapons so we may defend ourselves!’

The elf ignored the request, his eyes fixed upon the perimeter of the column. Then a shout from up ahead alerted Kaspar that the attack was underway.

Like something from a bad dream, flashes of darkness sped through the air, shadowy forms that defied the eye. Kaspar prided himself on a hunter’s vision, but he had no concept of what it was he was looking at.

Wedge-shaped, moving more like a sea skate or ray than a bird, the figures sped through the air faster than a swift, darting one way then another with impossible changes in direction. They were so flat that if they turned suddenly, they appeared to vanish for a moment, presenting an impossible target. Kaspar knew these creatures would be hard to hit with a sword, harder still with an arrow.

The elven warriors kept their swords at the ready but Kaspar already knew any contact between a steel blade and the flitting creatures was likely to be purely accidental. The only thing that gave Kaspar hope was that the creatures looked delicate, almost insubstantial, and he couldn’t imagine any of them surviving a sword’s blow. But how to hit them, that was the question.

Yet the flourishing of swords seemed to cause the apparitions to hesitate. Kaspar heard the voice of Jim Dasher, from a short distance away, shouting, ‘Those things don’t want to touch steel! Belt buckles!’

The soldiers quickly pulled loose their belts, rolling on the ground like demented rag dolls, trying to keep low while trying to free their only weapon. Some came to their knees, or into a crouch, their belts folded ready to be swung, while others wrapped the belts around their fist, buckle on top, like a hand weapon.

The swooping flyers veered off rather than be touched, but Kaspar was an experienced enough hunter to understand they were only testing their prey. ‘Keep low!’ he shouted. ‘They’re coming in … now!’

As if they had obeyed his command the flying creatures veered in, diving straight down at those on the trail. The elves were ready, obviously practised in dealing with these creatures, while the humans were trained fighting men, hand-picked by the Conclave for their resolve as well as their other abilities.

Kaspar spared a glance to either side and saw Jommy to his right and Servan to his left with Jim Dasher now standing slightly behind Servan’s left, each man now with at least one flank covered, and then he saw black horror flying straight at him.

At the last instant Kaspar could see that the creatures had tiny eyes that looked like shimmering blue gems flecked with gold. A maw like a dagger cut opened for a second showing tiny razor-sharp teeth of brilliant carmine red.

Kaspar lashed out as hard as he could, his belt-buckle squarely striking the Void-darter under its ‘chin’. He felt the shock of contact run through his hands and arms as if he had just struck an oak with his sword. The creature flew backwards, tumbling, losing its ability to fly. It struck the ground and with a flash of a metallic, grey-blue light vanished, leaving behind only an oily black smoke.

Jommy lashed out as well, striking his attacking creature slightly off-centre, sending it veering away to his right. Servan ducked and Jim Dasher lashed out with a fist wrapped with his belt-buckle on top. He grunted with pain as the shock ran straight up his arm.

In all three cases the response was the same; the creatures fled with a ghostly wail of pain.

Kaspar again stole a glance around and saw that most of his men were unhurt. The two exceptions were on the ground, contorted as if in agony. One had a creature attached to his left leg and evil blue wisps of smoke rose from where it touched him. The other had been struck in the chest. He arched his back so severely Kaspar wondered if he’d break his own spine.

An elf slashed at the first man’s leg, the point of his sword arcing across the creature’s back. A tiny blue flame erupted and Kaspar for the first time saw that the elves’ swords were not made of steel, but something he had never seen before. The creature released its hold on the thrashing man. The second man was not as lucky: the elf who came to stand over him drove his sword point through the attached Void-darter, straight into the prisoner. Both died instantly.

Kaspar ducked as another flyer attempted to wrap itself around his head, and as the creature grazed his scalp he felt a painful, icy tingle as if something was sucking the heat from his skin. Ice burn, he thought, remembering as a child what it was like to be hunting in the mountains with his father, and touching a dagger’s blade that had grown so cold it peeled a layer of skin off as his father pulled it from his hand.

Abruptly, a huge enveloping energy surrounded the column, as the elven spell-casters responded. The Void-darters turned and fled and the leader of the elves shouted, ‘Run! They will come back with their masters!’

Ignoring the dead man on the road, Kaspar yelled, ‘Grab the wounded and carry them!’ He picked up the man who had been struck in the leg, found him almost icy to the touch, and hoisted him across his shoulders, carrying him as he would an elk he had killed in the hunt. The man groaned weakly, but Kaspar had no intention of leaving anyone behind if he could help it. Even at the height of his madness, when under the influence of the evil magician Leso Varen, Kaspar had held to certain principles that had inspired personal loyalty of his men, and one was fundamental: on the battlefield every soldier was his brother – no living man was willingly left behind. Kaspar admitted that he might have been a murderous bastard at one time, but he was a loyal murderous bastard.

Kaspar kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and after running for twenty yards could see a wooden palisade ahead through a gap in the trees. The glimpse was enough to tell him that it was a fairly substantial fortification, with the battlement a good twenty feet above the foundation. The soldier in him quickly calculated the difficulty of taking such a position, uphill, while a punishing rain of arrows fell on you as you moved up to the base of the wall … nothing a skilled company of engineers supported by disciplined soldiers couldn’t quickly deal with, but he suspected there was more to the fortification than met the eye. Even so, a couple of turtles with sappers inside could probably dig up the foundation of two or three pales in the wall within an hour. He glanced at the road as he ran and thought that a good-sized covered ram with supporting archers could probably breach the gate in half the time. Unless magic was involved …

On top of this hill, snug against a cliff face some hundred yards or more behind, stood a series of wooden buildings fashioned in a manner Kaspar had never seen before, and all of them were surrounded by the massive wooden wall.

As they approached, Kaspar appreciated how hundreds of trees must have been cleared to form an open killing ground. An earthen redoubt had been erected in front of the palisade. The road now fell away on both sides in a manner that would funnel attackers in front of the gate into a more confined area or have them falling off to one side or the other so that they’d end up standing below the wall, in peril of murderous bowfire from above.

To his right Kaspar could see that years of fighting had despoiled these grounds. There was something odd about it, he thought as he struggled to get his wounded soldier to safety, but he couldn’t quite put a name to it. There was something different about this battlefield, something sensed more than seen.

A howling erupted behind the fleeing men and Kaspar turned around completely, to see what pursued them.

Void-darters sped in from behind, but in close pursuit came beings that could only be described as demons out of some deep pit of hell. Cloaked in tatters of charcoal, inky black beings sat astride creatures that seemed to be the demented product of a fevered delirium.

The animals looked like elongated wolves, but had an almost feline motion. Like the flying entities, they were things made of shadow and darkness, but these creatures had pale milky white eyes.

The riders were roughly humanoid in shape, but their forms flowed around the edges, and from them a fog or smoke trailed behind them leaving grey wisps that were almost instantly lost in the evening’s gloom. They howled and Kaspar saw weapons in their hands, long blades that shimmered and sparked with angry energies of the darkest red hue.

‘Ban-ath protect me!’ said Jim Dasher as he edged close to Kaspar.

‘Run!’ shouted Kaspar, for some of the men had stopped in muted horror.

Men broke in ragged formation, the elves now ignoring their role as captors, everyone trying for the safety of the walls. Kaspar expected to see archers ready to cover the retreat, but instead was greeted only by the sight of a few faces above the ramparts and none of them apparently in possession of a bow.

Burdened by the man he carried, Kaspar struggled towards the keep, again finding that will which had made him a dangerous foe before becoming a valued ally to the Conclave of Shadows. ‘Where are your archers?’ he shouted.

The elves’ leader turned and said, ‘Arrows are of no use against their masters. We must get through the gates!’ He turned and fled, unconcerned apparently whether Kaspar and the prisoners reached safety before mayhem overtook them.

Kaspar laboured to keep up, for their refuge was only a hundred yards or so ahead. The first of the elves were already there and Kaspar was horrified to see that it was his men who were falling behind. ‘Damn you! Help us!’ he shouted.

‘No one can help you!’ shouted back the leader. ‘You must reach the gates or you will perish.’

‘I’ll be damned if I’m going to be caught like a hare run down by wolves!’ Kaspar turned and yelled at one of his soldiers, ‘Take this man!’ As easily as if tossing a dressed elk to his cook, he threw the man over the soldier’s shoulders. The soldier almost collapsed under the sudden weight, but he hitched himself up and moved on as quickly as possible.

Kaspar saw that the nearest rider would be on top of him in only a few moments. He readied his belt as a weapon again, remembering with evil irony how he had stood just so a few years ago with a captive’s chains as his only weapon while nomads from the hills of Novindus had ridden down on him.

From his right came a voice. ‘I have an idea.’

Jim Dasher was standing at his side, holding two large rocks. Kaspar nodded, and took one.

Jim waited until the rider was almost on top of them, then pulled back his arm and threw.

His rock sped through the air and struck the rider full in the face. It passed through as if piercing smoke, but the rider flinched, pulling up with a startled cry.

‘The wolf!’ shouted Dasher. He picked up another rock and hurled it just as Kaspar unloaded his rock with as much strength as he could right at the creature’s muzzle. The wolf-like mount snarled, a distant hollow sound, and the rock bounced off, causing it to falter.

Dasher hurled a rock at the creature’s foot, causing it to stumble and collapse on the trail. The rider might have been immune to Kaspar’s rock, but he seemed to abide by the same rules as any mortal rider when his mount stumbled for he flew over the creature’s haunches.

Kaspar shouted, ‘Run!’

He had bought those ahead of him mere seconds, but those seconds were the difference between safety and destruction. He saw Dasher scoop up one last rock, turn, throw, and then run. Realizing that the young thief was faster and not wanting to be the only one who failed to reach the gate, the former Duke of Olasko dug deep inside himself and found just enough strength to reach the threshold stride for stride with the younger man.

They leaped into the courtyard of the fortification and heard a howl of outrage from their pursuers, but while the gate was still open, the demonic creatures did not follow. The elf magicians hurried up ramps to the battlements above and when they were in place, raised their staves as one.

A thrumming sound filled the air, much as it had down on the beach when they destroyed the elemental creature, and a wave of white light pulsed from the walls. Instantly the creatures on the road retreated, their angry shouts and cries reduced to hollow echoes on the evening wind.

Kaspar’s men sat on the ground, many near exhaustion. Several were now unconscious, wounded men who had succumbed to the demands of the retreat. Kaspar forced himself to remain on his feet, but even the resourceful Jim Dasher gave in to the need to sit down. Jommy and Servan looked at Kaspar expectantly, waiting for their general to tell them what was next.

As the elf leader came towards them, Kaspar said, ‘Well, then, we are here. We are your prisoners. What is to be done with us?’

‘You will see our leader.’

‘When?’

‘Now,’ he said, motioning for Kaspar to follow. ‘The others wait here.’

As Kaspar fell in behind the elf, ‘What am I to call you?’

The elf glanced over his shoulder. ‘Is that important?’

‘Only if I live and have reason to address you.’

The elf smiled slightly. ‘I am called Hengail.’

‘Why were there no archers on the wall to cover our retreat?’

Hengail hesitated, then said, ‘All our archers were with us. Only children and women were within the compound.’

As they climbed a path to a large building which dominated the community, Kaspar quickly took in his surroundings. The buildings were astonishing. There were swooping lines of wood beams supporting arching roofs, rather than the straight timbers he would have expected. Wood faces to buildings had been glazed and polished until the evening’s torchlight was reflected from every flat surface as if they were mirrors. Under the glimmering reflections, Kaspar could see that the wood had been allowed to age to deep hues of many colours, mostly deep reds and browns, but with unexpected shades of grey and even a hint of blue here and there. There were more than a dozen buildings scattered around this very large plateau, but most of them appeared empty. The doorways were all open. He glanced upwards at one arching high above his head as he passed into the largest building.

The floors were also of highly polished wood, lovingly cared for from their appearance. The walls were as they were outside, magnificent in their simplicity, yet elegant as well. The building appeared to be laid out in a large cross, with a huge fire-pit of stone dominating the centre. High above, a large hole in the roof permitted smoke to exit, while a sheltering roof above it, supported by large beams at the corner, protected the hole from all but the most violent rainstorms.

Before the fire-pit sat three elves, one obviously of great age, for among the ever-seeming youth of the others, this one bore the ravages of many years: deep lines etching his face, hair white as snow, and a stoop-shouldered posture. Yet his eyes were bright and regarded Kaspar with suspicion.

Slowly he stood up. ‘Who are you to come to the land of the Quor?’

‘Kaspar, formerly Duke of Olasko, now in the service of the kings of Roldem and the Isles, and the Emperor of Great Kesh.’

The old elf was silent for a long moment, then he chuckled. ‘Something dire must be afoot for those three vain princes to be in harmony.’ He studied Kaspar, then said, ‘Tell me why three mighty rulers of the human lands send soldiers to the Peaks of the Quor, and tell me true, for your lives depend on what you say.’

Kaspar looked around the room. Two other elderly elves sat nearby, watching intently, and the elf named Hengail stood silently at their right hand. Two other guards stood by the door, but otherwise the large cross-shaped hall was empty. ‘What do I call you?’

‘I am called Castdanur. In your tongue it means ‘caretaker against the darkness’. I had a young name, once, but that was so long ago I fear I do not remember it.’

Kaspar took a moment to reply, ‘Perhaps we may be of some help to you. It wouldn’t do to kill out of hand those who would be your friends.’ He looked the old elf directly in the eyes. ‘You do appear to need friends.’

Castdanur smiled. ‘Now, why do you suggest we are in need of friends?’

Kaspar said, ‘Only a blind man or a fool can’t see that this once was home to hundreds, and now there is only a handful. You need help. You are a dying people.’

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