Wrath of a Mad God (12 page)

Jim had weighed his options and shared a false bravado with Kaspar, who was now crossing over to speak privately with him once more. “You ready?” he asked.

“A few more minutes,” Dasher answered. “It might help a bit if you wandered over to where Jommy Killaroo is chatting with that old sergeant and…I don’t know, made a quiet announcement about something. I only need a minute or so, but if you can draw attention away from the door, I can be through without anyone seeing me go.” He looked around. “I don’t know
if you’ve noticed, but the elven guards spend a lot of time watching how we watch each other.”

Kaspar glanced at the two guards outside the door and saw how their eyes were constantly shifting from this group to that, several times lingering on Kaspar and Jim at the far end of the hall. “Hadn’t, to tell you the truth.”

“It’s a good idea,” said Dasher. “You don’t know what to expect, but you reckon the prisoners do and you watch them to see who reacts in a funny way.” He glanced at the men who were sleeping or talking quietly. “You’ll have some irritated lads when you wake them to tell them to get some sleep or whatever else you do, but I’ll only need a minute. There’s a window above the beam—don’t look up—and I’ll be up there and out before anyone catches a glimpse. Wouldn’t do to have the lads gawking and saying, ‘Oh, look! There goes Dasher!’”

“I wish you didn’t have to do this, Jim.” Kaspar crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, trying hard to look casual.

“No one else has a chance, and we both know it.”

“I almost wish I could order you to stay.”

Jim Dasher grinned, and not for the first time Kaspar was surprised how the simple change of expression made years fall away, made him look almost boyish. “Ah, but you can’t, can you?”

“No, I can’t,” said Kaspar with a slowly broadening smile of his own. “Fat lot of good being called ‘General’ does me, right?”

Jim’s grin widened. “With me, anyway.”

Kaspar’s expression became serious. He put a hand on Jim Dasher’s shoulder. “Stay alive.”

“That’s my plan.”

“How many do you think they’ll send after you?” asked Kaspar.

Jim shook his head slightly. “How many do you think?”

“One, maybe two. They strike me as a pretty arrogant lot. And they don’t have many to spare. Well, you’ve got tonight and five more days to reach the cove and signal if you’re not going back to our camp.”

“Can’t. It’s the first place they’ll look if they lose track of me.”

“An elf losing track?”

“I’ve a trick or two they’ve not seen. And if they find me, I’ll deal with that. No, I need to get over the crest to the northwest, and then down, somehow, to the beach where the ships are. That means we’re hoisting sail on our way to Roldem in two days, not six.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “I hope that fellow who tried to gut you on the road is one of those coming after me.”

“Sinda?” Kaspar nodded. “He’s a real charmer. He’s already burying us. If you do tangle with him, say hello for me.”

Jim nodded. “Now, go and annoy the men.”

Kaspar did as requested and Jim glanced around. The elves had been cursory about disarming the men, knowing that one of their magicians could deal with any insurrection easily, and had taken only the obvious weapons: swords, daggers, knives, and bows and arrows. But Jim knew that a few of the men harbored knives in boots or up their sleeves and he was a walking inventory himself of unexpected weapons and tools. He reached down to his left boot as if scraping off something attached to the sole. Deftly, he opened a small hollow in the heel and pulled out a tiny crystal vial. He hated the thought of breaking such a precious container—the cost for having a hundred of these made in a land far enough from Krondor to not arouse suspicion had caused Lord Erik to almost—but this was just the sort of situation for which he had prepared this treasure.

He used his left thumbnail to crack the vial as Kaspar awoke those men who were dozing or asleep and let half a dozen drops of liquid wet his lips. He sucked up the tiny bit of very powerful magic and waited.

The tingling across the surface of his body told him that he was now invisible to any mortal eye. It was good to be working with powerful magicians, Jim considered, not for the first time in his life. He knew that in half an hour he’d be visible again, and he knew the potion didn’t mask his tracks or other signs he might leave behind. In fact, he was counting on it.

Kaspar looked up and was startled to see that Jim Dasher was gone. He glanced around the room. One of the elves at the door
looked toward him as he started speaking to the men and Kaspar quickly averted his eyes, giving the men a cursory account of his discussion with Castdanur. He then cautioned them to maintain discipline while in captivity and left them with a promise that everything would be over soon. As he crossed the floor to his pallet, he lay down and tried to sleep. He wondered if being over soon was necessarily a good outcome.

Jim Dasher had been born in the city, raised a city boy, and hated the wilderness, but he had spent months in the forests and mountains north of Krondor learning his woodcraft from a pair of very determined, very tough and unforgiving Royal Krondorian Pathfinders. He couldn’t live off the land indefinitely, but he could keep from starving for a few weeks and knew better than to seek shelter in some angry cave bear’s den. He also was a fair tracker—though not as adept as even Kaspar, let alone the elves—and knew how to hide a trail.

At the moment, though, he was concerned about the Void-darters and their wolf-riding masters. Jim could think in very complex fashion, a trait which had made him a most valuable asset to both the Crown of the Isles and the Conclave. While constantly assessing his situation and planning his next move, he was also reviewing the events of a very long day. He wished he had more information to take back with him, such as who the wolf-riders were. Those creatures weren’t wolves, he knew, but until someone put a proper name to them,
wolves
would have to do. And the elves? They were a puzzle. He knew as much as any man in the Kingdom of the Isles about elves: his story about the cave and elf wizard was nonsense, but he had been to Elvandar and the trinket he wore around his neck was genuine.

He had read every document in Krondor’s royal archives pertaining to the elves, from some very ancient nonsense that predated the Riftwar to every official report concerning the activities of Warleader Tomas and his wife, the Elf Queen Aglaranna. The Kingdom might have many allies, but he was certain they had none more dependable than the royal court in Elvandar.

Which led him back to not knowing what to make of this
band of elves. He spoke enough of their language to have puzzled out some of what they said, but only enough to make him even more curious and frustrated.

Now, Jim Dasher paused and listened to the rhythm of the night. The breeze stirred the branches, and night birds and nocturnal animals scurried. Most went to ground as he approached, for their senses far outmatched his ability to move stealthily. But those just outside the area he disturbed in passing continued their activities, and they provided tiny clues as to how much danger lay nearby. Absolute silence was as deadly as the sound of armed men crashing through the brush behind him.

There were just the right amount of night birds’ calls and the hooting that might have been an owl he had not encountered before to tell him that trouble was not hard on his heels, but he knew it would be coming soon.

He judged he had less than an hour’s lead over his pursuers, and while he might have some tricks to slow them down they’d never come across, eventually they would overtake him. While keeping his attention on the task at hand, moving along the route he had mentally marked out on the way up to the elves’ stronghold, he also kept looking out for likely spots to set up an ambush. There was going to be a confrontation, so it might as well be on his terms.

Jim Dasher waited. He knew that at least one, or possibly two, elves were coming fast. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. His grandfather had spoken of his own grandfather, the nearly legendary Jimmy the Hand, and had once mentioned his claim to possess a “bump of trouble,” an intuition that allowed him to anticipate pitfalls before actually coming upon them. Jim Dasher had no name for this gut feeling but he knew that on more than one occasion an anticipation of trouble had saved him from disaster.

“The itch,” as his grandfather had called it, had begun a few minutes before, and Jim had stopped to listen. There was nothing he could hear, but somehow he had sensed a change out there, behind him, and he knew his pursuers were close.

He had no doubt he could ambush one elf and stand a fair chance—well, an unfair one, really—to best him. But a second bow or sword would almost undoubtedly mean his death or capture. Just in case there were two of them, he reached down to his belt and removed it. He had five secret pouches sewn inside it, which is why he had chosen a big rock as a weapon when facing the wolf-riders rather than use his belt as Kaspar had instructed. He deftly tore at the threads with his thumbnail, parting the fastenings used to secure two of the small compartments and set aside the vials he had secreted there. He then slid a small, thin, and very lethal blade he had fashioned that was inserted into the belt just below the buckle—which also could be used as a
cestus
, a charming Quegan invention like a battle glove—and set that down next to the vials. He smiled at the image of Kaspar laying about him with his belt and thought that he should really get a special buckle made for the former Duke. Kaspar had been a thorn in the Kingdom’s side for years, though he really had been more of a problem for Roldem and Great Kesh, which meant he was a threat worth enduring for the Kingdom of the Isles, but since his exile and return, he had proved to be a valuable resource for the Conclave. Besides, Jim liked him. He could be a murderous thug, just like Jim, but there was an interesting, complex man there, one who appreciated hunting, good food and wine, and the company of bad women.

He put his belt back around his waist, took the blade in his right hand, picked up the first vial with his left. He coated his blade with its contents, then tossed the empty container aside. Then he picked up the second vial and waited.

The two elves were upon him without further warning. His instincts told him that it was time to move, and without thought he did, and in just the right direction.

A sword blade cut into the tree trunk where Jim had crouched just moments before and that was all the opening he needed. He broke the vial between thumb and forefinger and flicked the contents into the elf’s eyes. In seconds the elf was on his knees clutching at his face and screaming in pain.

The second elf was the one called Sinda. He drew back his
bow and let fly with an arrow. Jim didn’t think; he reacted, moving to his left, Sinda’s right, and forcing the elf to traverse his line of fire across his own body. That tiny adjustment saved Jim’s life, for the arrow sped by his neck, close enough for the fletching to slice a shallow cut in his skin. Jim rolled forward, ignoring the rocks and twigs that cut into him, and came up hard, his shoulder driving into Sinda’s stomach.

In close, the elf’s bow was useless, and before he could get his belt knife unsheathed, Dasher drove him to the ground, drew back his fist and struck him hard on the point of the jaw. The elf’s eyes went vacant for a fraction of a moment, but that was all the time Jim needed. He pinned the elf’s left arm under his knees and reached out and grabbed the other wrist with his left hand. He pressed his small blade hard enough against Sinda’s neck so that the elf could feel it and said, “If you wish to live, do not move! There’s poison on my blade and one cut will kill you swiftly.”

The elf was dazed but understood enough to go limp. After a second Jim said, “Good. Listen. I don’t have much time. Your friend has mossback venom in his eyes. You know what that means. You have perhaps an hour or two at most to get him to one of your healers. Now, you must decide what is more important, to kill me and let him die, or to save his life. You cannot do both. And killing me will not be easy. Can your people afford to lose two more warriors?”

Jim got up quickly, leaving Sinda on his back, confused. “Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked.

Jim Dasher reached around his neck and pulled something off. He tossed it to Sinda and said, “I am not your enemy. None of the men you hold is your enemy. If you let us, we will help you survive. But I need to warn my people of what we saw on the beach, for that black sorcery means more pain and death than you want to imagine is coming to these shores. No one else will try to escape. Let them help you while they wait.”

“Wait for what?” asked Sinda.

“For your leaders to decide to kill them or let them live. Now see to your friend.”

Almost as quickly as an elf, he vanished into the gloom,
leaving the confused Sinda considering what he had just heard. The elf looked at the object that had been tossed to him and his eyes widened. In the faint light his elven vision easily made out the design. This was no forgery, but a genuine token given to an elf friend by the Queen of the Elves.

Sinda helped his companion to his feet. The worst of the pain had passed, but both elves knew that the venom of the mossback lizard would slowly reduce the victim to a vague and listless state, followed quickly by death. It was an effective poison, but easily cured, if one had the antidote. Sinda put his arm around his companion’s waist, pulled the staggering man’s arm over his shoulder, and began to return to Baranor.

M
iranda ran.

The alarm had sounded almost instantly accompanied by shouts from the hallway. She had been resting in the suite set aside for her by the Emperor, waiting for a summons to the imperial apartments within the palace for a meeting with the Light of Heaven. Dozens of servants and Imperial Guards ran to answer the clarion. The signal was unique, for only one such rare metal trumpet existed in the Empire, and it was used to warn the Emperor when he was in danger.

Miranda didn’t need to be told that dark magic was involved: she could feel it making her skin crawl and there was the illusion of a foul stench in the air as she approached the entrance to the imperial apartments.
The giant wooden doors were closed, their ancient carved surfaces being hammered at futilely by a dozen guardsmen. “Stand aside!” shouted Miranda.

Several of the soldiers hesitated, but the servants all moved away. The sight of a black robe, even if it wasn’t truly black but a very dark grey, and the commanding presence of any magic-user, evoked years of conditioning, and several bowed their heads and said, “Your will, Great One.”

The soldiers followed suit, and Miranda raised her hands. Thinking this was not a time for subtlety, she focused her mind on the great hinges and willed the stone in which they were set to become dust. Then with a shout to focus her thoughts, she extended her hand, as if pushing something away, and the air before it rippled as energy coursed through it, striking the massive doors like an invisible battering ram. They fell backward, slamming into the stone floor of the imperial quarters with a thunderous crash. Before the echo diminished, the soldiers were through.

Miranda turned to the servants. “Stay back. If you are needed you will be called.”

She hurried after the soldiers and had no trouble discovering their objective. A searing wave of heat washed over her as she entered the long hallway leading to the lush gardens. The soldiers before her faltered as the heat washed over them, then redoubled their efforts. She heard screams and shouts ahead as she hurried toward the conflict.

This apartment complex was the largest in the palace, a series of interconnecting rooms that allowed for the imperial family and their most loyal retainers to live apart from the rest of the administration of the Empire for long stretches. A lavish garden rested at the entrance to the residence as you approached from the center of the palace. It was an oasis of calm in an otherwise constantly busy and noisy community, complete with a huge pool surrounded by pavilions with hanging curtains of silk in which to evade the heat of the day. Now those precious silks were ablaze as if some wayward magical bolt of energy had ignited them.

It took Miranda only a moment to apprehend the situation. A pair of Dasati Deathpriests lay dead next to a fountain. Somehow several had materialized inside the Emperor’s garden. The evidence of the carnage around them suggested that without considering their situation, they had started casting their death spells in random directions, at any human they spied. The Tsurani magician who had been with the Emperor had answered instantly with a blazing ball of fire, probably to cover the Emperor’s retreat or to forestall the Deathpriests’ easily locating him. Either way, the result was a conflagration that was quickly burning its way through a small fortune in silks and cushions. Miranda glanced around, her vision obscured by the smoke and dying flames. From what she could see, many servants and Imperial Guardsmen had died a horrible, painful death. None of the bodies was garbed in imperial fashion, so the Emperor must be in another part of the complex. Miranda felt a sense of relief at the realization.

The Emperor was young, without a wife, so his life was seen as doubly precious: with no heir to crown should he die in an untimely fashion, the Empire would be without a ruler and the political chaos in such a time of great turmoil would be disastrous. As was Tsurani custom, in times of war after the formal breaking of the Red Seal on the great doors of the Temple of the War God, a herald with the imperial clarion was stationed nearby, to signal any danger to the Light of Heaven. A priest of the order of Jastur also stood watch outside the Emperor’s door.

Miranda arrived just behind the first wave of Imperial Guards who were outside the family complex, and was in time to see the powerful priest of Jastur unleash his magic warhammer. It flew through the air to strike a Deathpriest in the chest, slamming him backward through the air. A fountain of orange blood exploded from the creature’s chest as he slid half a dozen yards across the stone floor, almost to Miranda’s feet.

Over the tumult, Miranda tried to be heard. “We need the other one alive!”

She instantly knew that her cry was in vain, for Tsurani soldiers, pledged to give their life for the Emperor, swarmed over
the remaining Deathpriest, bearing him down quickly under their weight, and before she could reach the mass of bodies they had pierced him countless times with sword points and daggers. Pushing aside any irritation over things she couldn’t control, she turned to see an officer in the guard standing with his sword drawn, covered in orange blood. “Where is the Light of Heaven?” she demanded.

“In his bedchamber,” answered the officer.

Miranda noticed that his skin was beginning to blister where the Dasati blood had touched it, and she said, “Wash that off before you suffer seriously, Strike Leader.”

“Your will, Great One,” he answered. Even though she had no official position within the Assembly of Magicians, because she was the wife of Milamber and confidante of the Emperor, the tradition-bound Tsurani insisted on addressing her with that honorific. She had stopped correcting people: it was a useless exercise.

She hurried past servants and guards, to where armed guards protected the entrance to the bedchamber. “The danger is past,” she instructed them. “I must see His Majesty.”

The senior guardsman motioned for her to stay. He moved inside the chamber and a moment later reappeared with word that the Emperor would see her. She was through the door before he had finished and found the young ruler wearing his traditional armor, all gold, holding an ancient metal sword, ready to fight. There was something about his manner and bearing that spared him any appearance of the ridiculous. He looked every inch the Tsurani warrior, despite his sheltered life.

Standing at his side was a slender magician named Manwahat, who nodded once at Miranda. He gave her a questioning look. She returned a curt nod, and could sense that somewhere under that immobile Tsurani exterior, he must be breathing a sigh of relief. He was a young magician, as the Assembly accounted such, but Miranda knew him by reputation: he was levelheaded and powerful.

Without preamble, she said, “Majesty, you must leave the Holy City.”

The Emperor blinked as if he didn’t understand her words, then his manner changed. He took a deep breath and sheathed his ceremonial sword. “May I ask why, Miranda? I rarely receive orders.”

Miranda understood belatedly that her informality was ill suited to any situation where they weren’t alone. “My apologies, Majesty. In my concern for your welfare, I forgot my place.

“It must be Varen. Disguised as Wyntakata, he has been through this palace a dozen times, and he’s the only one who would know how to get those Deathpriests into your private garden.”

“Deathpriests?”

“Two Dasati Deathpriests materialized within your garden and started killing everyone in sight.” She paused for a moment, then said, “It was a suicide attack, without a doubt. Varen wouldn’t care how many Dasati die and they are fanatics in the service of their Dark God.”

“Return to the subject of why I must leave my palace,” said the Emperor.

“As Wyntakata, Varen has enough knowledge of the palace to continue to attack you here. He knows that despite a fierce loyalty to the Empire, the High Council would be thrown into confusion by your death. With no obvious heir—”

“It becomes a struggle between cousins as to who next sits upon the Golden Throne,” finished Emperor Sezu. “Yes, it makes sense. But where should I go?”

“Has Wyntakata visited any of your country estates, Majesty?”

“I cannot be certain,” said the Emperor. “Perhaps before I took office…”

“Not that far back,” said Miranda. She considered how long it was since Varen’s last apparent “death” during his attack on Sorcerer’s Isle. “Just in the last year or so.”

“No, not that I’m aware,” said the Emperor. “I will have my First Advisor consult with the house staff.” Then he brightened.

“One place I’m certain he has not visited. The ancient Acoma estates, south of Sulan-Qu. No one has lived there since my
grandfather took the throne, but we have kept those lands and the buildings in the imperial house as a shrine, a site of veneration for being the birthplace of the Mistress of the Empire. Yes, it is certain he has never been there.”

She nodded to Mahawat, and the young magician said, “If the Light of Heaven pleases, I can have you and your closest retainers there in a matter of minutes.” The Emperor seemed about to object, but the magic-user added, “Others can ensure that your household follows quickly.” He nodded at Miranda.

“I’ll pass word back through the Assembly and if we must we’ll move the entire seat of government down there. I can issue orders from there as quickly as here if the Great Ones will aid us.”

Mahawat nodded. “If it is your will, Majesty, it is our will.”

The Emperor turned to a servant. “Instruct the Warlord to convene the High Council tomorrow, and I shall leave instructions on what must be done to prepare for the coming invasion.” The servant bowed and hurried off to discharge his duty.

A palace official appeared to inform the Emperor that the fires in the garden pavilion were extinguished. The Emperor dismissed everyone, but bade Miranda to linger. When they were alone with the remaining bodyguards, the Emperor’s calm mask fell away and Miranda now saw a very angry young man before her. “The war has begun, hasn’t it?”

Miranda assumed a level of familiarity she wouldn’t have risked even hours before. She reached out and put her hand on the Emperor’s shoulder. Guards in the room shifted position slightly, ready to leap to their ruler’s defense if the outland woman should attempt any harm. “It has begun,” she said softly. “And it will not end until the Dasati are completely repulsed from this world and this realm, or Kelewan lies in ruins at their feet. You are about to do something no other Emperor has ever been forced to do: order every house in the Empire to arms, to muster the entire armed might at your command, for never in its two-thousand-year history has the Empire stood at greater risk.”

The anger remained, but the Emperor’s voice was calm. “We will do what we must. We are Tsurani.”

Miranda hoped that would be enough. “What of the message?” she asked.

The Emperor looked off into the distance. “I…where would we go?”

Miranda knew that was the heart of the issue. The cryptic message from some future Pug to the Emperor instructing him to make ready an evacuation left a lot of room for interpretation. But taken at its worst possible meaning, to remove everyone from this world, or even just from the Empire, would be a colossal enterprise. A hundred rifts would have to be fashioned and controlled day and night, a task that would challenge the entire Assembly. Even with help from the Academy and Sorcerer’s Isle, the enormity of the undertaking would be overwhelming. And during a war with the most dangerous enemies ever confronted? Miranda knew what the Emperor was thinking: it was an impossible choice.

Moreover, his question still hung in the air: where would they go?

Miranda saw a look of relief on her son’s face as she entered the office her husband had created at the rear of their home. She wished she could smile at the look, but she knew that he was about to be disabused of any notion that she was there to relieve him from his duty.

“Mother,” he said, rising and kissing her on the cheek.

“Caleb,” she replied, “you look as if you’re aging before my eyes.”

“I had no concept of how difficult it was to coordinate all the Conclave’s activities as well as manage this school on a day-to-day basis.”

“Any problems?” she asked, taking the chair behind the desk he had just vacated.

“The school? None to speak of. As Father instructed, we’re turning down requests to send new students, focusing our efforts on training to make our magicians ready to help in the coming fight, and everyone’s cooperating.”

“And?” she asked. “What isn’t going well?”

“We’ve heard nothing from Kaspar’s expedition to the Peaks of the Quor.”

“How overdue is contact?”

“A few days.”

“I won’t start worrying until he’s a week overdue,” she said.

“Remind me of the mission?”

Caleb’s dark eyes narrowed. He knew that his mother had an almost perfect memory for details, when she bothered to study them, and realized she must have neglected to apprise herself of the details of this mission, because it was one of the last Pug had approved prior to his departure for the Dasati realm.

“One of our agents in Freeport picked up a message between a smuggler and some unknown band of raiders whom Father suspected of either working for Leso Varen or perhaps with him.”

“For or with? He thinks they’re either unwilling dupes or willing accomplices.”

“Something like that,” said Caleb. “The west shore of the Peaks of the Quor, specifically a large cove called ‘Kesana Cove,’ along with an approximate date, was expressly mentioned in the message—”

“And your father was off and running to find out what that was all about.”

Caleb nodded. “He also wanted to get some of the lads from different groups working together, so he asked Nakor to talk to Lord Erik about his…irregulars out of Krondor, and they joined with some lads from Kesh and Roldem and he put Kaspar in charge.”

“Well, your father’s been curious about the Peaks of the Quor for years,” she admitted. “We’ve had little luck finding out much and have both been too busy to go down there personally to poke about, so I understand his reasons.” Thinking about the coming confrontation with the Dasati, she added, “Though his timing could have been better. Let me know if you hear anything from Kaspar. Now, go and take the rest of the day off.”