Wrath of a Mad God (15 page)

“After what I’ve seen in the last two days, lady, I don’t think anything will surprise me anymore.”

She entered a room that was clearly an office of some sort and motioned for him to sit down in a chair opposite a desk. “Why don’t you tell me about your last two days, then?”

Jim delivered a concise and exact narrative, after which Miranda said, “We are dealing with an enemy who is mad.” She drummed her fingers on the desktop in frustration. “Now this.”

Jim said nothing, waiting for her to tell him what must be done next. After a moment, she said, “What do you think we should do next, Jim Dasher?”

Jim paused, then said, “First, I need a pair of boots and trousers that fit. Then you should do what you must with those…creatures, but we also need to get Kaspar and the men free of those elves. There’s a certain madness to them, as well, or at least a sense of desperation. Kaspar says they’re dying out, and I agree. There were perhaps only half a dozen children and only a few more women there. In total, less than a hundred in all. That fortification was home to four or five times that many at one time.”

“If my husband were here—” Miranda began. She sighed,

“But he’s not.” She studied Jim and said finally, “We’re a little thin on the ground right now. My husband and two others who might easily deal with some of this are absent and I have no idea when they might return. There are other magicians here who
have talent and might help to assess those creatures you saw in the mountains. But I’m not sure what to do about the elves who’ve captured Kaspar.”

“Can you get me to Elvandar?” Jim asked.

“I can get you close. No one enters Elvandar unbidden unless they have been given leave.”

“I have been there before.”

“Really?” she said, surprised. “When?”

“A few years ago, at the behest of Lord Erik, right about the time I began to be told the truth about the Conclave.”

“I see,” said Miranda. “Then we shall get you to the border of Elvandar.” She narrowed her gaze. “You look as if you could use a meal.”

He nodded. “That would be welcome. It’s been a day or more since I’ve had anything to eat or drink.”

Miranda rose. “I’ll walk you to the kitchen.”

He followed her down the hall, into a garden, and then into another hall. He realized that these buildings were constructed like many of the villas on Queg, in large squares with a garden at the center.

Miranda asked, “Is this your first visit here, then?”

“Yes,” answered Jim. “I believe you’re familiar with how new recruits to the Conclave are given information.”

“In dribs and drabs as needed,” she supplied.

“On a need-to-know basis, Lord Erik called it.” He chuckled. “I’ll admit when I first learned of the Conclave I was astonished, yet now so many things make more sense to me.”

“Then you’re a rare one, James Jamison—or is it Jim Dasher? For the more I know the less I understand.”

“It’s Jim Dasher when I’m not in the palaces at Krondor, Rillanon, or Roldem, lady. I’ll grant you the advantage of wisdom, then, for it’s my vanity that I can apprehend a great deal from a little information.”

“A useful trait and one of the reasons why you were recruited.”

“Ah, I thought it might be because of family.”

“Your family?” said Miranda. “Let me tell you something of your family.”

She led him into a large kitchen where a pair of young men were preparing to bake the day’s bread. Miranda motioned for Jim to go to the pantry and make use of whatever he found there. He fetched out a half-finished loaf of bread from the day before, some hard cheese, a pair of apples, and a jug of some sort of ale. Then he grabbed a ladle from the side of the water bucket and drank deeply. After three such drippings, Miranda said, “If you were so thirsty, why didn’t you ask for water?”

“I’ve developed a knack of ignoring such things as thirst and hunger for a while, and it seemed more important to tell you what I knew.”

“Gods,” said Miranda with a laugh. “You match your reputation, Jim Dasher. I hardly think the time to sip a cup of water would prove the end of us all. Now, eat, and let me tell you about your family.”

Jim cut bread and cheese and took a bite from both, then attacked the first apple.

“As you may know you are counted as distant kin to my husband—and no, you’d better not call me grandmother unless you have no regard for your life!” she said before he could make a comment. “Your great-great-grandfather James of Krondor died before the creation of the Conclave. Your grandfather and your father are members of a family who are steadfast in their loyalty to the Crown of the Isles, and while the Conclave’s interests and the Kingdom’s often overlap, sometimes they do not.

“We have an…accommodation with your father and grandfather, but make no mistake in this, the schism between the…two sides of your family is deep. It goes back to the end of the Serpentwar, when my husband refused to intercede on behalf of the Prince of Krondor when a Keshian army stood at the city’s gates, and because of that the Prince, later to be King Patrick, held a deep and abiding grudge against my husband. The Conclave is dedicated to preserving this world, including its foolish rulers, but we put no one nation’s needs above another.”

Jim listened while he ate. As he swallowed the last piece of apple, he said, “Am I to believe that my loyalties are assumed else I wouldn’t be here?”

“More likely you wouldn’t be alive, or at the very least, you never would have been recruited.”

“Kings come and go,” said Jim. “My grandfather has served four, and the latest is a promising young man, but that doesn’t mean that when the chips are down and the last card played, he’s going to make the right choices.”

“He has your grandfather at his right hand.”

“Grandfather is known to be a very wise, very shrewd, and very old man. I say this with affection, for I will miss him when he dies, but unless you can muster another miracle like the one you provided for Lord Erik, it’s only a matter of months, perhaps a year at most, before he’ll need to be replaced.”

“Your father?”

“No,” said Jim. “He’s a gifted administrator, taking after his own grandfather, Arutha Jameson, Lord Vencar, by all reports, but he’s not the political animal my grandfather is…” Jim sighed. “Once again we face a situation that can only be called dangerous. There has been no continuity in the Western Realm since Prince Arutha died. He was the last true Western lord to rule and since then there’s been a series of caretaker rulers, heirs biding their time until they could return to Rillanon and take the throne, and at no time was the interest of the West seen as paramount. The Western lords are fractious and I’ve even heard rumors of establishing a separate nation.”

“Those rumors are not widespread,” said Miranda, “or we would have heard.”

“Whispers,” said Jim. “Nothing more or I would have reported it. Trust me when I say had I an inkling of any such movement being real, I would have reported it to my father, and he most certainly would have shared that information with Lord Erik.”

“Who would in turn have reported it to my husband.”

“But we have more immediate concerns than the politics of the Kingdom,” said Jim. “Elvandar?”

Miranda nodded. “I can take you to the river’s edge, for I have yet to be granted leave to enter at will.” She said this as if it annoyed her, but Jim let the remark pass without comment. “Stand next to me…”

“Ah, the boots?”

“Oh, yes,” said Miranda. She looked at his feet and added,

“And trousers that fit. I remember.”

She sent one of the students who had been baking out to fetch the desired items and the boy quickly returned with two pairs of boots, the first of which fit well, and a pair of sturdy trousers that were an improvement over what the Captain had given him.

He changed and went to stand next to Miranda. She put her hand on his shoulder, and suddenly they were in a dark forest, next to a river of some size. “This ford is swift running, but shallow,” she told him as he tried to get his bearings. This magic travel took some getting used to, he thought.

Then she was gone.

He took a deep breath and suddenly realized he was without weapons. Knowing he wouldn’t be without company for long, he forded the river. On the other side he stood for a moment, listening, then called, “I know you’re there.”

Seconds later two elves appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. “Welcome, Jim Dasher,” said one of them.

Jim took a moment in the gloom, then smiled and stepped forward. “Thank you, Trelan. It is good to see you again.” They gripped one another’s hand, and Jim said, “I need to speak with your Queen and Lord Tomas.”

To the other elf, the one called Trelan said, “I will guide him and send back another to watch the ford with you.” Then he was off at a quick trot, leaving Dasher only a moment in which to react and catch up with him.

Jim knew from his previous visit that he was going to be running all night and most of the morning to reach the Queen’s court from this part of the Elven Forest, so he let his mind relax and started thinking about keeping up with the indefatigable elf. He had only been on the trail for five minutes when he started thinking of Michele again, and cursed himself for a lovestruck fool.

B
ek stood covered in blood.

“Stop!” shouted Martuch, his mentor within the Sadharin battle society.

The human disguised as a Dasati Deathknight stood quivering with rage, his eyes wide and his sword poised as he sought out another enemy to kill. Martuch, Valko, and half a dozen other members of the White stood in a semicircle behind Ralan Bek, each of them also awash in gore. The Deathknights, who secretly served the enemies of the Dark One, had been swept up in the Great Culling as had every other Dasati with a sword, but no one, not even the most seasoned warrior, had seen anything like what they had just witnessed.

A company of perhaps thirty-five young Death
knights had ridden down a boulevard and happened upon an enclave of Lessers who had gone to ground and risked coming out at sundown too early. As the cityscape was bathed in the orange glow of sunset, the broad street became a scene of carnage.

Before Martuch could order his group to circle away from the conflict, Bek had urged his varnin forward, riding as if he had been in the saddle all his life. Before the young Deathknights had known he was upon them, six were dead. He moved like a being possessed, killing eight before the others could join in.

“They’re all dead,” said Martuch.

Bek’s eyes burned with an inner light that frightened even this battle-hardened Dasati. “Let’s find more!”

“No,” said Valko. “The Culling is over.” He looked at the fifteen bodies that littered the street. “These…shouldn’t have died.” He looked torn between his Dasati heritage which relished the slaughter and his newfound respect for life which counted it a waste of potential. “The Culling was over before this began.”

Martuch looked toward the others. “Loot the bodies. Not to do so would draw unwelcome attention to us. Better to be thought brigands than heretics.”

Valko’s group quickly stripped the bodies of trophies, leaving the corpses in the street for the Lessers to dispose of. As they were securing their trophies behind the saddles of their varnin, a band of riders rounded a corner a long city block away and approached. Valko’s company took up position without being ordered, for while the Culling might officially be over, Bek would hardly be the only warrior caught up in the bloodletting and ready to continue killing.

As the group approached, Martuch said, “Lower your weapons.”

The riders approaching were half a dozen temple Deathknights wearing the TeKarana’s palace colors. They were escorting a pair of Hierophants, those priests given the responsibility of ensuring that everyone in the realm came to worship the Dark One. In antiquity they might have been spreaders of the word, but since His Darkness’s rise to preeminence, no evangelical mis
sion was required, and now they primarily served to ferret out heresy and act as spies for the TeKarana.

“Praise to His Darkness!” said the leader.

All bowed their heads for a moment and repeated the invocation. The other priest quickly took stock of the corpses on the ground. “How many of your company lies here?”

Martuch spoke calmly. “None.”

“Indeed?” questioned the first priest. “I count thirty-five dead warriors and half again as many Lessers, yet only nine of you sent them all to His Darkness?”

Valko said, “We had the advantage of surprise.”

Without a hint of boastfulness, Bek calmly said, “I killed six before they knew we were upon them. When they turned to face me, two more died and then my companions were upon them from another quarter. Confusion served us—”

“And these were young, barely blooded warriors,” added Hirea. “I am Master Hirea of the Scourge, and I have taught everyone here, including Lord Valko, of the Camareen. These are my most exceptional students, and these…
things
,” he said with contempt of the dead, “were barely better than Lessers themselves. It was an easy killing. Little glory, really.”

“You are of the Scourge, yet you ride with the Lord of the Camareen, who is of the Sadharin if I am correct. Is this right?” asked the first priest.

“I was staying with Lord Valko when the call for the Culling came. It seemed prudent to remain with his company rather than risk returning to my own enclave.”

Looking directly at the young ruler of the Camareen, the second priest said, “And you let him live?”

“He was my teacher,” said Valko. “The Scourge and the Sadharin have ridden together for many years; we have not crossed swords since my grandfather’s times. We have many ties.” His tone said he was finished with the topic and his defiant glare challenged the two priests to continue this line of questioning at their peril.

The politics of the societies were traditionally ignored by the Dark One’s priests, but overlong alliances were often viewed
with suspicion, for the art of ruling such a murderous population was in keeping factions from growing too powerful. The two priests knew as well as anyone who the potential threats to order were, and while the Scourge and the Sadharin were both venerable societies, they were not especially powerful or influential, especially on Omadrabar. They might be a power to contend with on Kosridi, but here on the capital world of the Dasati Empire, they were just another pair of provincial battle societies.

The second priest studied Bek. “Are you Scourge or Sadharin?”

Bek glanced down and realized that the badge given to him by Martuch had been dislodged during the struggle. As he started to answer, Martuch said, “He is my retainer. He is Sadharin.”

The first priest raised his eyebrows and his expression became one of interest. “A student? From his demeanor and the numbers of dead at his feet I would have thought him at least a master in your ranks, if not a captain.”

“He has promise,” said Hirea dismissively. “But among those I tutor, he is but another student.”

After a long moment of consideration, the first priest said, “Then you will not mind if he leaves your side.” Pointing at Ralan he said, “What are you named?”

“I am Bek,” said the human disguised as a Dasati warrior.

“Bek,” intoned the Hierophant, “you are called!”

For the briefest second Valko and Martuch exchanged glances. Both felt the instinct to attack, to prevent the Dark One’s servants from taking Bek away, but they also both knew that despite not being as powerful in their use of magic as the Deathpriests, these two Hierophants alone could tip the balance against Valko’s group.

Martuch said, “You must go with them.” Softly, so that only Bek could hear him, he added, “Do nothing to reveal yourself. We will contact you before the end of this day. Go.”

Bek sheathed his sword and said to the priest, “Called?”

“The TeKarana always needs prodigious warriors. The training is arduous and far more taxing than what you have endured
at the hands of your old teacher”—he stressed the word “old” in a way that would have got him killed had he not been protected by another magic-user and a dozen temple guards—“and should you survive, you will earn a place attending the Dark One’s most loyal servant, his personal guard.”

“Should you achieve special merit,” said the other priest,

“you may be chosen to join his most noble order, the Talnoy.”

Bek grinned. “Is there killing to be done?”

“Always,” answered the first priest with a grin to match Bek’s. “Today’s Culling was just a taste. A banquet of death will soon be laid before the faithful.”

“Then I will come with you,” said the blood-drenched youth. He mounted his varnin and wheeled around, falling in with the guards who followed the priests.

As they rode down the boulevard and the first stirrings of normal life returned to this part of the city, Valko said to Martuch, “What do we do now?”

“Get to the Orchard of Delmat-Ama as quickly as we can, and speak to the Gardener,” answered Martuch. To the others he shouted, “We ride!”

They mounted up quickly and moved at a fast pace through a city littered with the dead and dying.

The greetings were subdued. On both sides there were too many questions that needed to be asked and answered for any casual discussion.

The shelter was as Macros had described it, ample but simple. Cots were arrayed along the walls of a long room, perhaps once an underground grain storage warehouse, or even a barracks of sorts, but other than beds, a table, and a stack of water jugs at the far end, the room was devoid of comfort. Two lanterns gave out a low light, allowing Pug’s vision to register heat once more as if it were something normally seen.

Martuch, Valko, and Hirea had all joined Macros and his companions in the hiding place, while the other servants of the White stayed above to ensure that no one below was disturbed. Nakor especially seemed troubled by the news that Bek had been
taken by the Hierophants. “Why do you think he was taken?” he asked Martuch.

Martuch shrugged, one of the few very human gestures that always startled Pug when he saw it. “For any number of reasons, but none which lead me to think they have an inkling of his real nature; had that been the case, there would not have been two clerics, but twenty, not a dozen guards, but a hundred. And there would have been no conversation.”

“They would have attacked without question,” agreed Nakor. “Then, of those possible reasons, which do you judge to be the most reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” Again the old Dasati warrior looked very human in his expression of doubt. “There is almost nothing left of reason in our land, Nakor. But if you ask me the most likely, it is this: Bek has grown in power since he has been here. It is no longer simply a case of him resembling a powerful young warrior.”

“Martuch is right,” Valko added. “He exudes might. He carries himself like a nobleman born, the son of some great house, and his strength is apparent. The day I met you I would not have hesitated to cut him down where he stood had I a cause. Today, even the mightiest of our race would hesitate before challenging him. He is not just playing the part of a Dasati anymore. He
is
Dasati to his core. It is daunting.”

Hirea said, “If he were in truth my student, I would already judge him the most dangerous I had ever instructed. If I had him on the training floor, I would fear for my head.”

“Then I must go to him,” said Nakor. “You have means?”

Martuch nodded. “We have agents in the palace, and I know others there as well who will not think it strange that I am there. As his mentor I can bid him farewell.”

“And I, as his instructor,” added Hirea. “But once he enters training for the TeKarana’s personal guard, he will be unreachable. If we are to speak with him, it must be today.”

Nakor nodded and stood up. “Then we must go now. For if I do not reach him, and tell him what to do, all our plans may come to naught.”

“Nakor looks the part of a Lesser,” said Pug.

“A family retainer, who comes to fetch and carry, nothing more,” answered Martuch. “He will attract far less attention than if a third warrior appeared to bid farewell to a mere student.”

Valko said to Pug, “I will accompany you to the Mountains of Skellar-tok.”

Pug glanced at Macros, who merely nodded. “Sooner is better than later,” said the former human magician. He really did not look well.

As if aware of Pug’s regard, he said, “I fear I may have only a short time left.”

Hirea was visibly distressed to hear that. “For the service we’ve shared and the love I bear you as my leader, I caution you never to repeat such a thing outside this room. It is taking all my will not to cut you down for showing such weakness.”

Valko was also showing signs of conflict. “Yes, that is sage advice.”

Only Martuch seemed untroubled. “It is too deeply in our blood, I fear. Yet I still hope we can save our progeny.”

“Then we must all be on our way,” said Pug. To Magnus he said, “Again, you bear the burden, while I will mask us from sight. But this time we shall not merely traverse a city, but go halfway around the world, so be prepared, my son.” Magnus nodded solemnly.

Macros said, “I shall work to keep us hidden from sight, but indeed we have a long way to go. It will not be a quick journey. I just hope we can gain the knowledge we need before the Dark One makes his intentions clear.”

“Then we must not linger,” said Pug. To Nakor he added, “I hope to see you again, soon, old friend.”

Grinning through his mask of troubles, Nakor said, “If the gods will it, then it will happen. Be well.”

“And you,” said Pug. He turned to Martuch. “Go first, and we shall follow quickly behind you, but out of sight.”

Martuch nodded, and turned without further discussion, leading his companions up the wooden stairs to the surface. Pug thought to warn Valko not to be unnerved by the lack of visibil
ity or the flying, but thought better of it. He was Dasati and if he was frightened to death he would not show such weakness, and Pug didn’t have time to deal with a young lord of the Dasati who felt insulted. All he said was, “Put your hand upon Magnus’s waist and do not let go, for you will not see him.” Then Pug turned everyone in his party invisible.

They slowly made their way up the stairs after Hirea, and the Lessers remaining below to shut the trapdoor. The morning sun now climbed to midheaven, and Pug felt Magnus’s spell lift them all quickly upward. Magnus’s voice could be heard, “Which way?”

“First to the west, for many hours, then when we pause to rest, I will tell you the next direction,” said Macros. “We shall see half this world before we are done. Now, conserve your strength and let us be away as quickly as you can manage.”

Magnus turned his full will to moving them as fast as he possibly could, and soon they were speeding across the skies of Omadrabar as fast as the swiftest hawk back home. Even so, Pug knew it would be a long and arduous journey, and one he hoped was over in time to forestall whatever evil was being plotted in a deep cavern not too distant from where they flew. Not for the first time he wondered if there was even a shred of sanity in his choices, for he could not even properly call what he had done so far a plan. Rather it was a frantic attempt to respond to a horrific threat and he had to rely on his own wits, the talents of his son and Nakor, and a very disturbing young man possessed by far more than mere madness. And a series of cryptic notes from some future version of himself. Pug kept his attention fixed on maintaining their invisibility, but part of him wished he could pray. But in this alien sky, he wondered to whom should he be praying.