Magician (94 page)

What is this place?

“The Desolation of the Chaos
Wars. Draken-Korin’s monument, the lifeless tundra that was
once great grasslands. Few living things abide here. Most creatures
flee to the south, and more hospitable climes.”

Who are you?

Ashen-Shugar laughed “I am what
you are becoming. We are one. So you have said many times.”

I had forgotten.

Ashen-Shugar called, and Shuruga sped
toward him over a grey landscape, while black clouds thundered
overhead. The mighty dragon landed, and his master climbed upon his
back. Casting a glance at the spot marked by ash, the only reminder
of Draken-Konn’s existence, the Valheru said, “Come, let
us see what fate has wrought.”

Shuruga leaped into the heavens, and
above the desolation they flew. Ashen-Shugar was silent as he rode
upon Shuruga’s broad back, feeling the wind blowing across his
face. They flew, and time passed them by, as they shared the death of
one age and the birth of another. High in the blue sky they soared,
free of the horror of the Chaos Wars.

It is worthy of sorrow.

“I think not. There is a lesson,
though I cannot bring myself to know it Yet I sense you do.”
Ashen-Shugar closed his eyes as the throbbing returned.

Yes, I remember

“Tomas?”

Tomas’s eyes snapped open. He
found Galain standing a short way off, near the edge of the clearing.
“Shall I return later?”

Tomas rose slowly from where he had sat
dreaming. His voice was rough and tired. “No, what is it?”

“Dolgan’s dwarven band has
reached the outer forest and waits for you near the winding brook.
The dwarves struck an outworld enclave as they crossed the river.”
There was a merry smile upon the young elf’s face. “They
have finally captured prisoners.”

A strange look of mixed delight and
fury passed over Tomas’s face. Galain felt strange emotions as
he regarded the reaction of the warrior in white and gold to this
news. As if listening to a distant call, Tomas spoke distractedly.
“Go to the dwarven camp. I will join you there presently.”

Galain withdrew, and Tomas listened. A
distant voice grew louder.

“Have I erred?”

The hall echoed with the words, for now
it was vacant, the servants having slipped away. Ashen-Shugar brooded
upon his throne. He spoke to shadows. “Have I erred?”

Now you know doubt
, answered the
ever-present voice.

“This strange quietness within,
what is it?”

It is death approaching.

Ashen-Shugar closed his eyes. “I
thought as much. So few of my kind lived beyond battle. It was a rare
thing. I am the last. Still, I would like to fly Shuruga once more.”

He is gone. Dead, ages past.

“But I flew him this morning.”

It was a dream. As is this.

“Am I then also mad?”

You are but a memory. This is but a
dream.

“Then I will do what is planned.
I accept the inevitable. Another will come to take my place.”

So it has happened already, for I am
the one who came, and I have taken up your sword and put upon your
mantle; your cause is now mine I stand against those who would
plunder this world.

“Then am I content to die.”

Opening his eyes, he took one last look
at his hall now cloaked in ancient dust. Closing them for the last
time, the Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches cast his final spell.
His waning powers, still unmatched upon this world by any save the
new gods, flowed from his tired body, infusing his armor. Smoky wisps
wafted upward from where his body had rested, and soon only the
golden armor, white tabard, shield, and sword of white and gold
remained.

I am Ashen-Shugar; I am Tomas.

Tomas’s eyes opened, and for a
moment he was confused to find himself in the glade. A strange
passion grew within as he felt a new strength flowing throughout his
being. In his mind rang a clarion call: I am Ashen-Shugar, the
Valheru. I will destroy all who seek to plunder my world.

With a terrible resolve he left the
glade, to find the place the dwarves had brought his enemies.

“It is good to see you again,
friend Longbow,” said Dolgan, puffing away on his pipe. They
had not seen each other since a chance meeting several years before
when the dwarves passed through the forest east of Crydee on their
way to Elvandar.

Martin, Calin, and a few elves had come
to see the dwarves’ prisoners, who were still bound. They
waited in a group in a corner of the clearing, glaring at their
captors. Galain entered the clearing and said, “Tomas is coming
soon.”

Martin said, “How is it, Dolgan,
after all these years, you managed to capture prisoners, and an
entire enclave at that?”

Behind the eight bound warriors stood a
fearful group of Tsurani slaves, unbound but huddled together,
uncertain of their fate Dolgan gave an offhanded wave. “Usually
we’re raiding across the river, and prisoners tend to slow
things down during a withdrawal, being either unconscious or
uncooperative. This time we had little choice in the matter, as we
needed to cross the river Crydee. In past years we’d wait to
sneak across in darkness, but this year they’re as close as
nettles in a thicket everywhere along the river.

“We found this band in a
relatively isolated spot, with only these eight to guard the slaves.
They were repairing an earthwork, one that I judge was overrun a
short while ago during an elven sortie. We slipped around them, then
a few of the lads climbed into the trees—though they liked it
little. We dropped down upon the three outer guards, silencing them
before they could shout the alert. The other five were napping, the
lazy louts. We slipped into camp, and after a few well-placed strokes
with our hammers, we bound them. These others”—he
indicated the slaves—”were too timid to make a sound.
When it was clear we had not alarmed the nearby enclaves, we thought
to bring them along. Seemed a waste to leave them behind. Thought we
might learn something useful.” Dolgan tried to keep an
impassive expression, but pride over his company’s work shone
through like a beacon in the night.

Martin smiled his approval and said to
Calin, “I hope we may learn what is coming, if the feared
offensive is really to be mounted and where. I’ve learned a few
phrases of their tongue, but not enough to make any sense of what
they might tell us. Only Father Tully and Charles, my Tsurani
tracker, can speak to them fluently. Perhaps we should attempt to
move them to Crydee?”

Calin said, “We have the means to
learn their tongue, given time. I doubt they would lend much
cooperation in their transport. Most likely they would try to raise
the alarm every step of the way.”

Martin conceded the point. Then a
disturbance caused him to turn.

Tomas came striding into the clearing
Dolgan began to greet him, but something in the young warrior’s
manner and expression silenced him. There was madness in Tomas’s
eyes, something the dwarf had glimpsed before as a glimmer, but which
now shone forth brightly.

Tomas regarded the bound prisoners,
then pulled his sword slowly and pointed at them. The words he spoke
were alien to both Martin and the dwarves, but the elves were rocked
by what they heard. Several of the older elves dropped to their knees
in supplication, and the younger ones drew away in reflexive fear.
Only Calin stood his ground, though he appeared shaken. Then slowly
the Elf Prince turned to Martin, his face drained of color. In
terrified tones he said, “At last the Valheru is truly among
us.”

Ignoring all others in the clearing,
Tomas walked up to the first Tsurani prisoner. The bound soldier
looked up with a mixture of fear and defiance. Suddenly the golden
sword was raised high and arced down, severing the man’s head
from his shoulders. Blood splattered the white tabard, then flowed
off, leaving it spotless. A low moan of fear came from the huddled
slaves, and the remaining soldiers’ eyes were wide in terror.
Slowly Tomas turned to face the next prisoner, and again his sword
took a life.

Martin freed himself from shocked
paralysis, forcing his eyes away from the butchery. He felt terrible
dread, but it appeared as nothing to what the elves revealed in their
abasement before Tomas. Calin’s face showed a struggle within
as he tried to overcome a nearly instinctive obedience to the words
spoken in the ancient language of the Valheru, masters of all, ages
past. The younger elves, less studied in the old wisdom, simply had
no understanding of the overwhelming need to obey this man in white
and gold. The language of the Valheru was still the language of
power.

Tomas turned away from his slaughter,
and Martin felt struck by the strength of his gaze. Gone was any
vestige of the boy from Crydee. Now an alien presence suffused his
being Tomas’s arm drew back, and Martin tensed to dodge the
blow. Any human was a potential victim, and even the dwarves drew
back at the awesome menace Tomas projected. Then a faint spark of
recognition entered Tomas’s eyes, and he said, in a distant
voice, “Martin, by the love I once bore you, be gone or your
life is forfeit.”

Mustering courage against the most
consuming fear he had ever felt, Martin shouted, “I’ll
not stand and watch you slaughter helpless men!”

Again a distant voice answered, steeped
in ancient majesty and lost grandeur regained. “These come into
my world, Martin. None may seek that which is my domain, my preserve,
mine alone! Shall you, too, come into my world, Martin?” With
inhuman speed Tomas wheeled, and two Tsurani died.

Martin charged, crossing the gap
between them in a bound, and knocked Tomas away from the prisoners.
They went down in a heap, and Martin grabbed at the wrist that held
the golden sword.

A strong man capable of carrying a
freshly killed buck for miles, Martin was no match for Tomas. As
easily as picking up a bothersome infant, Tomas pushed Martin aside
and came lightly to his feet. Martin sprang at Tomas again, but this
time Tomas stood ready. He simply seized Martin by the tunic and
said, “None may interfere with my will.” He tossed Martin
across the clearing as if he weighed less than a tenth his weight.
Martin’s arms flailed the air as he arced high over the ground,
striving to control his fall. He landed hard, and all around could
hear the breath explode from his lungs as he struck.

Dolgan rushed to his side, for the
elves were still held in thrall by what they had witnessed. The
dwarven chief poured water from a skin at his side upon Martin’s
face and shook him awake. The strangled cries of terror from the
Tsurani slaves watching soldiers being butchered greeted Martin as he
regained his wits.

Martin struggled to focus his vision,
the scene before him swimming and shifting. When he could see, he
drew a hissing breath in horror.

Tomas struck down the last Tsurani
soldier and began to advance upon the cringing slaves. They appeared
unable to move, watching with wide eyes the bringer of their
destruction, looking like nothing so much to Martin as a band of deer
startled by a sudden light in the night.

A ragged cry came from Martin’s
lips as Tomas killed the first Tsurani slave, a pitiful-looking
willow of a man. Longbow struggled to rise, senses reeling, and
Dolgan helped him to his feet.

Tomas raised his sword and another
died. Again the golden blade was raised, and he looked into the face
of his victim. Eyes round with fear, a young boy, no more than twelve
years old, stood waiting for the blow that would end his life.

Suddenly time expanded for Tomas, the
moment frozen in his mind. He studied the shock of dark hair and the
large brown eyes of the boy. The child crouched awaiting the death he
saw over him, his head shaking no, as his lips formed a single phrase
over and over.

In the faint light of the clearing,
Tomas saw an old ghost, the specter of a friend long forgotten. A
remembered bond, from his earliest memories as a child, reassociated
itself with his consciousness. Images blurred, past and present
confused, and he said, “Pug?”

Within his mind, pain exploded, and
another will sought to overwhelm him.

Pug!
it shrieked.

Kill him!
came a raging answer,
and within him two wills battled.

No!
screamed the other.

To everyone in the glade, Tomas stood
frozen, shaking with some inner struggle, his sword still held high,
waiting for release.

These are the enemy! Slay them.

He is a boy! Only a boy!

He is the enemy!

A boy!

Tomas’s face became a mask of
pain; his teeth clenched, and every muscle drew taut, stretching skin
tightly over skull. His eyes grew round, and perspiration began to
flow from under his helm, down his brows and cheeks.

Martin stumbled to his feet. He moved
slowly, every gesture bringing pain from the battering he had taken.

Tomas’s hand slowly moved
downward, each inch a shaking, trembling passage as he warred within.
The boy was transfixed, unable to move, his eyes following the
movement of the blade.

I am Ashen-Shugar! I am Valheru!
sang a voice within, in a torrent of anger, battle madness, and
bloodlust.

Against this sea of rage stood a single
rock, a calm, small voice within that said, simply,
I am Tomas.

Again and again the sea of hate crashed
over the rock of calm, each time engulfing it, then sliding back, to
come again. But each time the tide diminished and the rock stood
clear, rising above the mad surf. A shattering of something, the
thundering of ages lost and passing, rocked Tomas’s mind. He
reeled, then swam within an alien landscape, seeking a pinpoint of
light he knew was his way to freedom. Tides swept him along, and he
battled, struggling to keep his head above the strangling black sea.
A shrieking, evil wind blew overhead, and to his ears it sang a song
of woeful meter. He struck out, and again he saw a pinpoint of light.
Again the tide engulfed him, forcing him away from his goal, but this
time it was weaker. Once more he struggled toward the light. Then
came a surge, a last, terrifying assault culminating in a total
attack upon him
I am Ashen-Shugar!
There came a breaking of
the will, something snapping like the dead branch of a tree under the
weight of newly fallen snow, like the sound of old winter ice
breaking at spring’s touch, as if the last assault took too
great a toll.