Wrath of a Mad God (23 page)

“Those creatures we just destroyed are…youngsters. They were no more than children out on a picnic, playing,” Tomas continued.

Miranda’s face went pale. “I couldn’t kill them, Tomas. I could only incapacitate them.”

“It is impossible to kill that which is not alive. They are children of the Void, and no living creature can understand them. Of all the foes the Valheru faced, mightiest of them all were the Dread. We invaded their realm and many of the Valheru fell. We returned, keeping them at bay, and told ourselves how mighty we were.

“Pug and I faced a Dreadmaster when we searched for Macros, many years ago. We bested it by guile and power, and it took two of us. As far as I know, this sword”—he patted the pommel of his weapon—“is the only thing on this world that can destroy one at a touch. There may be other artifacts of which I am igno
rant which can also harm them; this is why we must convene and speak with every artificer and priest we can trust.

“If the Dread have found a way into this world…” He stopped and pointed up the mountain. “Those children may have blundered into our realm without understanding what they had found. But had their lords and masters found that passage, this entire continent would soon be in ashes. The princes of the Dread are beings of vast power, perhaps as great as that of the gods, and if they have a hand in any of this…” He took a deep breath. “I wish Pug were here.”

Miranda said, “I wish that every day.”

Tomas resumed walking. “I will call Ryath and get quickly to Elvandar, then return with spellweavers. We must speak to the Quor and investigate that site you just destroyed, Miranda. If there is still some weakness in the fabric of the universe up there that brings us closer to the Void, we must know about it. Explain this to Castdanur, Kaspar.” He leaped high onto a boulder, a jump no human could duplicate, and held his hand aloft. “Ryath! I summon thee!”

Within a minute a thunderous explosion above them signaled the arrival of the dragon. “I come, Dragon-rider.”

“I need your assistance, once more, old friend,” said Tomas to the giant red dragon. “Our world stands in peril and we must seek to save it.”

Tomas didn’t wait for the dragon to land, but leaped from the boulder onto its back. The dragon turned and with a single snap of its massive wings shot up into the sky, leaving the four humans staring in awe.

Miranda turned and faced downhill, her shoulders hunched in barely contained anger. The others hardly heard her as she said, “Where
is
my husband?”

Pug welcomed the sight of Martuch and Hirea. “What of Nakor and Bek?” he asked.

The two old fighters said, “They were well, last we saw of them.” Glancing around, Martuch said, “Where is Lord Valko?”

Pug said, “With his sister and the other Bloodwitches. They
said he needs to remain with them for a while.” He looked down a moment, as if considering his next words. “I sense something is converging. Enough was said to lead me to believe that the White is positioning itself, getting ready to move if the opportunity presents itself.”

“Ah,” said Hirea. “Then the Gardener remained as well.”

Pug said, “I have much to tell you, some of which may be difficult to understand, but before I do, what of the muster?”

“No one has passed word to the leaders of the battle societies or any of the great houses. A great muster is coming, that we know, but we do not know when. There has been a calling of the Imperial Guard, which is unusual. We judge it to be a prelude.”

“A prelude to what?” asked Magnus. “Is there no one in the palace who might be able to shed light on this?”

Martuch said, “Our alliances are twisted at times, and there are many factions even within the White. The Gardener forged a strong, single purpose, but before that…”

Pug said, “I have some sense of it. Before that it was chasing alliances and a great deal of talk.”

Martuch bridled and Hirea looked ready to draw his sword. “Many died so that we might have alliances and talk, human,” said the old instructor. “Valko’s father willingly gave his life so that his son could assume the mantle of House Camareen. We are a race of fighters; plots and planning do not come easily to us, and above all else, we chafe at waiting.”

“I think you will not have to wait much longer,” said Magnus. “Father, tell them about the White, the Bloodwitches, and the Gardener. And most of all, tell them about Ban-ath.”

Pug nodded. “Listen, my friends, and realize that what I am about to tell you may strain your credulity, but every word I say to you know is true.” Pug then began to tell them the tale of Macros the Black and the Trickster God.

T
he Council was in an uproar.

Several factions loyal to the Emperor had banded together to block what they felt was the blatant attempt by the Warlord to reestablish a predominance not seen since before the time of the Mistress of the Empire. Tetsu of the Minwanabi, Warlord of the Nations of Tsuranuanni, by grace of his cousin the Emperor, stood and held up his hands. “Silence!” he commanded.

The office of Warlord was supreme, in the absence of the Emperor, but he faced a generation of ruling lords and ladies who had never before been confronted by anyone wearing that mantle. They were far less inclined to heed his commands than their ancestors might have been. Even so, Tetsu was a charismatic leader and he car
ried the majesty of office, as well as a dozen Imperial Guards who now moved around the vast hall urging the raucous rulers of the Empire to calm.

“Heed me!” shouted Tetsu.

Tetsu of the Minwanabi was torn. He had been raised unlike any other heir to the mantle of power in the Empire. House Minwanabi was one of the five great houses of the Empire, and his place among the ruling elite of the nations had been secured before his birth. But history had conspired always to place the Minwanabi in a subsidiary role to their cousins the Acoma, the Emperor’s house. For as long as he could remember, Tetsu of the Minwanabi had plotted and schemed to rise to the highest position possible in the High Council, and whatever murderous fantasy he might imagine that would put him on the golden throne he had kept to himself, for he was, at the last, Tsurani. But today he was shaken to the fiber of his being, for today was his first day ruling the High Council in the Emperor’s name, and today he had left the Emperor’s retreat on the old Acoma estates, where over a long breakfast the Light of Heaven had told him things no sane man could hear without being shaken. He had been given a mandate by the Emperor and no matter what fantasies of ambition had filled his nights, he put them aside in the light of day, for he was, at the last, Tsurani.

“Heed me!” he bellowed, and at last the room fell silent. He looked from face to face of the rulers, many of whom were friends or political enemies, and he said, “This day I spoke with the Light of Heaven. By the arts of a Great One I was transported from his side to this very palace. My first duty is to relay his wishes that all here are well and prosperous.” He paused for effect. “My second duty is to remind you of the unthinkable attack on his person in this very palace less than a week ago.”

Now the room fell dead silent, for to a man or woman, the ruling elite of the Empire could not imagine a more horrific event than an assault on the person of the Emperor. In their tradition, the Emperor was a beacon of hope for the Tsurani, placed on Kelewan by the gods, to show their pleasure with the nations. He was a benediction.

“Hark to the words of the Light of Heaven!” shouted Tetsu.

“The armies have been called! The Red Seal of War on the door to the Temple of Jastur has been broken! The light of day now shines on the symbols of war! The Empire of Tsuranuanni now goes to war with a race known as the Dasati!”

Azulos of the Kechendawa shouted, “Where are these Dasagi? I have never heard of these people!”

“Dasati,” corrected the Warlord. “And as to where they abide…heed the words of the Great One, Alenca, speaking for the Assembly and for the Light of Heaven.”

The old magician had been standing close to the Warlord’s throne, waiting for his moment to speak. He slowly walked to the center of the hall and looked around, seemingly identifying every face in the chamber.

“Let me speak of the Dasati,” began the old magician. For nearly an hour he repeated every detail so far discovered about the would-be invaders, building upon the earlier warning given to the Emperor and High Council by Miranda. Those rulers who had been in attendance the first time were subdued and looked gravely concerned, and those lords who had not been in attendance the first time appeared confused or incredulous. At first there were many whispered questions but by the end of Alenca’s narrative the leaders of the Empire were silent and convinced. For the first time in the history of the Empire a terrible danger was upon them, an enemy more powerful, more ruthless, as determined, and with a far vaster army than the Tsurani.

The Warlord rose. “I thank the Great One Alenca for his calm reciting of the facts. Now, I speak for the Empire!”

That formal declaration caused every ruling lord and ruling lady in the High Council to focus their undivided attention on the Warlord, for those words signaled that what came next was in no way said for personal glory, house honor or gain, but would be solely for the good of the nations.

“We all are bound by our pledge to the Empire, and to the Light of Heaven, and I have been given the great burden of conducting this war. I will issue edicts today. Each of twenty-five
houses, whose rulers will be contacted at the end of this meeting, will be given to the command of a regional—”

A shattering sound accompanied a blast of air which knocked Alenca across the hall as if a giant hand had swatted him. The old magician struck the floor hard and slid for a dozen yards, his body as limp as a rag.

A purple oval of energy hung above the floor of the great hall of the High Council, and through it erupted a stream of warriors in black, with gold trim at the points and edges of their armor, shouting incomprehensible words as they ran straight at the first Tsurani noble they spied.

Ceremonial swords and robes of silk were batted aside effortlessly as the nobility of Tsuranuanni was slaughtered with frightening efficiency. The Imperial Guards in the great hall died defending the rulers of the Empire, for despite being among the most dedicated warriors in the Empire, the Palace Guard were soon overmatched and overwhelmed. Within half a minute, fully a quarter of those in the hall were dead or dying.

As Dasati warriors flooded into the palace, a figure emerged from the shadows of a remote hallway, one rarely used by functionaries shuttling documents from the great hall to an administrative wing of the palace. He moved to where Alenca lay stunned to insensibility, perhaps dying from internal wounds. He looked down and, with an expression of mock regret, lifted his foot and crushed the old man’s windpipe with the heel of his sandal, ensuring that the first of many Great Ones of the Empire was dead this day.

The sharp downward step threw him off balance and he barely avoided falling over. The body of Wyntakata, now host to Leso Varen, was troubled by a lameness that the magician found annoying. But until he could establish a safe location where he could begin to fashion his dark and murderous magic and create the means to possess another body, he was confined to this one. He smiled at the screaming and carnage. He smiled to see valiant Tsurani rulers die like so many children as the Dasati guards of the TeKarana killed every human they saw. He waved his hand slightly and employed a spell of seeming, so that no
Dasati would mistake him for a target. He was certain that no matter his arrangement with the Deathpriests he had contacted on Omadrabar, it was unlikely that any of these warriors had been told, “Oh, by the way, don’t kill the slightly decrepit, lame fellow in the black robe.”

As often as death was his chosen means to power and the heart of his black arts, Varen was certainly no stranger to blood and pain, but he found this wholesale murder far less entertaining than would have been the case had humans invaded the Tsurani palace. The alarm had sounded and more Imperial Guards, among the finest warriors in the Empire, came rushing in to die like kittens attacking a lion. It just wasn’t fair, Varen thought. In this realm the Dasati were simply too powerful. Yet, he noticed with interest, some of the first to arrive were already showing signs of that odd intoxication he had noticed the first time he had encountered the little simulacrum who had been their first explorer into this realm. That delightful little creature had burst into flames after being in the sunlight of this world too long. He wondered if he would ever understand that aspect of the realms, the different levels of life and heat and light, the heart of energy-magic that so many of these Great Ones delighted in learning. That type of magic had never interested him very much, except for the life aspect, and that only when he was taking it in order to capture the dying energies. He paused for a moment to consider how useful fanatics could be. The Tsurani would, to a man or woman, die to defend the Emperor who, he assumed, was somewhere far from here. And the Dasati, personal guards of the TeKarana, were already doomed to die for the Dark God and their master, for those who survived this slaughter would succumb to the excess of energy in this world. He wondered if they would just fall over and die, or if they would burst into flames like that little creature did. Too bad he couldn’t linger to observe.

Varen looked around the hall, now reduced to an abattoir with blood bathing every stone. He noted with amusement that some of the blood was orange, so despite their decided advantage in strength and power, it seemed the Dasati were taking
some damage as they destroyed the leadership of the Tsurani Empire.

Imperial soldiers were still flooding into the room, and Varen was getting bored with watching other people killing one another, so he turned and ambled back down the hallway to the administrative wing of the palace. As he passed the first door into a suite of offices used by functionaries who worked on behalf of the Imperial First Advisor, he glanced inside to admire the scene of his own handiwork. A dozen officers of the court lay in contorted poses, several clawing at their own faces from the pain that had killed them mere minutes before. Now that, he thought, was death as art!

He whistled a meaningless ditty as he strolled down the hall, past another half a dozen offices littered with bodies. Grinning, he thought that killing off the leaders of every great house was amusing and would certainly cause the Tsurani a lot of problems, but it would be hard for the boy emperor to try and run his empire without a bureaucracy!

Martuch hurried down the ladder to the hideout and said, “Word has reached the palace of the TeKarana, and we now know what the muster yesterday was about.”

Pug, Magnus, and Hirea sat on cots and all looked at the old warrior.

“At the Dark One’s bidding, the TeKarana sent two legions, the Third and Fifth, ten thousand warriors, through what they are calling portals, into your realm.” He spoke to Pug and Magnus.

“Where?” asked Pug.

“The Tsurani world. I do not know the details, but the rumor is that each warrior was told to prepare his death legacy.”

“Death legacy?” asked Magnus.

Hirea said, “Each warrior in the service of the TeKarana or one of the Karanas has a box within which he places any items he might wish to have passed back to his house or society. It can be personal items, messages to fathers or mentors, or anything the warrior wishes to leave as a legacy.”

“It means,” Martuch added, “that every warrior was being sent to his death. This was both a murder raid and a suicide raid. The warriors were being told they were to die for His Darkness.”

Hirea shook his head in disbelief. “Two legions,” he said softly. To Martuch he said, “You know Astamon of the Hingalara’s oldest son served with the Fifth.”

“I liked Astamon, even though House Hingalara were Salmodi.” He looked at Pug and Magnus. “The Salmodi and Sadharin almost always end up on opposite sides of any dispute. But there are some good men in every society.”

“What does this mean?” asked Pug. “Why the suicide raid?”

“It means a lot of Tsurani are now dead, and the Dark One doesn’t care how many of us he kills accomplishing that end.” Martuch sighed. “So much of what I have come to reject is accepted as normal among my people, but even the most die-hard of us would have trouble accepting the loss of ten thousand lives merely to bloody a foe. We are conquerors,” he added, “not
chattak
to be slaughtered at a whim!”

Magnus said, “I don’t understand.”

Pug said, “Cattle.”

Hirea said, “It is a matter of personal pride for any Dasati warrior that what we take, we keep. Six worlds have been conquered since the rise of the Dark One, and in every case we have never surrendered a jot of what we have taken. For a Dasati to die is one thing, for we all expect that, but we die so our people may expand their territory. We do not die just to die. It is not the Dasati way.”

Martuch saw that the explanation wasn’t entirely clear to Pug and Magnus, for he had lived among the beings of the first realm and knew more about their ways. “We are not a philosophical people, like the Ipiliac. They understand things we cannot imagine. They imagine things we cannot comprehend. We are a violent race which judges conquest as the highest manifestation of successful violence, for violence without purpose is—”

“Comedy,” said Pug softly. “Other people’s pain.”

“And that is offensive,” said Martuch. “It makes a mockery of what ten thousand Dasati warriors, the best of us, were born to do: conquer!

“To laugh with contempt at the pain of others, that is one thing. But to see waste like this…” Hirea’s words trailed off.

Magnus said, “It depends on what they were chosen to do, why they were used.”

“What do you mean?” asked Martuch.

Magnus looked at the old warrior thoughtfully. “If the TeKarana wanted merely to overwhelm Kelewan, he could have ordered millions of you into the field.”

Martuch and Hirea both nodded in agreement.

“The Tsurani are valiant warriors, and to a man they will die defending their homeland, but they could not withstand such an attack.”

“So there must be a compelling reason to sacrifice ten thousand of his personal guards, rather than launch a full-scale invasion of Kelewan,” said Pug. “I do not know for a fact, but I suspect it will take as much adjustment for the Dasati warriors to exist on my plane as it did for us to exist here.”

Martuch said, “Absolutely. I can travel to Delecordia without much discomfort. The Ipiliac are as much like me as Hirea is, but they live in a world caught halfway between this realm and yours. But it must have taken centuries for them to have grown accustomed to the energies of that world.” He paused. “Without preparation it would be difficult for any of us to live there for more than a week or two. Some might adapt, but others would sicken and die. But Delecordia is not in the first realm. It would be impossible without much the same preparation as you endured for any Dasati to exist in your world for more than a few hours, perhaps a day or so at the most.”