Wrath of a Mad God (42 page)

Kaspar shook his head. “The day is still long here, and there’s a
village not too far away where I can buy a horse. After what we’ve been through, I could use a few hours of quiet. The walk will do me good.”

“I understand,” said Pug, extending his hand. They shook.

“Fare you well, Kaspar of Olasko.”

“Fare you well, magician.” Kaspar turned and walked down the trail. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, the last of the Talnoy was gone, and so was Pug. As he looked upward, the rift in the air vanished.

Thanking the gods for being alive, Kaspar of Olasko walked purposefully down the trail, beginning the next journey of his life.

Pug appeared in his study, where Miranda, Magnus, and Caleb waited. Miranda threw her arms around her husband and held him close. “Is it over?” she asked.

“Not quite.”

She stepped back, examining his expression. “You’re going back!” It was more of an accusation than a question. Before he could answer, she declared, “I’m going with you.”

“No!” This came out harsher than he meant it to: an exhausted and drained woman was about to get into a serious argument with her husband. “No,” he said again, more softly. “I need you here. Without you, I can’t get back.”

Slowly, her mood changed. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to do something I’ve only done once before.”

“What?”

“Close down a rift while I’m inside it.”

Miranda stared at him. “There has to be another way.”

“I wish there were, but we are hours, perhaps only minutes, from whatever is coming up that tunnel from the Dasati realm to this one from gaining control of the rifts. I must go back and shut them down, but the last one cannot be closed from this side. You know that. It can be closed only from the Kelewan side.”

“Or from inside,” said Magnus. He was nowhere near the master of rift-magic that his father was, but he had studied it far more rigorously than his mother had. “Father, what do you need us to do?”

“There is a pair of staves in my quarters. Please bring them to me.”

Magnus hurried out and Pug turned to his wife. “I will be fine if you just remain here and do your part.”

Tears welled up in Miranda’s eyes and she found she couldn’t speak. She just held tightly to her husband’s robe with both hands, as if afraid to let him go. At last, she just nodded.

Caleb came over to them. “Can I trust you to get back here safely?” he asked.

Pug laughed. He put his arm around his younger son’s neck and squeezed him tight. “You were always the sweetest child, Caleb, and despite being a strong man any father would take pride in, it’s good to see that little boy is still in there somewhere.”

Softly Caleb whispered, “You’re my father. I love you.”

“And I you.”

Magnus returned and Pug said, “We do not have much time. Outside, please.”

They exited the building and stopped a short distance down the path in a small garden at the side of the house. Pug took one of the staves and handed it to his wife. “I had these fashioned from an old lightning-struck oak on the other side of this island. They are twins and I need one here, in the soil of this place, as an anchor.”

Miranda planted the butt of the staff into the soil. Pug looked to where Magnus stood with his brother and said, “Can you please help your mother, boys?”

Magnus and Caleb gripped the staff, and nodded.

“No matter what happens, for the next hour do not let go of that staff. Keep it anchored to the ground. It is my only way back.”

“Where did you learn this?” Miranda asked.

“From your father.”

She rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

“I will come back,” he promised. Then he vanished.

Mother and sons stood motionless, with Miranda, Caleb, and Magnus holding tightly to the staff.

Pug appeared at the rift site at the Academy to find half a dozen magicians anxiously watching the flood of refugees streaming through. One of them, a tall magician named Malcolm of Tyr-Sog, shouted,
“Pug! We can’t keep this up! We can’t get them off the island fast enough, and there are food riots beginning over in Shamata!”

“Then take the rest of them up to Landreth!” Pug pointed to the twin outward-bound rifts and said, “Once I’m through that, shut it down. Is that understood?”

“Yes, but what about this one?”

Those coming through were close to panic, pushing and shouting and almost tumbling over one another. “I’ll close it down from the other side.” Pug took a deep breath. “I’m closing down all the rifts!”

He hurried past a situation that was almost out of control and, shouldering his staff, stepped through the rift gate into Kelewan.

He walked into a scene of insanity and chaos.

The fighting was less than a hundred yards away from the rift gate to the new world. So many people were trying to force their way through that the weak were being trampled underfoot by the strong. Pug willed himself up into the air for a better view.

The Dasati were everywhere. The Black Mount had not expanded since he had left, but he knew it was merely a matter of time. He used magical sight to see which of the rift gates were in the most peril, and saw that the one nearest to where he stood was the one most likely to be captured first.

Pug hesitated. Every moment he waited a few more Tsurani would make it through the rift into the new world. It would be a difficult life for these refugees, but it would be life. The moment he closed down this rift, he consigned everyone trying to reach it to death, most of them to the horrible fate he had witnessed down in the pit in the heart of Omadrabar. He saw a Dasati Deathknight reach the bottom of the long ramp leading up to the rift and sent out a bolt of searing white energy which caused the armored figure to burst into flames.

That proved to be an error, for two nearby Deathpriests sent their death-magic toward him. He barely got his defensive barrier up in time, but now he could not attack the Dasati without making himself vulnerable. He considered for a moment making himself
invisible again, but he knew that the work ahead of him was likely to use up all his strength, and he would have none to spare.

He closed his eyes, as much to spare himself the vision of those below once they realized all hope was gone as to focus his will, and reached out to the rift. No one on either Midkemia or Kelewan understood rifts as Pug did. This rift was one he had created and he had enabled it to be easily closed down by anyone who knew how. He willed it out of existence.

One second there was a grey void with silver light shimmering on the surface, a beacon of hope and a doorway into safety, and the next it was gone. The wail of despair that rose up tore at Pug’s heart and he fought back the urge to lash out at the Dasati. They were being as evilly used by the Dark One as anyone else, and he knew that any Deathknight or Deathpriest on Kelewan was doomed to die along with the remaining Tsurani. But even so, it didn’t lessen his outrage.

He went to the next rift at risk and shut it down.

Seeing the rifts begin to blink out of existence one at a time, the crowd erupted into hysteria and panic. Mothers tightly gripped their children, as if they could somehow hide from the monsters who now approached them with deadly purpose. Husbands ran, leaving wives behind, or threw themselves at the Deathknights, striking them with their bare fists, or attacking them with household implements. The old, the weak, and the very young died quickly.

Pug swallowed hard and shut down another rift. He moved on to the next one. He had much to do and time was running out.

Nakor stirred. He had finally become used to how his body felt. It was a very interesting situation, and he wished he could appreciate it more, but he knew that he had something important to do very soon.

He stood up and walked to the edge of the pit. The Dreadlord was now rising up in the sea of orange and green flame, roaring defiantly, as if issuing a challenge. Nakor wondered if the gods in Kelewan could hear it. Not that it mattered, for those gods were old and tired, and unable to protect their realm. He wondered if they would go with the Tsurani people to their new world, or whether new gods would arise. He wondered if there was really any difference. It was a pity he wouldn’t find out.

He studied the changing form down in the pit, for two things were happening simultaneously: the Dreadlord was releasing much of the energy harbored against this day, letting it fly up to do his bidding, creating a powerful conduit between the worlds, and as it did so, the amorphous shape was resolving itself into a more humanlike aspect, albeit one of heroic stature. A vast head rose out of the blob of a body, followed by a powerful neck and then gigantic shoulders. The body that was rising mocked human form, yet paid homage to that form, for it was a thing sculpted by a master. Arms of perfect proportion followed and a fist was raised high, shaking in defiance as the Dreadlord readied him to rise to the next plane of existence. Nakor found this entertaining in a detached way, and wondered if that detachment was a function of his no longer being alive.

Nakor wondered if he might have felt resentment, had he still been alive, but he speculated he would not. This was a unique experience. The God of Liars had left him with just enough of his own magic energy to be animated, cognitive, and logical. Nakor suspected whatever felt like emotions were most likely echoes of his own life, not genuine and heartfelt, but something his animated mind felt was needed as part of the current experience. Yet those feelings were very distant, muted to the point of detachment. But the entire experience did pique his curiosity, and he was glad he still retained the ability to be curious.

Something was coming, fast, amid the falling bodies. The Dreadlord was no longer indulging his baser appetites, but was now using the newly dead energies as a source of power for building his passage, rather than merely feeding his gluttony. Nakor found it interesting that as the Dreadlord rose up, as his body became leaner and more hungry, the smarter he seemed to become. That would be another interesting thing to explore, had he the time.

The thing that was approaching fell from the roof, but before the Dreadlord took any notice of it, Nakor reached out with one of his few remaining tricks and pulled it toward him. It was a man in a black robe, and even though he had never seen this face before, Nakor knew exactly who it was.

Leso Varen looked at Nakor the Isalani with open-eyed astonishment. The little man had simply reached out with his mind and dragged him down to this silly throne and nothing he had tried could prevent it.

Varen was rarely rational under the best of conditions, and at the moment the conditions were hardly the best. In fact, they were about as bad as he had ever experienced. Moreover, he was very angry, though as yet he wasn’t entirely sure why. “I don’t know who you are, little man, but you should not have done that!”

Varen lashed out with his most punishing death-magic, but the little man stood there grinning at him. “Hard to kill someone already dead, isn’t it?”

Varen’s mind raced. Already dead? He was the master of necromancy, but he had never encountered anything like this in his life. He had animated several dozen bodies over the years, and had encountered a glich or two, but even the smartest among the undead were not usually very bright, and were always insane. He tried to seize control of Nakor, as he would with any undead being, but the little man just kept grinning at him.

“This is amusing, but your time is over. I need something you have,” Nakor said.

Leso Varen stared at him. “What—?” he began, but Nakor reached out and his hand seemed to pass into Varen’s chest. Varen’s eyes widened as if he were experiencing stunning pain, and he looked down as Nakor pulled his hand out.

Nakor opened his fingers and there, resting on the palm of his hand, was a tiny crystal, black and pointed at each end, looking like a multifaceted gem. Deep within the crystal a dim light burned, pulsing with a purple glow. “We are but vessels, you and I,” said Nakor. “The only reason we are here is to carry with us something that otherwise couldn’t exist in this place. Within me I carry the tiniest spark of Ban-ath. And this”—he held up the tiny crystal so that Varen could see it—“is a tiny spark of the Nameless. Your master sent you here to destroy the Dark One. He may be imprisoned, insane, and countless miles from his home world, but he’s still angry enough that someone else
wants to take his world from him that he fashioned you. You are his weapon, Leso.”

Varen’s eyes lost focus and Nakor pushed him away. “We do not need you any longer, for now I hold the Godkiller!”

The one-time master of necromancy fell into a heap, dead at last. For a long moment Nakor regarded what he held in his hand, then he looked at the Dreadlord. “Just a few minutes more,” Nakor promised. “Then we will be done.”

Pug rose high into the sky. He pushed aside an almost overwhelming feeling of sorrow: thousands below him were dying by the moment. He looked at that thing that was the Black Mount and his heart sank further. It now covered hundreds of miles of the Empire. He suspected that at the current rate the entire world would be overrun within another month, perhaps less.

Ignoring the sounds of horror beneath him, he kept rising until he felt the air turn cold and thin. He created a pocket of air around him, knowing that it would not last long, and kept rising until he could see the curve of the world below.

He grieved, for while it remained alien to him in so many ways, Kelewan had been his home for years. The Tsurani were a unique and proud people, embodying the best and worst of humanity. They could be cruel, murderous, and hateful, but they also could be generous and honorable, and would give their lives for what they believed. And they had a great capacity for love.

He was musing on this when something shifted within the Black Mount. Pug used his magical vision, honed by his time on the Dasati world, to peer deep into the heart of the dome. He saw there a scene of horror so profound he could scarcely contain his outrage.