Magician (71 page)

The battle was joined, and Tomas was
caught up in the red haze that washed away any thought but to kill.
Hacking right and left, he carved a path through the Tsurani,
confounding their every attempt to strike him down. Tsurani and
cho-ja both fell to his blade, as he delivered death with an even
hand to all who stood before him.

Back and forth across the clearing the
battle moved, as man and cho-ja, elf and dwarf fell. The sun moved
higher in the sky, and there was no respite from the fray. The sounds
of death filled the air, and high overhead the kites and vultures
gathered.

Slowly the Tsurani press forced the
elves and dwarves back. Slowly they moved toward the heart of
Elvandar. There was a brief pause, as if both sides had struck a
balance, when the adversaries moved away from each other, leaving an
open space between. Tomas heard the voice of the sorcerer ringing
clear above the sounds of battle. “Back!” it cried, and
to a man, the forces of Elvandar retreated.

The Tsurani paused a moment, then,
sensing the hesitation of the elves and dwarves to continue, started
to press forward. Abruptly there came a rumbling sound, and the earth
trembled. All stopped moving, and the Tsurani looked fearful.

Tomas could see the trees shake, more
and more violently, as the trembling increased. Suddenly there came a
crescendo of noise, as if the grandfather of all thunderclaps pealed
overhead. With the booming sound, a huge piece of earth erupted
upward, as if heaved by some invisible giant’s hand. The
Tsurani who were standing on it shot upward, to fall hard to the
ground, and those nearby were knocked aside.

Another piece of the ground erupted,
then a third. Suddenly the air was full of giant pieces of earth that
flew upward, then fell upon the Tsurani. Screams of terror filled the
air, and the Tsurani turned and fled. There was no order to their
retreat, for they flew from a place where the very earth attacked
them. Tomas watched as the clearing was emptied of all but the dead
and dying.

In a matter of minutes, the clearing
was quiet, as the earth subsided and the shocked onlookers stood
mute. The sounds of the Tsurani army retreating through the woods
could be heard. Their cries told of other horrors being visited upon
them as they fled.

Tomas felt weak and weary, and looked
down to find his arms covered with blood. His tabard and shield and
his golden sword were clean as they always were, but for the first
time he could feel human life splattered upon himself. In Elvandar
the battle madness did not stay with him, and he felt sick to his
inner being.

He turned and said softly, “It is
over.” There was a faint cheer from the elves and dwarves, but
it was halfhearted, for none felt like victors. They had seen a
mighty host felled by primeval forces, elemental powers that defied
description.

Tomas walked slowly past Calin and
Dolgan and mounted the stairs. The Elf Prince sent soldiers to follow
the retreating invaders, to care for the allied wounded, and to give
the dying Tsurani quick mercy.

Tomas made his way to the small room
where he abided, and pulled aside the curtain. He sat heavily upon
his pallet, tossing aside his sword and shield. A dull throbbing in
his head caused him to close his eyes. Memories came flooding in.

The heavens were torn with mad vortices
of energy crashing from horizon to horizon. Ashen-Shugar sat upon
mighty Shuruga’s back, watching the very fabric of time and
space rent.

A clarion rang, the heralding note
heard by dint of his magic. The moment he awaited had come. Urging
Shuruga upward, Ashen-Shugar’s eyes searched the’
heavens, seeking what must come against the mad display in the skies.
A sudden stiffening of Shuruga under him coincided with his sighting
of his prey. The figure of Draken-Korin grew recognizable as he sat
upon his black dragon. There was a strangeness in his eyes, and for
the first time in his long memory Ashen-Shugar began to understand
the meaning of horror. He could not put a name to it, could not
describe it, but in the tortured eyes of Draken-Korin he saw it.

Ashen-Shugar ordered Shuruga forward.
The mighty golden dragon roared his challenge, answered by
Draken-Korin’s equally mighty black. The two clashed in the
sky, and their riders worked their arts upon each other.

Ashen-Shugar’s golden blade
arched overhead and struck, cleaving the black shield with the
grinning tiger’s head in twain. It was almost too easy, as
Ashen-Shugar had known it would be. Draken-Korin had given up too
much of his essence to that which was forming. Before the might of
the last Valheru, he was little more than a mortal. Once, twice,
three times more Ashen-Shugar struck, and the last of his brothers
fell from the back of his black dragon. Downward he tumbled to strike
the ground. By force of will, Ashen-Shugar left Shuruga’s back
and floated to stand beside the helpless body of Draken-Korin,
leaving Shuruga to finish his contest with the near-dead black
dragon.

A spark of life still persisted within
the broken form, life ages past remembering. A pleading look entered
Draken-Korin’s eyes as Ashen-Shugar approached. He whispered,
“Why?”

Pointing heavenward with his golden
blade, Ashen-Shugar said, “This obscenity should never have
been allowed. You bring an end to all we knew.”

Draken-Korin looked skyward to where
Ashen-Shugar pointed. He watched the tumbling, raging display of
energies, twisted, screaming rainbows of light jagged across the
vault of the sky. He witnessed the new horror being formed from the
twisted life force of his brothers and sisters, a raging, mindless
thing of hate and anger.

In a croaking voice, Draken-Korin said,
“They were so strong. We could never have dreamed.” His
face contorted in terror and hate as Ashen-Shugar raised his golden
blade. “But I had the right!” he screamed.

Ashen-Shugar brought down his blade,
cleanly severing the head of Draken-Korin from his body. At once both
head and body were engulfed with a glimmering light, and the air
hissed around Ashen-Shugar. Then the fallen Valheru vanished without
trace, his essence returning to that mindless monster raging against
the new gods. With bitterness Ashen-Shugar said, “There is no
right. There is only power.”

Is that how it was?

“Yes, that is how I slew the last
of my brethren.”

The others?

“They are now part of that.”
He indicated the terrible sky.

Together, never apart, they watched the
madness above as the Chaos Wars raged. After a time Ashen-Shugar
said, “Come, this is an ending. Let us be done with it.”

They began to walk toward the waiting
Shuruga. Then a voice came.

“You are quiet.”

Tomas opened his eyes. Before him knelt
Aglaranna, a basin of herb-sweetened water and a cloth in her hand.
She removed his tabard and helped him pull off the golden chain.
While he sat near exhaustion, she began washing the blood from his
face and arms, saying nothing as he watched her.

When he was clean, she took a dry cloth
to his face and said, “You look tired, my lord.”

“I see many things, Aglaranna,
things not meant for a man to see. I bear the weight of ages upon my
soul, and I am tired.”

“Is there no comfort to be
sought?”

He looked at her, their eyes locking.
The commanding gaze was tempered by a hint of gentleness, but still
she was forced to drop her eyes.

“Do you mock me, lady?”

She shook her head. “No, Tomas. I
. . . came to comfort you, if you have need.”

He reached out and took her hand, and
drew her toward him, hunger in his eyes. When she was encircled by
his embrace, feeling the rising passion in his body, she heard him
say, “My need is great, lady.”

Looking into his pale eyes, she dropped
the final barriers between them. “As is mine, my lord.”

H
e
arose in the darkness.

He donned a simple white robe, a mark
of his station, and left his cell. He waited outside the small and
simple room, which contained a sleeping mat, a single candle, and a
shelf for scrolls: all that was deemed necessary for his education.
Down the corridor he could see the others, all years younger than he,
standing quietly before the doors of their cells. The first
black-clad master came along the corridor and stopped before one of
the others. Without a word the man nodded, the boy fell in behind
him, and they marched away into the gloom. The dawn sent soft grey
light through the high narrow windows in the hallway. He, like the
others, extinguished the torch on the wall opposite his door, at the
first hint of day. Another man in black came down the corridor, and
another waiting youth left behind him. Soon a third. Then a fourth.
After a time he found himself alone. The hallway was silent.

A figure emerged from the darkness, his
robes conspiring to mask his coming until the last few feet. He stood
before the young man in white and nodded, pointing down the corridor.
The youth fell in behind his black-robed guide, and they made their
way down a series of torchlit passages, into the heart of the great
building that had been the young man’s home as long as he could
remember. Soon they were traveling through a series of low tunnels,
rank with the smell of age, and wet, as if deep below the lake that
surrounded the building on all sides.

The man in black paused at a wooden
door, slid a bolt aside, and opened it. The younger man entered
behind the older and came to stand before a series of wooden troughs.
Each was half the length of a man’s height, and half that wide.
One stood on the floor, and the others were arrayed above it,
suspended by wooden supports in steps, one above the next, until the
highest stood near the height of a man’s head. All of those
above had single holes in the end that overhung the trough below. In
the bottom trough, water could be heard sloshing, as it responded to
the vibrations of their footfalls on the stone floor.

The man in black pointed to a bucket
and turned and left the young man in white alone.

The young man picked up the bucket and
set about his task. All commands to those in white were given without
words, and, as he had quickly learned when he had first become aware,
those in white were not allowed to speak. He knew he could speak, for
he understood the concept and had quietly tried to form a few words
while lying on his mat in the dark. As with so many other things, he
understood the fact, without being aware of how he understood. He
knew that he existed before his first awakening in his cell, but was
not in the least alarmed by his lack of memory. It seemed somehow
proper.

He started his task. Like so many other
things he was commanded to do, it seemed an impossible undertaking.
He took the bucket and filled the topmost trough from the bottom one.
As it had on days before, the water spilled from the top down into
each successive trough, until the contents of the bucket rested again
at the bottom Doggedly he pursued his work, letting his mind go
vacant, while his body undertook the mindless task.

As it did so many other times when left
to its own devices, his mind danced from image to image, bright
flashes of shapes and colors the eluded his grasp as he sought to
close mental fingers around them. First came a brief glimpse of a
beach, with crashing waves on rocks, black and weathered. Fighting. A
strange-looking cold white substance lying on the ground—a
word, snow, that fled as quickly as it came. A muddy camp. A great
kitchen with boys hurrying about many tasks. A room in a high tower.
Each passed with blinding quickness, leaving only an afterimage in
its passing.

Daily a voice would sound in his head,
and his mind’s voice would respond with an answer, while he
labored at his endless task. The voice would ask a simple question,
and his mind’s voice would answer. Should the answer be
incorrect, the question would be repeated. If several wrong answers
were made, the voice would cease its questioning, sometimes returning
later in the day, sometimes not.

The white-clad worker felt the familiar
pressure against the fabric of his thoughts.

—
What is the law
—
the voice asked.

—
The law is the structure that
surrounds our lives, and gives them meaning
— he answered.

—
What is the highest
embodiment of the law?
—

—
The Empire is the highest
embodiment of the law
—

—
What are you?—
came
the next question.

—
I am a servant of the Empire
—

The thought contact flickered for a
moment, then returned, as if the other were considering the following
question carefully.

—
In what manner are you
allowed to serve?
—

The question had been asked several
times before, and always his answer had been met with the blank inner
silence that told him he had answered incorrectly. This time he
carefully considered, eliminating all the answers he had made
previously, as well as those that were combinations of extrapolations
of the previously incorrect ones.

Finally he answered—
As I see
fit
—

There was a surge of feeling from
without, a feeling of approval. Quickly another question followed.

—
Where is your allotted
place?
—

He thought about this, knowing that the
obvious answer was likely to be the incorrect one, but still one that
needed to be tested. He answered.

—
My place is here
—

The mind contact was broken, as he
suspected it would be. He knew that he was being trained, though the
purpose of the training was masked from his mind. Now he could ponder
the last question in light of his previous answers and perhaps
ascertain the correct response.