Wrath of a Mad God (40 page)

As he climbed the road, Varen saw dead bodies littering the landscape. Perhaps that was why he felt so good. There was so much death everywhere that he had been able to leach away flee
ing life here and there. These Dasati were like children when it came to death-magic; very powerful children, granted, but their ability to find the subtle side of magic was nonexistent, and they operated in a very wasteful fashion. But at least their waste had left enough ambient life force lingering that he was physically rejuvenated to the point of no longer needing a walking stick—though Wyntakata really wasn’t much of a specimen, to be truthful. Once Varen found a good lair, he’d start building up the things he needed to seize another body. He idly wondered what he could accomplish with the level of slaughter these aliens achieved.

He wondered why he was feeling the need to go back and visit the Dasati again. His initial contact with them had seemed a wonderful opportunity, but once they had established their first little dome on this world, and after he had delivered Miranda to them for study, they were downright inhospitable. He had exited without a farewell, fairly certain they were getting ready to study
him
. And he was certain they thought less well of him after he had killed two of their Deathpriests on his way out of the door.

Still, his time with them had not been a complete waste, for he knew he could work necrotic magic they could only dream of. And now appeared as good a time as any to do so, since a Dasati patrol was thundering down the road toward him.

He drew on a spark of the rage he harbored within, called up a large supply of the life-force he had recently acquired, and waited. There were twelve Deathknights riding at him, and as they approached they slowed, perhaps wondering why a lone human would stand waiting for them.

“Hello,” he said in passable Dasati, learned from the Deathpriests he had negotiated with after he had discovered their little probe-creature.

The leader pointed his sword at him. “You speak our language?”

Sighing theatrically, Leso Varen said, “By the gods, you are a master of the obvious.” His hand shot out and a dozen tendrils of green energy sprang forth, each cocooning a Deathknight’s head. Instantly swords were dropped as they reached up, clawing at the suffocating head covers.

Within moments, they were falling from their saddles, writhing on the ground in agony as their lungs burned. Varen could feel their lives pulsing up the tendrils and his own vitality increasing. Just to be thorough, Varen did the same with the milling varnin, killing them all by draining their lives. When the last of them was dead, he smiled. “Well, that was refreshing.”

He started humming the song again as he resumed his trek to the Black Mount.

Pug was nearly exhausted. Even after the return trip from the second plane he had not felt this depleted. The creation of rifts was a difficult enough task when carried out under normal conditions; but conditions as they stood were hardly normal.

He took a deep breath and nodded to Magnus. His son still showed the price paid by the foray into the second realm, but he had insisted on accompanying his parents to give whatever help he could.

Magnus lifted his father up, raising him so that he could see the thousands flooding across the plains. In the distance, to the north, loomed the Black Mount. It had grown again twice in the last day, its most recent increase bringing it miles closer. Pug calculated that it now covered two major cities and a score of towns along the river, as well as overlapping a huge portion of the northern plain. It rose up so high that its top vanished into the clouds: to Pug it looked like nothing so much as a giant black wall advancing down on them.

He motioned to Magnus, who lowered him.

“Can we do more?” Miranda asked.

“No,” said Pug. “We might open another rift or two from the far west, but there are not that many people there.” He sighed. “I fear all we can do now is wait and see how many we can get through the rift and how long it is before we must close it.”

Magnus looked into the distance. “That thing will be down on us in two or three days.”

Pug looked at the first and largest of the rifts to the new world, and saw that people were streaming through it, but there were so many frightened, tired, hungry people waiting that the
line was miles long. He had made it clear to everyone that as soon as people were through the rift they had to move off, for the valley on the other side of the rift did not have sufficient capacity to hold all these people. He also knew that soon the people going through would be too exhausted once they were on the other side to move very far off. He turned to Magnus and said, “Hold them up for a few minutes.”

Magnus passed orders to the Imperial Guards, who ordered the halt to people passing through. This brought instant grumbling and complaint from the otherwise dutiful and obedient Tsurani.

Miranda said, “The next time you do that, we’re going to have a riot.”

Pug nodded.

“How many have gone through already?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, really. Two hundred thousand today, maybe. Half that many yesterday when we started.”

“Not even the population of one good-sized city.”

“Enough to start a new civilization,” said Magnus.

Miranda looked at her son and realized he was trying to make them feel that something had been accomplished. “Only if they don’t mind spending the next two or three generations in mud huts.” She looked across the plain and saw that fires were being lit as evening approached. “Maybe some cooking and a short rest will help some of them.” As fires appeared across the horizon to the east at first and then to the west, she said, “There are so many.”

“Millions yet to come,” said Pug. “We’re going to lose most of them.”

“We don’t know that, Father.” Magnus pointed. “I’ll go and help to open another rift to the new world. I’ll go through this portal and fly myself miles away, and open another—”

“We have six spread out all over that region. It’s going to take them weeks to find each other and establish some sort of communication.” He looked around. “We can’t wait too much longer to send the Light of Heaven through.”

“Will he go?” asked Miranda. “He seemed determined to be the last through when I talked to him.”

Magnus smiled. “I think he’s going to have to fight General Alenburga for the honor.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Pug said quietly. “The last to go through…” He looked at the campfires now springing up in all quarters. “Anyone who waits to be last through will die here, Magnus.”

His son said nothing.

Varen trudged along the road, watching the Black Mount rise up, getting larger by the hour yet somehow seemingly never closer. “That is really big,” he said to himself.

At least four times in the last hour he had destroyed small bands of Deathknights, but he sensed he was overmatched as he crested a rise and saw a full hundred of them riding out of a dell. Wishing he had some of his toys from his old study in Kaspar’s citadel in Olasko, he conjured up an illusion he hadn’t tried in years. It was an old standby and easy enough to deploy. Any Tsurani would have stopped to examine the massive old dead oak that was suddenly sitting by the side of the road, but the Dasati had no idea the tree was as alien to this world as they were. They rode past and when they were safely down the road, Varen reappeared as the tree illusion vanished.

Continuing along, he wondered how long it would take him to reach the edge of the sphere. Perspective was difficult, for the featureless sides gave him nothing by which to judge scale. It might be a mile on the other side of the next ridge, or it could be five miles.

Then suddenly it was dark and his lungs started to strain as his ears rang and his eyes burned. It also felt as if the grandfather of all thunderclaps had exploded right above his head.

And then hands gripped him.

Varen saw a pair of Deathknights had an iron hold on each of his arms and were propelling him forward, expecting him to be incapacitated. But he had been inside a Dasati dome before and knew what to do, and suddenly he could breathe easily. He let the Deathknights pull him along what had up to minutes ago been a countryside road out in the bright sun. Now it was a path
way shrouded in darkness and even as he watched the leaves on the trees on either side of the road began to blacken and shrivel.

“Oh, this is so clever!” he shouted.

The two Deathknights tightened their grips and one looked at him. He was the first to die.

Varen simply reached inside the man with his mind and stopped his heart. “Oh, I love this place!” he said to the still-upright Deathknight. The warrior let go of Varen and drew his sword, and Leso realized he had been speaking Tsurani. He spoke in Dasati: “I said, ‘Oh, I love this place!’” The Deathknight raised his sword to strike and Varen held out his hand and another encompassing cocoon of green, life-devouring energy engulfed the Deathknight.

Varen was motionless as the Deathknight died. Others nearby saw the single human standing with two dead Deathknights at his feet and ran to attack him. Varen easily snatched life from each of them until there was not a living Deathknight in sight.

“I never used to be able to do that!” he exclaimed, delighted at his newfound power. “It must be this place!”

He looked around and adjusted his perception, and everywhere he looked he could see life energy rushing in toward the center of the great sphere. “That’s where I need to be,” he said.

He never once for a moment considered where these impulses that had ruled his life came from. He accepted them, and knew that when he gave in to his most outrageous and destructive impulses, the more pain he caused, the more chaos he created, the happier he was. At times in the past he had found himself working very much alone, in moldy old caves or damp huts in noxious swamps. At other times he had finessed his way into comfort, living in luxury, hosted by dupes like the Baron of Land’s End or the Duke of Olasko. He had endured his share of pain along the way; and discovered that dying was no fun at all, even if he woke up in a healthy new body moments later. He had also discovered that being run through with a sword from behind was his least favorite way to die. He took a deep
breath. If he had only had access to the incredible energy of life he was finding here, or rather, that incredible moment of astonishing power when life turns to death…if only he had possessed that knowledge and power years ago, he would now be ruling Midkemia.

“I must find out what this is!” he said aloud. He moved toward the nexus of all this strange and wonderful death-magic.

Nakor stirred. He had been unconscious, lying behind the throne upon which the TeKarana would observe the slaughter of thousands. He had no idea how long it had been since he had said goodbye to Pug and Magnus. As dry as his mouth felt, it was at least a full day, if not several. He forced himself upright and reached inside his bag. It was empty. Sighing, he took it off and pushed it away. He hadn’t really been hungry, and was reaching for an orange out of habit. He sloshed a little water around in the water skin at his belt and thought it odd that he wasn’t thirsty, either, despite his dry mouth. Then he realized what was happening. “Ah. That’s…brilliant!”

He turned his head to see what was occurring in the pit. The sight made him sad. Hundreds of bodies were falling each minute, and more and more of the essence of the Dreadlord was turning to vaporous smoke and spinning upward in a mad cyclone of wind that rushed up from the bottom of the pit.

He pulled himself around the throne. He could barely see the Dreadlord anymore, so much of his being was being sacrificed into the maelstrom to reach out and bind this world to Kelewan.

A sudden giddiness struck Nakor and he knew. “It’s almost time!” he whispered. He moved around, and finding it amusing, sat down in the TeKarana’s throne. He didn’t think Valko would mind.

He waited.

“Why don’t they come?” Martuch asked.

For two days the warriors of the White and the Talnoy guards had waited for an attack from the temple Deathknights loyal to the Dark One. But no attack had materialized.

Those few Lessers left alive in the TeKarana’s private apartments had been given the chore of preparing food for those hunkered down, waiting.

Bek had stood motionless in the same position, waiting for the assault. He had not eaten, drunk water, or relieved himself for two days. It was beginning to unnerve even the most battle-hardened Deathknight.

Suddenly, Bek said, “They are not coming.”

“How do you know?” asked Valko.

The massive warrior turned and with a grin that was nearly demonic said, “I know. You are safe. The Dark One is busy and will not return. He is leaving this world very soon. I can go now.” Suddenly a crimson light shone around the large warrior and he fell over.

A disembodied voice said, “I am Kantas-Barat! I have returned.”

The Deathknights looked from one to another, and Father Juwon said, “The old gods are returning!”

Hirea hurried over to Bek and examined him. Looking up, he said, “He’s dead!”

Martuch shook his head. “That one has been dead a long time, I think. Whatever was inside him has no more use for him. I hope for a good cause.” To those assembled, he raised his voice. “Come, it’s time to end this insanity and begin rebuilding our nation.”

Most cheered, including Valko, but he looked out of the window at the city in turmoil, with fires and smoke everywhere, and he knew that despite this feigned optimism, the conflict was not yet over.

Pug dozed. He came awake with a start and looked around. “What?”

“Father,” said Magnus. “What is it?”

“Something…” He stood up and looked off into the night.

“Something’s changing.”

He had been lying inside a tent hastily erected near the command pavilion occupied by the Emperor and his generals. He looked around and saw the massive rift a short distance away,
torchlight casting the entire tableau into an eerie chiaroscuro, punctuated by flickering amber and red glows.