Wrath of a Mad God (6 page)

“I’m Kaspar, former Duke of Olasko and commander of this company. As for trespassing, I’m here with the permission of the King of Roldem and the Emperor of Great Kesh, both of whom claim this region.”

The elf’s features showed no emotion, then after a second resolved into an expression of dark humor. “Your masters’ vanities do not concern me. This land belongs to the Quor.”

Trying to remain civil, Kaspar said, “I want to thank you—”

“Before you thank me for anything, human, realize I did not save you from the elemental creature. It was a thing of magic so foul I needed to dispose of it before I deal with you.”

“Deal with us?” said Kaspar.

“Yes,” said the elf. “You are all my prisoners.”

Instantly, men took combative stances, for while there was only one elf, they had just seen him vanquish the monster with seemingly no effort. Kaspar said, “And do you, alone, intend to capture all of us?” There were still thirty combat-ready soldiers behind him.

“No,” said the elf, and then he raised his voice and said something in the other language.

As if by magic elves appeared from behind rocks and trees, at least twice as many as Kaspar’s band. The one thing that stood out most about them was their appearance; all were blond, had sun-browned skin, and the same sky-blue eyes as the magician. And all of them wore the same buckskin so that it was almost a uniform, save for a slightly different cut to a tunic or fringe on the sleeves. Some elves had feathers or polished stones woven into their braids or a warrior’s knot, and many wore their hair
down, long past the shoulders. Most carried bows, with arrows pointed at them, and another half a dozen carried staves. Kaspar was certain they were magic-users like the elf before them. After a moment he said, “Throw down your weapons.” Reluctantly the men obeyed, and Kaspar said to the elf, “We surrender.”

The elf nodded. “Gather your wounded who can travel, and come with us.”

It took a few minutes to find those able to move and render them aid so they could travel. A dozen men were too injured to move and the elf said, “Leave them. They will be attended to.”

Kaspar nodded, and when his men were ready, elves began escorting them up the hillside, along the same trail that led down from the cave Kaspar had used as his base of operations. As they reached a point where the elf had first revealed himself, a strangled cry from behind caused Jommy to flinch. As he started to turn, he felt a strong hand grip his arm. Jim Dasher said, “Don’t look. It’s easier.”

Jommy nodded. The men too injured to move were being killed quickly by the elves, and although Jommy knew it was probably kinder than letting a man die slowly from a gut wound or exposure, he still hated the thought of it.

Slowly the captives wended their way up the hillside high into the mountains above.

The rain continued.

P
ug looked at the sun.

He shifted his perception through the visible spectrum and then into the other energy states he could now recognize. No matter how hard he tried, he could not find true words to express what he was seeing. He had been on the Dasati home world for two weeks, hiding in a complex of rooms under the protection of Martuch, a Dasati warrior and secret follower of the White. He had taken the opportunity to fine-tune his control of his abilities in this realm.

Nakor the Isalani, his companion and longtime friend, sat on another bench in the little garden, watching Pug. His charge, the strange young warrior Ralan Bek, was with Martuch, practicing his role as Martuch’s
protégé and mastering more of the subtleties of being a Dasati warrior.

Magnus, Pug’s older son, sat on the bench beside his father, lost in his own thoughts as the three magicians contemplated their mission. He trusted his father implicitly, but still had no idea what had brought them into this dark realm, to a place to which no human had ever traveled, seeking only his father knew what. Magnus recognized the threat posed by the Dasati, yet he had no concept of what they could possibly accomplish here, on a world an unimaginable distance from home. Distance, he corrected himself, was meaningless in discussing where they were. There was a good deal of proof that this world would have a twin in their own universe, perhaps even a world known to Magnus, but how they would get home to their own plane of reality was beyond Magnus’s understanding.

That last awareness sparked concerns in the young magician; he was, after his mother and father—and perhaps Nakor—the most powerful practitioner of magic on the world of Midkemia, and someday would most likely surpass even them. But for all his ability, talent, and knowledge, he had no idea how they would return. He had tried to understand the nature of the magic employed to bring them here, and bits of it were…familiar, echoing things he knew about transporting the body from location to location, as well as being reminiscent of rift magic, but how it all came together, that was lost on Magnus. Martuch had indicated that in one way it was an easy transition to make, but had been vague on details.

As much as Magnus knew he must trust this Dasati renegade, deep within he harbored doubts. While they seemed to be serving roughly similar causes, they were not entirely after the same goals, and Magnus had no doubt that Martuch would put serving his own people’s needs ahead of the lives of the four humans from Midkemia.

Now the other reason for Magnus’s discomfort entered the tiny garden. It was, if he was to believe what his father had told him, his grandfather, the legendary Macros the Black. But the man who stood before him was not human, but Dasati. Yet the
man had memories that could have only belonged to Macros, spoke flawless King’s Tongue, Tsurani, and Keshian, as well as any number of other languages from Midkemia and Kelewan, and in so many things demonstrated that he had the mind of a human from his home world. Yet the entire question of Macros’s presence on this world, in this form, raised questions that went far beyond troubling. Secretly, Magnus was frightened.

Macros had been absent most of the time since Pug and the other arrived, and Pug and he had had only minutes at a time to speak. The tall Dasati nodded a greeting and came over to stand before Pug and Magnus. “May I sit?” he asked.

Magnus nodded, moving over on the stone bench to make room for the Dasati magician.

“Even after weeks, my mind is reeling,” said Pug. “I realize you have…changed, yet I can see…you are still you.” He studied the features of the Dasati sitting next to him. “I’ve been, by any reasonable measure, patient, I think you’ll agree.” He glanced at his two companions. “We understand from what we’ve pieced together that you are the leader of a group constantly in peril, and that you have many responsibilities. But you are here, now, so as we have this time, why don’t you tell us the complete story?”

Nakor rose from his bench and walked over to sit down before Pug. “As much as I enjoy a good story, it would be useful if we heard only the truth this time, Macros.”

Macros smiled. “Perhaps my most grievous sin was lying. At that time…” He looked away as if into a painful memory. He took a breath. “It was so many years ago, my friends. I was an arrogant man who refused to trust others enough to tell them the simple—or in some cases not-so-simple—truth and let them choose whether or not to do the right thing.

“I manipulated people with lies, so that I could ensure…” He shook his head. “Another sin was vanity, I’ll confess. I was so certain back when…when I was young, when I was human.” He waved his hand in a general circle. “This experience has been humbling, Pug.” He looked at Magnus. “I’ve a grown grandson and I have missed every day of his life.”

“You have two,” said Magnus. “I have a younger brother.”

“Caleb,” said Macros to Magnus. “I know.”

Pug was still grappling with the fact of his alien existence, forcing his mind to accept what he could see with his own eyes. Once past that amazement, he was still left with another issue: that the man before him was Macros the Black, his wife’s father.

As he had just openly admitted, he was a man who had used people as one might use tools, and shamelessly lied to gain advantage. He had put people in harm’s way without their consent, and had made choices for others that had resulted in pain, suffering, and death. As a result, trusting him was a difficult task. Then again, Pug had watched Macros die defending others against Maarg, the Demon King. It had been the highest act of sacrifice and almost certainly had saved Midkemia from horrors for which the Serpentwar would have been but a mild prelude. Maarg would have almost certainly destroyed the entire world given enough time.

Macros spoke calmly. “The time for duplicity is over.” He looked at Magnus and reached out, his hand gently touching his face. “I’m younger than you, in this body,” he said with a bitter smile. “Despite being hundreds of years in memory, I’m but thirty years as the Dasati measure time.” He took his hand away from Magnus’s face. “Around the eyes, you resemble your mother.” Magnus nodded slightly. Macros’s gaze went from his grandson, to Nakor, then to Pug.

“Start at the beginning,” said Pug.

Macros laughed. “For this story, the beginning was my ending. As I told you, I died at the hands of Maarg, the Demon King.” He looked across the garden, and gazed into the distance, focused on memory. “When I died…” He closed his eyes. “It is difficult to remember, sometimes…the longer I live as a Dasati, the more…distant my human memories are, the feelings especially, Pug.” He looked at his grandson Magnus. “Forgive me, my boy, but whatever familial ties I should be feeling are absent.” He lowered his eyes. “I haven’t even asked about your mother, have I?”

“Actually, you did,” said Magnus.

Macros nodded. “Then I fear my memory is fading very rapidly. Ironically, for a human who has lived the span of more than nine hundred years, it would seem that I am dying.”

Pug’s shock could not have been more evident. “Dying?”

“A disease, rare in the Dasati, but not unheard of; should anyone besides our group and our Attenders suspect, I would be killed out of hand for weakness. The human ailments of the elderly are alien to the Dasati. Should the eyes fail or the memory fade, the person so afflicted is killed without thought.”

“Is there anything—” began Magnus.

“No, nothing,” said Macros. “This culture is about death, not life. Narueen said there may be something the Bloodwitches could do in their enclave, but that’s a continent away and time is of critical importance.” He smiled. “Besides, if you’ve already died once, death is hardly something to fear, is it? And I’m interested to see what the gods have in store for me this time.” He winced slightly as he shifted his weight. “No, death is easy. It’s dying that’s the hard part.” He looked around. “Now, as I was saying, my memory seems to be fading, so I’ll tell you what you need to know and then we can see if we can serve a common cause.” Looking at Nakor, Macros said, “The gambler. The one who cheated me! Now I remember.”

Nakor smiled. “I told you how when you revived from your ascension to godhood.”

“Yes…You slipped me a cold deck of cards!” Macros looked amused at the memory. Then his eyes narrowed and he studied Nakor more closely for a moment. “You are more than you seem to be, my friend.” He hiked his thumb in the direction of Martuch’s home and said, “As is your young friend. He has something within his being that is dangerous, very dangerous.”

“I know,” said Nakor. “I think Ralan Bek contains a tiny fragment of the Nameless One.”

Macros pondered this and then said, “In my dealings with the gods and goddesses I have come to understand a little of both their abilities and their limitations. What do you know?”

Nakor glanced at Pug.

“We believe that the gods are natural beings, defined in
many ways by the form of human worship. If we believe the god of fire to be a warrior with torches, he becomes that,” Pug answered.

“Just so,” said Macros. “Yet if another nation sees that being as a woman with flames for hair, then that is what the deity becomes.” He looked from face to face. “In ancient days, the Dasati had a god or goddess for almost every aspect of nature you can imagine. There were the obvious major gods: the god of fire, death, air, nature, and the rest of it—even a god and goddess of love or at least the fundamental male and female urge to create offspring. But there were also so many minor gods it would give a scholar a throbbing head just to catalogue them.

“There was the goddess of the hearth, and the god of trees, and the god of water was served in turn by the god of the sea, and another god of rivers, a goddess of waves, and another for rain. There was a god for travel, and another for builders, yet another for those who labored under the ground in mines. As I understand it, there were shrines at every street corner and along the roads, and votive offerings were placed upon them by a worshipful populace who dutifully attended the prescribed public worships, festivals, and dedications.” He took a deep breath. “The Dasati were a race of believers who also had a sense of duty that would shame a Tsurani temple nun. They created a pantheon of thousands of gods and goddesses, and every one had their appointed day of celebration, even if that consisted only of laying a flower on an altar, or hoisting a drink in a tavern in the god’s name.

“It is important to remember that these gods and goddesses were as real as any you’ve encountered in Midkemia, even if their realms were minute. They had a spark of the divine within them, even if their mandate was only to ensure lovely flowers in the field each spring.”

Of Pug, he asked, “What have you learned about the Chaos Wars since we last met?”

“Little. Tomas has a few more of Ashen-Shugar’s memories to draw upon, and I’ve found an odd volume or two of myth and legend. But little substantial.”

“Then listen,” said Macros. He looked directly at Nakor.

“The truth.”

Nakor nodded once, emphatically, but said nothing.

Macros began. “Before humanity came to Midkemia there were ancient races, several of which you know about, such as the Valheru, rulers of that world and masters of the dragons and elves. But other races existed as well, their names and nature lost before the dawn of human memory.

“There was a race of flyers who soared above the highest peaks, and a race of beings living below the ocean depths. Peaceful or warlike, we will never know, for they were destroyed by the Valheru.

“But above all others rose two beings: Rathar, Lord of Order, and Mythar, Lord of Chaos. These were the two Blind Gods of the Beginning. The very fabric of the universe around them was their province, and Rathar weaved the threads of space and time into order, while Mythar tore them asunder, only to have Rathar reweave them, over and over.

“Ages passed, Midkemia was a world in balance, the hub of that particular region of space and time, and all was well, more or less.”

Nakor grinned. “If you were a being of incredible power.”

“Yes, it was not a good time to be weak, for it was rule by might and no hint of justice or mercy existed,” responded Macros. “The Valheru were far more an expression of that epoch than they were evil; it can even be argued that good and evil were meaningless concepts during that time.

“But something changed. The order of the universe shifted. More than anything I wished to know the reason for this shift, yet it is lost in time. A fundamental reordering of things took place—it’s impossible to say what the scale of time involved was, but to the races living on Midkemia at the time the result of that reordering seemed abrupt. Vast rifts in space and time appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and suddenly beings unknown on Midkemia entered the world: humanity, dwarves, giants, goblins, trolls, and others as well. And races that came but did not endure, as well.

“For years a war raged across the universe, and we mere humans…” He stopped and laughed softly. “
You
mere humans could only apprehend the tiniest part of it. What we know is legend, myth, and fable. Shreds of history may be enmeshed in them, but no one will really know the truth of it.”

Nakor laughed. “For a man who can travel in time, you had a simple enough means to discover that truth.”

Macros grinned. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? But the truth is I do not have the ability to travel in time, at least not in the fashion you’d imagine.” Looking at Pug, he said, “I remember when you and Tomas came to find me in the Garden, at the edge of the City Forever.”

Pug remembered. It had been his first encounter with the Hall of Worlds.

“Had I the ability to travel in time, I never would have permitted the trap sprung by the Pantathian Serpent Priests to fling us backward through time.”

“Yet you instructed me how to accelerate its unfolding many times, until we reached a point at which time was meaningless,” observed Pug.

“True, and while I lacked
your
talents in that regard, I also lacked the skills to manipulate time as the Pantathians had.”