Читать книгу The Complete Demonwar Saga 2-Book Collection - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 13

LAROMENDIS BEGAN HIS SPELL.

Across the vast courtyard sat a huge iron cage in which his brother rested as best he could in the blistering afternoon heat. The soldier who guarded the cage hadn’t yet noticed the Conjurer’s presence, so when Laromendis finished his spell and approached, the man saw not one, but two figures: the Conjurer accompanied by a guard captain.

The sentry looked quizzically at the pair, unaware that one of them was a phantom of his own imagination, and when they stopped before him, he heard the officer instruct him to draw away and give the brothers a moment of privacy. The guard nodded once, and followed the order.

Gulamendis looked up at his brother and smiled, though it obviously pained him to do so: his lips were cracked and bleeding from the heat. ‘How fare you, brother?’

Laromendis shook his head as he thrust a small water skin through the bars of the cage. ‘Drink slowly,’ he warned. ‘I’m faring better than you, by all appearances. What happened?’

‘Our master, the Regent Lord, became most vexed by the news that we had lost the outpost at Starwell and turned his wrath upon me. He already held me in the dungeon, and since he couldn’t kill me and keep your service, he decided a little torment might serve to show his wrath,’ Gulamendis said. He glanced at the sun, which was now lowering towards the keep. ‘In an hour the shadows will cover me and I’ll be all right.’

Pointing to the skin, Laromendis said, ‘Hide that; it should last for a few days.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the distant guard. ‘I don’t think they’ll completely forget to give you food and water, but they may decide to let you suffer for a while. It’s the mood of the times.’

‘Not a lot of joy to be found,’ agreed the Demon Master. Gulamendis moved the stale straw that was his bedding and hid the remaining water. ‘I’m better than I look. I send Choyal into the kitchen at night to fetch me extra food and drink.’ He chuckled but it came out dry and rasping. ‘But imps are so stupid. One night he delivers me a delicacy from the Regent Lord’s own larder, another night it will be rotten vegetables.’

‘I’ll do what I can to get you out.’ He paused, looked his brother in the eyes and said, ‘I found Home.’

His brother’s expression stilled. The resemblance between them was staggering, but Gulamendis was slightly shorter, a little thinner, and had lighter, almost orange, red hair.

‘What?’ asked Laromendis.

‘If you have found Home, what need has the Regent Lord for us?’

‘There are problems,’ said Laromendis, standing. ‘I must leave as the guard is returning and I can’t be here if a true officer arrives. The Regent Lord needs me for a while longer, and because of that you will be safe, if not comfortable.

‘And I have a plan.’

The younger brother smiled. ‘You always do.’

‘We need to get you to Home, because not only will you be safer there, the People will also have need of your knowledge.’

‘Demons?’

‘Perhaps, I can say no more. If you are questioned, ignorance is your best ally.’

He turned and hurried away from the cage, nodding once at the guard who returned to watch over Gulamendis. Leaving the courtyard as quickly as he could, he made his way to his quarters. The Regent Lord had grudgingly admitted to the Conjurer’s usefulness by providing him with a modest suite of two rooms, one for sleeping and the other for his study.

Laromendis kept little of value here, save for a volume of notes he had prepared before departing on his latest exploration, the journey that had taken him to Home. He sat on his bed and thumbed through the journal. Reaching the last page, he reached over to a small table, expecting to find his quill and ink. They had been moved. Someone had been in his quarters and they had read his journal.

He withheld a smile, as he expected nothing less from the Regent Lord. He wrestled with what he had heard of his distant kin on Midkemia and what his own people had become. There was much to admire about the achievements of the taredhel, but in truth, there was much apparently lost as well.

A trapper from Yabon had told Laromendis long stories about the elven forests to the west of his home, so long as the stranger paid for the ale in the tavern in Hawk’s Hollow. The stories he told painted a picture of a people at one with the forest, content if not happy with their lives, and able to come and go effortlessly through the woodland. He spoke a little about elven magic, but his small amount of knowledge revealed volumes to Laromendis: The great Spellweavers and the older eldar endured!

He had left that fact out of his report to the Regent Lord, for two reasons. First he had no proof that the trapper’s tale was remotely accurate, even if he felt in his bones that it was. Second, he needed to discover for himself how many of the magic users of Elvandar there were and what capabilities they possessed. A great deal of their ancient lore had been lost at the crossing of the Starbridge.

So much of it had been rooted in their spiritual links to the very soil of Home, the energies that rose from the heart and soul of the planet had been coaxed and finessed into serving the edhel, the People. Their new world had held different magic, and it had been difficult to blend that which had been brought with them and that which they found already here. The seven great trees, the Seven Stars, had been their anchor to the old magic from Home. But their new soil had been alien soil, from a world with its own rules and nature, and from the blending had come the majestic force that the taredhel had first struggled to control, but eventually had come to master.

The taredhel Spellmasters were most likely the equal of all but the very best human and elven magic users on Midkemia, but there were so few of them left; many had paid for the survival of the People with their blood. They were honoured and remembered in the annals, but each loss weakened the People beyond measure.

More students were sent to fight the Demon Legion every year, each class less ready, less practised, and less able to withstand demon magic. If there had been any other way for the Regent Lord to find Home without utilizing ‘outlaw’ magic users like Laromendis and Gulamendis, he would have put them to death years ago.

The relationship between magic users in the Star Guild, the legatees of the original Spellweavers who fled from Home, and those outside that organization, had always been strained at best, and outright hostile at worse. Wild magic, broken magic, or any number of other terms had been used to describe those who came into their power without the training of the Star Guild.

The Star Guild had tended the Seven Stars for generations, seeking to bring the wild magic of Andcardia under control, and to prevent the destruction of the People. Their labour had earned them a place at the tables of power, and the most gifted among them – the Chief Magister of the Guild – sat second only to the Regent Lord in prestige and power.

In times past those like Laromendis and his brother were hunted down and murdered, or captured and indentured to the guild as ‘dirt magicians’ or some other demeaning epithet. But now ‘dirt magicians’, like Laromendis, and ‘demon lovers’, like his brother, were too valuable to be squandered away by bigotry. This Regent Lord wasn’t a great deal more forgiving of deviant practices than his forebears, but he was a great deal more pragmatic about using talent whatever its origins.

Laromendis put away his journal, certain it would be read as soon as he left the city. He had made sure that nothing he had written would be found to be inconsistent with his report to the Regent Lord.

He stood up and looked out of the window. He was unable to see the portion of the courtyard where his brother sat imprisoned, but knew that by now the shadows covered the cage. Just a while longer, little brother. The Regent will be reading my journal within an hour after I depart, and no matter what he may think of our arts and us, he needs us. You will be free soon, he said, silently.

Putting away his pen and ink, he placed the journal on the small table and sat back on the bed thinking. He should try to rest, but his mind was racing.

There was so much that he hadn’t told the Regent Lord, so much he had wished to share with Gulamendis and a handful of others; for this world was Home. Moreover, every fibre of his being sensed that somewhere to the north of that valley lay all of the answers that the People sought; if they were proved wise enough to recognize their salvation.

Though Laromendis believed that he was as dedicated to saving the People as the Regent Lord, he was aware that Undalyn suspected him of having a different agenda. Glancing at the journal once again he resisted the urge to smile; let the Regent Lord and the High Magister, and the other members of the Regent’s Meeting suspect him. Let them believe his ambitions to be personal: power, glory, wealth, and the freedom of his brother; those goals they would understand. Just as long as they didn’t suspect what his real aim was. His real purpose would be as alien to them as the nature of their terrible enemies to the north.

Sighing despite his iron resolve, Laromendis stood up and left his quarters. He must eat something, then be about his business quickly, for by dawn tomorrow a thousand taredhel warriors, magicians and scholars would be moving through the translocation gate into that lovely valley long ago abandoned by the Forgotten, and where the Clans of the Seven Stars would return to their ancient homeland on the world humans called Midkemia.

Laromendis stood next to the leader of the Clans of the Seven Stars as he surveyed the valley below. The Regent Lord’s face was a fixed mask, but the slight sheen in his eyes and the softening around them told the Conjurer all he needed to know: the trap was sprung. Any thought of somehow saving Andcardia fled, as the ruler of the taredhel looked upon the ancient homeland of his race: Midkemia.

Undalyn waved his warleader over to his side and softly said, ‘Begin.’

Warleader Kumal stood silently for a moment beside his ruler, experiencing the intense emotions that had struck every elf like a hammer’s blow after they stepped through the translocation gate. Then he nodded once, turned and walked back through the portal. The Regent Lord stepped aside. Behind them a humming sound filled the air, more resonant than before, like the sound of heavy stones being dragged across the ground, producing vibrations in the soles of the Conjurer’s boots. He knew his brethren on the other side of the portal were employing their arts to widen it so that the numbers waiting on the other side might pass through with more haste.

Pointing down the game trail that marked the edge of this clearing in the hills, the Conjurer said, ‘My lord, in the vale below stands a vacant stockade of familiar design. I judge the Forgotten once lived within it, and with little effort it can be made to serve us now. Beyond this immediate area are more campsites, for the stockade will only serve temporarily as your court, and no more than a thousand can occupy the vale until more shelters are built. I have marked the trails so that the trackers can lead bands to those campsites. They will serve as a defensive perimeter until the city walls can be erected.’

To the warleader, Undalyn said, ‘Let them begin. I want lookouts posted in the hills above us, sentries in the passes below. Let the workers build signal towers so the outer settlements can be summoned when needed. Send out hunting parties and let it be known that no member of the Clans must be spied by human, elf, or dwarf, or I will have his head on a pike before my throne. Any who discover us must die before word can spread to others that we have returned. We shall decide when our cousins to the north and the lesser races discover that the true masters of this world have returned.

‘The day will come when we will rid this land of our enemies,’ he said, looking back at the portal as it ceased its expansion and the first soldiers came through. Each wore the Clans armour: a heavy metal breastplate, pale yellow in hue, with peaked shoulders. The pale golden colour came from the metals used to forge them, a blend that the taredhel smiths guarded closely, and which provided their warriors with protection stronger and lighter than steel. Each breastplate was trimmed in the clan colours, one hue for each of the Seven Stars, one for each colour in the rainbow. Upon the heads of the standard-bearers rested crested helms, more ornate than functional and topped with a plume dyed in the colour of their clan. The infantry carried their more functional helms tied to their belts.

The first hundred soldiers hurried away from the portal, splitting into squads, each led by a tracker who led them to various positions around the valley. Within hours, camps and watch stations would be in position and a secure perimeter would be thrown up around the valley. The taredhel bridgehead would be established.

Laromendis watched patiently as heavy-bodied horses pulled massive wagons through the gate, laden with females and the young. These were refugees from the outer villages and strongholds that had already fallen before the demon horde.

The children were silent, but their eyes were wide with wonder. There was something in the very air of this world that called to each elf as they returned to their ancestral soil; the Conjurer could only liken it to a reawakening of something deep within their souls that had been dormant for generations.

The Regent Lord knelt, removed his gauntlets and picked up a handful of soil. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed and said, ‘This land is rich with life. We shall reclaim our home, no matter what.’ He fell silent, reflecting for a moment, then he turned to Laromendis. ‘This is our world,’ whispered the Regent Lord. ‘Our world.’ He looked at the first ragged refugees, and shook his head. Those in the city would be the last through, with the defenders who still held the demons at bay, giving their lives to save the last of their kin. A play of emotions flickered across the ruler’s face, before he again composed his mask. He said, ‘We must rest, recover and grow, for we have lost too much in recent years.’

Removing his fur mantle, as the day’s heat grew, he took a deep breath. ‘The air here is sweet, despite the dwarves and others using it.’ He chuckled at his own joke.

Moving closer to his ruler’s side, the Conjurer lowered his voice so that those emerging from the portal would not hear him over the wagons’ rumble, ‘Sire, there is but one other troubling matter.’

‘Tell me,’ said the Regent Lord.

‘As I said before, there have been rumours of demons …’

The Regent Lord’s eyes closed as if he was in pain. Softly, as if he could hardly bear to utter the words, he said, ‘I had put that out of my mind.’ He regarded Laromendis and asked, ‘Here, as well?’

‘They are only rumours. I have seen no demon sign personally; and as you know, I have diligently searched for any hint that they are here. Still, I lack certain arts that others possess, which would ensure the demons were absent.’

The Regent Lord looked at the wagons as they continued to rumble through the portal, more warriors appeared as well, flanking the caravan of taredhel females and young. There was hardly one fighter without a wound or damage to his armour. The People had been battling the Demon Legion for almost one hundred years; millions had perished. At one time the taredhel ruled the stars, travelling through magic gates from world to world. But the demons had reduced their millions to thousands and now the very last of their kind sought refuge on a world known only through ancient lore, a world upon which they had abided in hallowed antiquity, before the time the gods warred and chaos reigned.

The Conjurer smiled. ‘Yes, my lord. It is rich with life here; and much of it is familiar. There are deer and bear, lions and wyverns; game is plentiful. The corn tastes oddly sweet, but not unpleasantly so, and the dwarves, for all their despicable flaws, sell their brews to any and all. The humans and dwarves have herds of cattle and sheep, and the seas are abundant as well. Here lie riches beyond what we’ve known in a century.’ Then he fell silent.

The Regent Lord stood and said, ‘You have something to say. Say it.’

‘My lord,’ said the Conjurer, ‘if I offend you, take my head, but as I am sworn to serve, I must speak only truth: If the rumours are true, or if the demons follow us here, we will be left with two choices: to flee and leave the humans, dwarves and our primitive cousins to battle the Legion, yet again seeking another world—’

‘Where?’ injected the Regent Lord. ‘I read every report. You have found no alternative, only harsh, barren places where life scarcely survives … no, there is nowhere else for us to go.’

‘—Or we stay and fight.’

The Regent Lord said, ‘When my father was a boy, the Seven Clans numbered two million swords, Conjurer.’ He watched as more wagons and beasts of burden emerged from the portal. Livestock was now being driven through, a herd of razor-spine hogs, herded by wolf-like dire dogs. An especially large canine loped through the portal and came to the Regent Lord’s side, licking the monarch’s hand while wagging its bushy tail.

Roughly patting the beast’s massive neck, the Regent Lord almost crooned as he knelt and said, ‘Sanshem, my good companion.’ He looked fondly upon the animal, perhaps the only being in all creation for whom the Regent Lord felt genuine affection.

Looking back at the Conjurer, he continued, ‘When my father took the throne, four hundred and twenty thousand swords could answer the call of the taredhel battle horn.’

‘When I took the crown from my father’s brow, after demons had ripped his still-beating heart from his chest—’ He almost shouted ‘—I had less than a third of that number to call upon!’ He stood up, patting the dog on its massive head. ‘Since our last battle, we have less than half that number again, and not all are full warriors.’ He shook his head in open regret. ‘We have trained our young to fight; children barely more than babes have smelled our blood and the stench of demons since their birth!’

He gazed down into the lush forest below and said, ‘I am torn, Conjurer. The Demon Legion seems endless. No matter how many we kill, more appear. If they were to follow us, how could we stand here in this valley, behind wooden walls calked with mud, when we could not hold the massive walls of Starwell, or keep them at bay with the death towers along the Gap of Doom? The Pamalan Dome soon collapsed and their flyers descended on the city like an evil hailstorm. All of the magic known to the taredhel defends Tarendamar, its defences are unmatched in our history, yet the demons keep coming.

‘I thought perhaps we might linger for a while upon this world, while we sought another refuge, but then I came to see it.’ He looked around the valley as the trees rustled in the breeze and birds darted across the sky. The only other sound was the rumbling of wagons and the tread of boots on the soil. He took a deep breath. ‘No, this is where we shall stand; if they follow, we have no other choice. Here we shall live or die as the Goddess wills it.’

The Conjurer nodded. It was not the right time to say what he must. Soon, but not today. Not after fleeing the Demon Legion across the tundra of Mistalik, being hounded for months by creatures so foul and powerful that only the mightiest warriors could delay them and only the most powerful magic could destroy them.

As the line of refugees continued to issue from the portal, the Conjurer knew one thing above all else: for the People to survive in this new land, no matter how abundant and hospitable, they would need allies. Which meant that generations of making war upon those not of the People would need be forgotten, and aggression as a way of life needed to be set aside.

The Regent Lord nodded to one of his heralds standing near the portal. The servant bowed slightly and darted through the magic opening. A moment later he returned, followed by a dozen older elves dressed in the guild cloth of the geomancers.

Laromendis knew that they were needed to repair the damage to the city defences on Andcardia, and he knew what their presence here meant: these few remaining masters of earth magic would begin to build a new city, in the heart of this valley. The repairs to the last bastion of Andcardian defence had been left to the lesser masters and apprentices. It was an admission of defeat that the Regent Lord had yet to voice.

A group of elders made their way through the small crowd and came to stand before their Regent Lord, bowing as one. To the oldest of them Undalyn said, ‘Oversee the creation of our new home. Begin at once. Defend the valley and start down there.’ He pointed to a distant rise that overlooked the small lake at the centre of the valley. ‘Around that lake we shall plant the Seven Stars. On that rise you shall build a new palace.’ He looked around, as if fixing the sights of Home in his mind. ‘All who can be brought here will arrive within the month, and then we shall seal this portal behind us.

‘I shall return to Andcardia to oversee the fighting. We will hold the demons at bay for as long as possible.’ To the Conjurer he said, ‘What do you need to discover the truth about demons here?’

Taking a breath, he simply answered, ‘My brother. No one among the People knows more of demon lore than he, my lord—’ As the Regent Lord was about to object, Laromendis hurried to cut him off, ‘—I know there are many who see him as the cause of the demon invasion …’

‘If that were true,’ said the Regent Lord, ‘he would already be dead. I do not think that he personally summoned the Demon Legion, Conjurer. But I do believe it was the meddling of those like him and yourself into realms prohibited by the Spellcrafters that caused the magic barriers to be breached.’ The Conjurer almost winced at that, for he knew there had been no breach; somewhere a gate had been opened between the realms, and if that could be found … He quickly turned his mind back to the Regent Lord, who said, ‘No. I must hold him against your good behaviour.’

‘You have my pledge, my lord.’

Breathing deeply, the Regent Lord looked around once more inhaling the sights, smells, and sounds of Midkemia in his memory before he returned to the struggle.

‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘Return with me and change places with him, Laromendis. You shall be his guarantee.’

‘Ah—’ began the Conjurer.

Smiling, the Regent Lord said, ‘When the very last of the People are through the translocation portal, then shall I free you to be with your brother. Until then, you are going to use your talents to defend against the Demon Legion.’

Laromendis nodded; there would be no dungeon or cage in the courtyard for him; he would be at the battlements sending demons back to whatever hell they came from. ‘Very well, my lord. I wish to serve in whatever way you judge right.’

The Regent Lord stepped around a wagon and through the magic curtain. Keeping his features still, the magic user followed his ruler, satisfied that his plan was almost underway. He knew he had to steal one minute alone with his brother, no more, and then he could gladly give his life to save the People. But he prayed to an ancient goddess that his sacrifice wouldn’t be necessary, for to truly safeguard their future, his particular arts, those of his brother and of many others who were considered less than elven by the Regent Lord, would be needed.

And to do that, changes needed to be instituted, and quickly.

And that required a little treason.

He stepped through the portal and vanished.