Magician: Master

by Raymond Feist

  “We found this band in a relatively isolated spot, with only these eight to guard the slaves. They were repairing an earthwork, one that I judge was overrun a short while ago during an elven sortie. We slipped around them, then a few of the lads climbed into the trees—though they liked it little. We dropped down upon the three outer guards, silencing them before they could shout the alert. The other five were napping, the lazy louts. We slipped into camp, and after a few well-placed strokes with our hammers, we bound them. These others”—he indicated the slaves—“were too timid to make a sound. When it was clear we had not alarmed the nearby enclaves, we thought to bring them along. Seemed a waste to leave them behind. Thought we might learn something useful.” Dolgan tried to keep an impassive expression, but pride over his company’s work shone through like a beacon in the night.

  Martin smiled his approval and said to Calin, “I hope we may learn what is coming, if the feared offensive is really to be mounted and where. I’ve learned a few phrases of their tongue, but not enough to make any sense of what they might tell us. Only Father Tully and Charles, my Tsurani tracker, can speak to them fluently. Perhaps we should attempt to move them to Crydee?”

  Calin said, “We have the means to learn their tongue, given time. I doubt they would lend much cooperation in their transport. Most likely they would try to raise the alarm every step of the way.”

  Martin conceded the point. Then a disturbance caused him to turn.

  Tomas came striding into the clearing. Dolgan began to greet him, but something in the young warrior’s manner and expression silenced him. There was madness in Tomas’s eyes, something the dwarf had glimpsed before as a glimmer, but which now shone forth brightly.

  Tomas regarded the bound prisoners, then pulled his sword slowly and pointed at them. The words he spoke were alien to both Martin and the dwarves, but the elves were rocked by what they heard. Several of the older elves dropped to their knees in supplication, and the younger ones drew away in reflexive fear. Only Calin stood his ground, though he appeared shaken. Then slowly the Elf Prince turned to Martin, his face drained of color. In terrified tones he said, “At last the Valheru is truly among us.”

  Ignoring all others in the clearing, Tomas walked up to the first Tsurani prisoner. The bound soldier looked up with a mixture of fear and defiance. Suddenly the golden sword was raised high and arced down, severing the man’s head from his shoulders. Blood splattered the white tabard, then flowed off, leaving it spotless. A low moan of fear came from the huddled slaves, and the remaining soldiers’ eyes were wide in terror. Slowly Tomas turned to face the next prisoner, and again his sword took a life.

  Martin freed himself from shocked paralysis, forcing his eyes away from the butchery. He felt terrible dread, but it appeared as nothing to what the elves revealed in their abasement before Tomas. Calin’s face showed a struggle within as he tried to overcome a nearly instinctive obedience to the words spoken in the ancient language of the Valheru, masters of all, ages past. The younger elves, less studied in the old wisdom, simply had no understanding of the overwhelming need to obey this man in white and gold. The language of the Valheru was still the language of power.

  Tomas turned away from his slaughter, and Martin felt struck by the strength of his gaze. Gone was any vestige of the boy from Crydee. Now an alien presence suffused his being. Tomas’s arm drew back, and Martin tensed to dodge the blow. Any human was a potential victim, and even the dwarves drew back at the awesome menace Tomas projected. Then a faint spark of recognition entered Tomas’s eyes, and he said, in a distant voice, “Martin, by the love I once bore you, be gone or your life is forfeit.”

  Mustering courage against the most consuming fear he had ever felt, Martin shouted, “I’ll not stand and watch you slaughter helpless men!”

  Again a distant voice answered, steeped in ancient majesty and lost grandeur regained. “These come into my world, Martin. None may seek that which is my domain, my preserve, mine alone! Shall you, too, come into my world, Martin?” With inhuman speed Tomas wheeled, and two Tsurani died.

  Martin charged, crossing the gap between them in a bound, and knocked Tomas away from the prisoners. They went down in a heap, and Martin grabbed at the wrist that held the golden sword.

  A strong man capable of carrying a freshly killed buck for miles, Martin was no match for Tomas. As easily as picking up a bothersome infant, Tomas pushed Martin aside and came lightly to his feet. Martin sprang at Tomas again, but this time Tomas stood ready. He simply seized Martin by the tunic and said, “None may interfere with my will.” He tossed Martin across the clearing as if he weighed less than a tenth his weight. Martin’s arms flailed the air as he arced high over the ground, striving to control his fall. He landed hard, and all around could hear the breath explode from his lungs as he struck.

  Dolgan rushed to his side, for the elves were still held in thrall by what they had witnessed. The dwarven chief poured water from a skin at his side upon Martin’s face and shook him awake. The strangled cries of terror from the Tsurani slaves watching soldiers being butchered greeted Martin as he regained his wits.

  Martin struggled to focus his vision, the scene before him swimming and shifting. When he could see, he drew a hissing breath in horror.

  Tomas struck down the last Tsurani soldier and began to advance upon the cringing slaves. They appeared unable to move, watching with wide eyes the bringer of their destruction, looking like nothing so much to Martin as a band of deer startled by a sudden light in the night.

  A ragged cry came from Martin’s lips as Tomas killed the first Tsurani slave, a pitiful-looking willow of a man. Longbow struggled to rise, senses reeling, and Dolgan helped him to his feet.

  Tomas raised his sword and another died. Again the golden blade was raised, and he looked into the face of his victim. Eyes round with fear, a young boy, no more than twelve years old, stood waiting for the blow that would end his life.

  Suddenly time expanded for Tomas, the moment frozen in his mind. He studied the shock of dark hair and the large brown eyes of the boy. The child crouched awaiting the death he saw over him, his head shaking no, as his lips formed a single phrase over and over.

  In the faint light of the clearing, Tomas saw an old ghost, the specter of a friend long forgotten. A remembered bond, from his earliest memories as a child, reassociated itself with his consciousness. Images blurred, past and present confused, and he said, “Pug?”

  Within his mind, pain exploded, and another will sought to overwhelm him.

  Pug! it shrieked.

  Kill him! came a raging answer, and within him two wills battled.

  No! screamed the other.

  To everyone in the glade, Tomas stood frozen, shaking with some inner struggle, his sword still held high, waiting for release.

  These are the enemy! Slay them.

  He is a boy! Only a boy!

  He is the enemy!

  A boy!

  Tomas’s face became a mask of pain; his teeth clenched, and every muscle drew taut, stretching skin tightly over skull. His eyes grew round, and perspiration began to flow from under his helm, down his brows and cheeks.

  Martin stumbled to his feet. He moved slowly, every gesture bringing pain from the battering he had taken.

  Tomas’s hand slowly moved downward, each inch a shaking, trembling passage as he warred within. The boy was transfixed, unable to move, his eyes following the movement of the blade.

  I am Ashen-Shugar! I am Valheru! sang a voice within, in a torrent of anger, battle madness, and blood-lust.

  Against this sea of rage stood a single rock, a calm, small voice within that said, simply, I am Tomas.

  Again and again the sea of hate crashed over the rock of calm, each time engulfing it, then sliding back, to come again. But each time the tide diminished and the rock stood clear, rising above the mad surf. A shattering of something, the thundering of ages lost and passing, rocked Tomas’s mind. He reeled, then swam within an alien landscape
, seeking a pinpoint of light he knew was his way to freedom. Tides swept him along, and he battled, struggling to keep his head above the strangling black sea. A shrieking, evil wind blew overhead, and to his ears it sang a song of woeful meter. He struck out, and again he saw a pinpoint of light. Again the tide engulfed him, forcing him away from his goal, but this time it was weaker. Once more he struggled toward the light. Then came a surge, a last, terrifying assault culminating in a total attack upon him. I am Ashen-Shugar! There came a breaking of the will, something snapping like the dead branch of a tree under the weight of newly fallen snow, like the sound of old winter ice breaking at spring’s touch, as if the last assault took too great a toll.

  The black sea lost its fury and subsided, and he was again standing upon firm ground, a single rock. I am Tomas. In the distance the pinpoint of light began to expand before his eyes, racing forward to engulf him.

  I am Tomas.

  “Tomas!”

  He blinked and saw he was again in the glade. Before him crouched the boy, waiting to die. He turned his head and saw Martin, sighting along a cloth-yard arrow, drawn hard against his cheek. The Huntmaster of Crydee said, “Put down your sword, or by the gods, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Tomas’s gaze wandered about the glade, and he saw the dwarves with weapons drawn, as had some of the older elves. Calin, still shaking, had his sword out and was slowly advancing upon him.

  Martin watched Tomas closely, not fearing him, but respectful of his awesome strength and speed. He waited and saw the flicker of madness still in Tomas’s eyes, then, as if a veil were lifted, saw them clear. Abruptly the golden sword fell from his hand, and the pale, nearly colorless eyes filled with tears. Tomas dropped to his knees, and a moan of terrible anguish was torn from his lips, and Tomas cried out, “Oh, Martin, what have I become?”

  Martin lowered his bow, watching as Tomas gathered his arms about himself. Into the glade came Tathar and the other Spellweavers. They approached Tomas and then surveyed the others in the glade. So terrible were Tomas’s sobs of anguish, so filled with sorrow and remorse, that many of the elves discovered they also wept.

  Tathar said to Martin Longbow, “We felt the fabric of our spells torn asunder a short while ago, and came at once. We feared the Valheru had come, rightly it seems.”

  Martin said, “Now?”

  “The other side of the balance. That the Valheru is at last displaced by the boy there can be no doubt, but the boy now must feel the weight of ages of slaughter, and the guilt over joy felt when taking other lives. The burdens felt by mortals are again his, and we shall now see if he can withstand them. This agony may prove his end.”

  Martin left the ancient elf and crossed to Tomas. In the dim light he was the first to perceive the change. Gone were the alien cast to his features, the gleaming eyes, the haughty brow. Again he was Tomas, a man, though there were still legacies of his experience that would forever proclaim him something more than a man: the elven ears, the pale eyes. Gone was the Lord of Power, the Old One, the Valheru. Where before a Dragon Lord had stood now crouched a troubled, sick man in torment over what he had done.

  Tomas raised his head as Martin touched him upon the shoulder. Red-rimmed eyes, nearly mad from grief, regarded Martin for a brief moment, then closed as if seeking oblivion to all around. For some time the elves and dwarves watched, and the Tsurani slaves were silent, aware that some miracle had occurred, not understanding, but suddenly sure they were spared. For some time they watched, as Martin Longbow cradled the sobbing man in white and gold, who cried in anguish so terrible to hear.

  —

  AGLARANNA SAT UPON her sleeping pallet, brushing her long red-gold hair. As before, she waited for Tomas, half hoping, half fearing he would come.

  A shout from outside caused her to rise. She gathered her robes around her and left her quarters. Standing upon a platform, she watched as a group of elves and dwarves came toward Elvandar’s heart. With them came Martin Longbow and some humans, clearly outworlders from their dress.

  Her hands went to her mouth as she gasped. In the center of the group walked Tomas, at his side a young boy with eyes wide at the splendor of Elvandar.

  Aglaranna was unable to move, fearful that what she witnessed was the product of delusion born of hope. Time sped past as she waited, then Tomas stood before her. Leaving the boy, he stepped forward. Martin took the boy by the hand and led him away, the others following, giving the Elf Queen and Tomas the solitude they needed.

  Tomas reached out slowly and touched her face, and he drank in the sight of her, as if seeing her as he had first at Crydee. Then, without words, he slowly, gently enfolded her in his arms. He held her in silence, letting her feel the warmth of the love that filled him at sight of her.

  After a time he whispered in her ear, “For each moment of sorrow I have visited upon you, O my lady, I pray the gods grant me a year to gift you with joy. I am again your adoring subject.”

  Too filled with happiness to speak, the Elf Queen simply clung to him, her sorrow only a dim memory.

  10

  Emissary

  The troops stood quietly.

  Long columns of men awaited their turn at passing through the rift into Midkemia. Officers walked by, their presence ensuring discipline in the lines. Laurie, in the mask and robe of a Red Priest, was impressed at the level of control these officers had over their men. He judged the Tsurani code of honor, where orders were followed without question, a very alien thing.

  He and Kasumi moved quickly down the line, heading for the first detachment behind the one now entering the rift. Laurie bent his knees and stooped, to detract from his noticeable height. As they had hoped, more soldiers than not looked away as the bogus Red Priest passed.

  When they reached the head of the column, Kasumi fell in. His younger brother, who had been promoted to Strike Leader for this offensive, seemed to pay no attention to his commander’s late arrival, or to the priest of Turakamu who arrived with him.

  After a seemingly interminable delay, the command came, and they stepped forward into the shimmering glow of “nothingness” that marked the rift between the two worlds. There was a brief flash of lights, a momentary dizziness, and they found themselves walking forward into a light Midkemian rain. Sheets of wetness, little more than a heavy mist, fell around them. The Tsurani soldiers, hot-weather-bred, wrapped cloaks about themselves.

  A staging officer briefly conferred with Kasumi, and the troops were ordered to move off to the northeast a specified distance and erect a camp. Kasumi and Hokanu were then to report to the Warlord’s tent for briefings. The Warlord himself was back in Kentosani, the Holy City, preparing for the Imperial Games, but his subcommander was to instruct them in their duties and areas of responsibility until his return.

  They quickly moved up toward the front and set up camp. Once the commander’s tent was up, Laurie and the Shinzawai brothers ducked inside. While bundles containing Midkemian clothing and weapons were unpacked, Kasumi said, “As soon as we return from our meeting with the subcommander, we will eat. Tonight we will lead a patrol of our area and try to slip through the lines.” Kasumi looked at his brother. “After we have gone, brother, it will be your responsibility to hide our departure for as long as possible. Once there has been fighting reported, you may claim we have been lost to the enemy.”

  Hokanu agreed. “We had best report now.”

  Kasumi looked at Laurie. “Stay inside. We want no risk. You are the tallest damned priest I have ever seen.”

  Laurie nodded. He sat upon some cushions and waited.

  —

  THE PATROL MOVED silently through the trees. The rain had stopped, but the weather had turned colder, and Laurie suppressed a shiver. Years in the hot climes of Kelewan had driven away his ability to ignore the chill. He wondered about the new troops from Tsuranuanni and how they would react when the first snowfalls came. Most likely with studied indifference, regardless of what they felt inside. A Tsurani soldier
would never let himself appear upset by something as trivial as solid water falling from the sky.

  They elected the North Pass, for it led to the largest front, and they were less likely to be noticed passing through the lines. They reached the head of the pass, and a station guard passed them along. Once outside the valley they struck slightly more eastward than their patrol called for.

  Beyond the rolling hills and light woods was the road from LaMut to Zūn. Once the two travelers had left their patrol and reached the road, they would head for Zūn, buy horses, and ride south. With luck they would reach Krondor in two weeks. There they would change mounts and head for Salador, where they would find passage on a ship for Rillanon.

  The only obstacle between them and the road was a large portion of the Kingdom’s Army. If they were discovered by a Kingdom patrol, they would try to pass themselves off as travelers who had been captured by the Tsurani and escaped. There could be no question of Laurie being Tsurani, and Kasumi’s command of the King’s Tongue was so complete that he could easily pass for a Kingdom citizen from the Vale of Dreams; several languages were spoken in that border area with Great Kesh, so Kasumi’s slight accent would be reasonable.

  The patrol moved at a dogtrot that ate up miles. Laurie ran beside Kasumi, marveling at the soldiers’ stamina. They might not be showing fatigue, but he was feeling it. Hokanu signaled for the patrol to stop at the head of a large, flat area near the woods. “Here we will start our swing back to our patrol area. We should not see any Tsurani soldiers from here. Let us hope, for your sake, we don’t meet with Kingdom troops either.”