Rides a Dread Legion

by Raymond E. Feist

  All this ran through Pug’s mind as he waited for the Oracle to reply. She laid her head down on the floor so her companions could tend to her wounds, messy if not mortal. Two of her minions lay dead and would be disposed of as soon as she was healed.

  Pug watched in fascination as magic he could barely recognize, let alone understand, was employed. He had seen enough clerical magic to discern those healing arts, but this was unlike anything he had witnessed before.

  As best he could tell, it was as if each companion who tended a wound somehow caused the dragon body to repair itself, but at an accelerated rate. Yet the price seemed dear: each of those ministering to the dragon were aging before Pug’s eyes, their faces becoming sallow and haggard, weight melting from their bodies. Somehow they were giving her their life essence. Before his eyes, her wounds healed, until, five minutes after they started, the companions left their mistress looking as she had before. They, however, had aged years in minutes.

  “Impressive,” said Pug.

  “We are an old race, with many gifts.” Indicating the bodies of her fallen attendants, who were being carried off, she added, “But we have limits, too.”

  “Can I assume this encounter was the reason you requested my appearance at a specific moment today?”

  “What is, is as it should be, as it was, and as it will be again.” Slowly she rose up, until her head was once again high above, her eyes staring distantly off into space as she saw visions no other could witness.

  “Even for you that’s unusually cryptic, my old friend,” said Pug.

  The Oracle stood silently for a long time.

  Finally, Pug said, “Ah, I see. I must ask. What else have you seen, that troubles your mind?”

  “Much, Sorcerer. I see a nexus coming, a blending of time and probability, a place of many outcomes. Beyond that I see nothing, so many possibilities flow from that moment. Or an end, should the worst outcome occur.”

  “Worst for you or for all of us?”

  “They are one and the same, for should I fall, this world has fallen with me.

  “I see havoc and destruction and the death of many, on a scale to dwarf all you’ve endured before combined, and I see a tipping of a precious balance, one which will cause the gods themselves to tremble in fear.”

  “I listen,” said Pug quietly. Already his skin was crawling in anticipation of what he suspected. Summoned demons as powerful as the one he just faced required prodigious magic. Confining one and taking control was difficult enough, but to be able to subdue one, then send it by magic means into this cavern, that required a demon master of unmatched skill and power.

  “A legion comes this way, Pug of Sorcerer’s Isle. It rides hard and brings chaos and death in its wake. Others battle to withstand it, and they yield grudgingly, but they will soon be overwhelmed.

  “The Dark One, he whose name cannot be uttered, is restless in his sleep, and in his fever dreaming he reaches out with the power of a Greater God. A passage between the realms he has envisioned, and as he dreams, it is so. He dreams of home, and wishes to return.

  “The other Greater Gods soothe his restlessness, and stem his dreams, but they are overmatched. Only she who balances him can stop the madness.”

  Pug felt a cold tightening in his chest. “And she is dead,” he said.

  “She is,” said the Oracle, “yet even in death she provides, for her legacy lives on, in the hearts of those who serve good.

  “Find allies, Pug. Find those who in the past you have not sought out. Seek strength where you are weak, and find those who have knowledge where you are ignorant. Understand what comes soon.”

  The Oracle’s head lowered again to the floor and Pug knew from experience her vision had drained her, especially after the battle with the demon. He had time for one, perhaps two more questions, and then she would enter a slumber that might last for days, even weeks. And once she was awakened again, those visions she just had would be lost.

  Pug’s mind raced and he thought of a dozen things he wished to ask. He finally said, “Tell me of the legion that comes?”

  “Demons from the Fifth Circle, Pug. The demons come.”

  The hair on Pug’s neck rose, and after the things he had seen in a very long life he was surprised to find himself shocked and alarmed. That demon wasn’t the minion of some powerful human agency but an advance scout, an assassin from the demon realm, come to rid this world of its most powerful asset: forewarning.

  Pug had fought demons before, and one had almost killed him, and he had witnessed the final struggle between Macros the Black and the Demon King Maag. The thought of a legion of such creatures numbed his mind, visiting him with a sense of despair he had rarely encountered. Even at the darkest moments in his life he had retained hope, and had sought to survive, so that when opportunity came, he could seize it. But this was an onslaught beyond imagining.

  Even the danger posed by the Dasati during the Darkwar paled in comparison to the denizens of the Fifth Circle. The grass wilted under their heels, and their mere touch would burn flesh. Only those demons with powerful magic could contrive to exist in this realm without disastrous results, and the scope of that magic was majestic. Pug knew that for a legion of demons to enter this realm meant a repeat of what happened on the Saaur home world: utter and complete destruction.

  “Who are those I need to seek out—” Pug began, but saw the dragon head’s eyes were closed.

  Pug glanced around the room and saw the silent companions watching him. They could provide no further aid to him, so he merely nodded a farewell and transported himself back to his study.

  His wife was waiting and said, “Oh, there you are. I felt you depart and was about to get very angry with you.”

  He could tell Miranda was making light, but she did exhibit genuine concern. “I went to see the Oracle,” said Pug flatly.

  The tightening around her eyes communicated she understood he had heard nothing good.

  “We need to find someone who knows a great deal about demons,” said Pug.

  Magnus and Miranda stood, while Caleb sat opposite his father. Pug had just finished recounting the Oracle’s warning and Miranda said, “You’re right. We need a demon master.”

  Magnus shook his head. “They are…difficult to find.”

  All understood that mastery of demons was one of the three forbidden arts; the other two were necromancy and arcane life. All were seen as being outside the bounds of respectable magic, dark arts that required misery and pain at the least, death and the rending of the very soul at the best.

  Leso Varen, also known as Sidi, Pug’s longtime adversary, had been a necromancer, as had a magician named Dahakan, whom Nakor had angered. And so had the false dark elf prophet, Murmandamus. In Pug’s lifetime, he had encountered three magic-users who used the precious life force of others for their own dark purposes. Animating the dead to do their bidding had been the least of their offenses. Stealing fleeing spirits as bodies died created disharmony of staggering proportions in the universe.

  Arcane life was the evil distortion of living creatures, modified to the magician’s whim. Humans given animal powers, or animals blended into improbable creatures. Only necromancy was more evil.

  Demon masters were more of a mystery, for often the advantages they realized from their control of demons came at a high price. Controlling demons in and of itself was not seen as inherently evil, but it was still considered a dark art, as there was little good one could achieve with a demon minion.

  Pug sighed. “We need to send word through our agents to start reporting back any rumors of demons or summoners.”

  Caleb rose and said, “I’ll send word out at once.” As he started to leave the room, he paused, and said, “I think I remember some mention of something…” He returned to his father’s desk, which he occupied when Pug was not at the school. Rifling through papers, he said, “Yes, a report from Muboy. A magic-user’s banishing demons for a fee.” He smiled ruefully. “They appear fort
uitously and then the magician arrives.”

  Magnus said, “A confidence scheme, no doubt.”

  “We should still investigate,” said Pug. To Caleb, he said, “You are in charge. I’m going to see to this myself.” To Miranda, he said, “If you don’t mind, Miranda, see if there’s anything at Stardock on demon lore.” To Magnus, he said, “And you should talk to the monks at That Which Was Sarth.”

  Both nodded agreement, and Miranda vanished.

  Pug turned to his sons and said, “I was about to add, ‘after lunch.’”

  The sons chuckled, but in the wake of what their father had just told them, it was false mirth.

  CHAPTER 8

  DEMON MASTER

  Gulamendis froze.

  The sight that greeted him as he stepped through the portal to Midkemia was unexpected. He stood silently with his travel bag thrown over his left shoulder, and his brother’s staff in his right hand. He drank in the vista, in wonder. He knew the Regent Lord had ordered geomancers away from repairing the bastions of Andcardia to constructing a new city on the ancient world they thought of as “Home,” the planet of their origin.

  When his brother had told him of finding this world, Gulamendis was halfway convinced Laromendis was either feigning the discovery or perhaps deluding himself, but one breath here and he knew: this was Home.

  There was a resonance in the air, a feeling of solidity underfoot, of being in touch with something fundamental, a faint but almost palpable energy that seeped into the core of his being. That made him know this was the world upon which his race evolved; the very core of their existence began here. Emotions he thought he no longer possessed rose up and threatened to sweep him away. It took him a moment to take another breath and step away.

  “It strikes everyone that way,” said a voice to his right. Gulamendis saw a magician named Astranour standing beside the gate. He was an aremancer, one who specialized in creating and controlling the translocation portals and transporting devices employed by the Taredhel. “My wife wept a moment after we arrived.” Looking out over the valley, he said, “It is…remarkable.”

  Gulamendis nodded, saying nothing, as he looked down the trail—rather now a road—to the walls of the city. For that was the other remarkable thing; he only had his brother’s brief description of this valley in mind but what he saw now was something entirely unexpected. With a cursory farewell to Astranour, Gulamendis moved purposely down the hillside.

  Massive walls had already been erected, a third of the way to encompassing the vast floor of the valley. The geomancers must have exhausted themselves and their apprentices to have accomplished so much in so little time. Not too far away, at the current end of the wall, he witnessed a half-dozen geomancers enchanting massive piles of rocks, moving them into place by force of their minds, while others readied the spells that would cause the fundamental essence to flow into liquid, to be coaxed into new shapes, then to be re-hardened as the magicians desired. The magic was complex, requiring decades of study, and Gulamendis was always impressed, not only with the sheer force of it, but the artistry. Not only was simple rock turned into building material, it was lent a beauty and elegance that was the hallmark of the Taredhel. The wall was off-white in color, with a parapet, but the merlons between the crenels were a deep yellow, almost goldenrod color. From the distance, everything looked white and gold. Barely a tenth completed, the city already spoke to the world of its splendor. It would be the new capital for all elvenkind on this world.

  In less than a week the outlines of the new city could be seen. Not named yet, he could hear people say, “e’bar,” in the ancient language, “Home,” and he suspected that might come to be its name, no matter what the Regent’s Meet might decide. Even while he walked, Gulamendis had a sense of the magic everywhere, a faint vibration in the fundamental fabric of this space—what the mancers called “the loops of being”—where elven will was being imposed on rock and mud. Vast boulevards were being cleared with flashes of blinding white light; he could imagine the heat as the incindiari, the magicians specializing in fire magic, burned away acres of undergrowth and detritus. Arboris had already worked their arts on the trees, literally commanding them to uproot and walk to where those magicians wanted them.

  Gulamendis understood the scope of his race’s power, and had seen evidence of it all his life, but never before had he witnessed so many practitioners of the arcane arts expending their skills so vigorously at the same time. It was positively intoxicating to contemplate.

  As he watched, Gulamendis saw a team of drovers direct carts down a pathway toward a leveled patch of land. He knew that only hours before geomancers had fashioned the building pad with magic, completing in minutes what would have taken hours for workmen using picks, shovels, and drags to accomplish.

  The massive horses were urged slowly forward, while the cleverly contrived carts gently tipped backward, depositing large rocks, some qualified as small boulders, in a roughly straight line. Lingering to observe magic with which he was barely familiar, Gulamendis was fascinated. These masters of the arcane controlled the very stuff of the world: the rock, soil, crystal, and sand.

  Three younger magicians walked purposely to a position along the line of rocks, and as one they incanted a spell. Before the Demon Master’s eyes the rock grew soft and began to flow. Two Master Geomancers, supervised by a Grand Master, moved to positions between the three younger spellcasters, and they began to control the rocks. A wall of stone rose up, liquid—like runny clay. When it was at the appropriate height, the Grand Master began his arts. First the surface smoothed, until it became an unbroken, almost eggshell-white flat, and along the top decorative designs appeared, carvings that would have taken an artisan with chisel and hammer months to achieve. Gulamendis understood the theory behind this craft, and knew that like his own spells that had been created to contain other spells, patterns such as this were combined and then unleashed in a series by simply incanting the master spell. Still, it was a wonder to behold.

  Then came the crowning touch, as those patterns atop the wall were turned a reddish-gold color that the Demon Master knew was a blend of copper and gold. And he knew it was not a paint or gilt, but that this Grand Master’s art allowed him to transmute what was once rock into a patina of metal.

  The Taredhel were unmatched when it came to the arcane arts, and their control over the very elements of the world was breathtaking. Centuries of craftsmanship, passed along to artists, resulted in this spectacular creation. It was more than just a wall to a dwelling—one destined for someone of rank, given the size and splendor of the first wall—it was the near effortlessness of it that stunned the Demon Master. It was a testament in action, the legacy of scholars, artists, and masters of craft combined and handed down through generations. Like all those of his race, these magic-users took quiet pride in their efforts, but sought no praise, for to them it was what was expected. To do less was to court shame.

  Gulamendis turned away. To one who labored for the most part in solitude, whose area of expertise were the darker arts, there was something almost too bright here, as if one might stare into the sun until one was blind. Not for the first time, the Demon Master—among the most despised of beings to his own kind—wondered at his people’s appetite for power. Unlike the Forgotten, who had lusted after their ancient masters’ might in a vain attempt to raise themselves up to the stature of the Dragon Host, the Taredhel only sought knowledge for its own reward, for after all, they were descendants of the Eldar, the true keepers of lore. Yet, not for the first time, the Demon Master wondered if there was much difference between the Taredhel and the Moredhel.

  Gulamendis was required to report to the senior magician at the site, Grand Master Colsarius, but after that he was mandated by the Regent Lord himself to discover if there was any demon presence on this world.

  Gulamendis didn’t need to do much investigating; there was demon scent in the very air, but muted, faint, so distant that only one as sensitive to
its existence as himself would recognize it. Magic had flavors and signatures, and if you knew the spellcaster well enough, you’d recognize his handiwork as easily as seeing the master’s mark on a sword blade or fine piece of jewelry.

  Still, it was the very faint, nearly absent, scent of demon that piqued Gulamendis’s curiosity. He would have to go some distance from this place, as there was so much magic in play it would make detecting the exact location of the demons more difficult. Once he was alone, far from here, he could deduce where to begin his search. Besides, it was a good excuse to get away from oversight.

  He had his own agenda, one that he and his brother and a handful of others had sworn to see fulfilled, even should it mean their deaths, for no one better knew the destruction coming headlong toward the Taredhel than the Demon Master.

  Andcardia was lost, no matter what anyone still defending it might wish—the fervor in which the Regent Lord threw his remaining resources into building this city at the expense of defending Andcardia was proof he knew it, as well. That the Demon Legion would overwhelm Andcardia was as inevitable as the surge of the ocean tide, and like the ocean tide, relentless. Still, much had been revealed and more could be learned, for Gulamendis knew one thing above all else. Somewhere out there was a portal, a gate between worlds, that provided easy access from the Fifth Circle to this one, and while it stood open, demons could be easily summoned, or worse, find their way into this realm unaided.

  He reached the end of the first completed section of the wall, through which this road passed, a huge gap waiting for majestic gates to be fashioned. Gulamendis had no doubt the Regent Lord would spend some time with the fabricators of those gates, ensuring their design and execution were as precise and ornate as they had been back on Andcardia. The Regent Lord fancied himself a man of taste and had taken a hand in the design of everything constructed by the Taredhel for over the last two centuries. That’s why every façade was framed with ornate moldings and cornices, and rooftops were peaked, every roof topped with a spire. Gulamendis was forced to concede his race had a taste for the ostentatious, and he was in the minority, preferring simpler, more elegant designs.