Rides a Dread Legion

by Raymond E. Feist

  Kaspar fell silent and said, “Yes, you most certainly need to speak with some friends of mine.”

  He moved toward the door and signaled for his secretary, who had been hovering outside the room with the guards, waiting for his master’s command. “Secure quarters for these two and give them a good meal. Tomorrow I take them on a journey with me.”

  “Sir?” asked the secretary. “A journey?”

  “Yes,” said the General. “I’ll inform the Maharaja personally, tonight.”

  “By sea or land?” asked the secretary.

  “By land,” said the General. “I’ll need a half-dozen of my personal bodyguards.”

  “Only a half-dozen?”

  “Six will do. Have two horses prepared for these two,” said Kaspar, pointing at Amirantha and Brandos. “We’ll need enough provisions for a week of traveling overland to the east. That will be all,” he finished, waving the man away.

  Returning to his desk, Kaspar sat down. Then he said, “Belasco, you say?”

  “Yes,” said the Warlock.

  “He was the middle brother?”

  “Yes,” said Amirantha. “He’s become something far greater than I imagined.”

  “Your eldest brother?” asked Kaspar. “What of him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Amirantha. “He was, as I said, obsessed with death and dying. He was a powerful necromancer by the time I departed our home—somewhat in a hurry, I’m sorry to say, as my only reason for being there ended. My eldest brother had become fascinated by a necklace Mother had found—he’d remove it from her small cache of her most treasured things, bringing down her wrath.

  “He claimed it spoke to him. Finally, one day, he murdered Mother.” He spoke almost dispassionately, though there was a hint of feelings behind his words. “It was a particularly grue-some and messy murder, but it provided him with a very powerful burst of magic.

  “I caught a glimpse of him covered in her blood, invoking some dark power as he stood wearing that necklace.”

  “Glimpse?” asked Kaspar.

  “I was running for my life,” said Amirantha. “Belasco had already shown the presence of mind to flee, using some translocation spell or an invisibility spell or something of that sort. I was forced to outrun my eldest brother, who was fatigued from killing our mother, else I think he might have overtaken me.

  “I was desperate and summoned a demon named Wusbagh’rith, who carried me off. He’s a foul creature, but he has massive wings. Fortunately, I had enough control to get miles away from Sidi before the demon tried to kill me.”

  Kaspar’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

  “I said I had enough control to get miles away from my brother before he tried to kill me.”

  “The name? What was your brother’s name?”

  “Sidi. Why?”

  Kaspar took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Do you know the name Leso Varen?”

  “No,” said Amirantha. “Should I?”

  Kaspar regarded the Warlock. “You never saw your brother Sidi again after he murdered your mother?”

  “No, I saw him twice, once in the City of the Serpent River and once across the sea in the town of Land’s End, in the Kingdom of the Isles.”

  “I know the place,” said Kaspar.

  “Both times I avoided him before he saw me, but I never spoke with him again, if that’s what you’re asking. If I could, I’d happily cut his heart out and feed it to one of my demons. She may have been a crazy witch, but she was our mother, and he slaughtered her.”

  “Your brother is dead.”

  “You knew him?” asked Amirantha, showing the most emotion he had since entering Kaspar’s palace.

  “I had the unfortunate luck to have him guest with me for a while. He used the name Leso Varen and caused me…” Kaspar stopped, as if weighing his words. Finally, he said, “He caused me great personal injury. But I do know that he was identified by someone I trust implicitly to have been a necromancer named Sidi before assuming that identity. And I know he is dead beyond reclaiming.”

  “General,” said Amirantha. “Please, I must know how he died.”

  Kaspar nodded and quickly recounted the role Leso Varen played in the war with the Dasati. He glossed over the role played by the Conclave, choosing to allow Pug to decide how much to trust this Warlock and his companion. Kaspar was a good judge of men and thought the pair reliable enough if watched closely, but it wasn’t his judgment to make.

  Ten years after the fact, knowledge of what befell the Tsurani home world of Kelewan had spread throughout the land; many of the survivors had sought refuge in Muboya, a large cadre of Tsurani warriors personally serving as the Maharaja’s core troops. But the details were shrouded in rumor and speculation, for even those who had lived through the horror of the Dasati invasion knew little of the truth about that war, that an army from another plane of reality had attempted to obliterate all life on Kelewan, in preparation for remaking it as their own.

  Kaspar told the story as best he could, surprised at long-buried emotions that tried to rise up, for it had been one of the most difficult and horrific experiences of his life. “At the end, as best we can determine, your brother perished on the Dasati home world at the hands of some horror attempting to enter our realm, or he was obliterated with the utter destruction of Kelewan.

  “More than one witness to his presence on Kelewan, in proximity to what we called the Black Sphere—the gateway to the Dasati home world—confirm this. I have friends who know more than I about such matters, and they are convinced that had he had one more soul vessel to which he might flee at his death, it would have had to be on Kelewan, and therefore it was also destroyed with the planet.”

  A mix of emotions played across Amirantha’s face. “I…I guess I will accept what you say, General, and put aside…old hatred.”

  Brandos said, “That’s a hell of a tale, General.” He looked down, shook his head slowly, and said, “You hear stories…the entire world destroyed?” His expression told Kaspar the old fighter didn’t want to believe this, but did.

  Kaspar just nodded, remaining silent.

  Amirantha looked away for a moment, then turned and looked Kaspar in the eye. Whatever pain and regret had flashed there for a moment was now replaced with a clear-eyed certainty. “That doesn’t change anything, though. I must stress this: whatever troubles Sidi caused you are as nothing to what Belasco is capable of.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the General.

  “Absolutely. For while Belasco was always the dabbler, he learned many things. He had a prodigious curiosity and he would undertake something single-mindedly until he mastered it.

  “And while Sidi was insane, Belasco is insane and brilliant. Of the two, he’s far more dangerous.”

  Kaspar was silent while he weighed the warning. He sighed. “Leso was as dangerous a man as any I’ve met, so to hear you say your other brother is more so…” He fell silent a moment. Finally, he said, “I’ll have you escorted to your quarters. We leave at first light.” He walked out of the room, leaving Amirantha and Brandos sitting in their chairs.

  After a moment, a court page appeared, flanked by two soldiers-at-arms. Brandos rose and looked at his friend. “Well, I guess we’re going on another journey.”

  “Apparently so,” said Amirantha.

  CHAPTER 10

  THREAT

  Sandreena swung her mace.

  The massive weapon took the other rider in the stomach—he had been coming in high and she ducked under his blow and struck hard—lifting him out of his saddle. She knew her art well enough to know he was done for the time being. If he wasn’t passing out because he couldn’t catch his breath, he was likely to be lying on the ground stunned from the fall.

  She had happened upon a wagon being attacked by bandits, four raggedly dressed thugs with surprisingly good weapons. The merchant and what appeared to be two sons furiously battled the more experienced brigands with a poor assortment of weapo
ns: one battered shield and an old sword, two clubs, and a lot of determination. Still, they gave good account of themselves and had held the bandits at bay for a few minutes before Sandreena had ridden over the rise and seen the conflict.

  The three remaining riders saw one of their own go down suddenly, and a fully armored knight riding toward them. Without a word they turned their horses and put heels to them, galloping off. Sandreena weighed giving chase, then decided the struggle was over; besides, they were heading straight up into the hills and her heavier mount would soon fall farther behind; also, they knew the terrain and she didn’t. While she had no doubt she could easily best the three of them, given what she saw of their light armor and untrained fighting skills, she didn’t relish fighting her way out of an ambush.

  She paused a minute to ensure the bandits weren’t doubling back to recommence the attack, then turned to see the two boys stripping the bandit on the ground. She judged that meant he was dead.

  She rode over to the wagon, where the man sat regarding her suspiciously, holding his very old and battered sword at the ready, in case one brigand had merely driven off others. She raised her visor off her full helm and said, “Stay your weapon, sir. I am a Knight-Adamant of the Order of the Shield of the Weak.”

  His suspicious expression didn’t leave. “So you say,” he said in an oddly accented Keshian dialect. He turned to the boys and shouted something in a language she didn’t understand, or think she had heard before, then turned back to her. “Well, if you expect thanks or reward, you’re mistaken. My boys and I had things well in hand.” The boys gathered up everything, including the robber’s filthy smallclothes—leaving him lying nude in the road—and then ran off after the brigand’s horse, which was cropping grass a short distance off the road.

  “Looks like a good horse,” said the man on the wagon, and Sandreena couldn’t tell if he was addressing her or talking to himself. Then the driver seemed intent on inspecting the content of his wagon, against the remote possibility that one of the bandits had somehow managed to pilfer an item or two while the conflict was under way.

  Finally content nothing was missing, he shouted something to the boys, who were having a little trouble corralling the horse, which seemed to like the idea of cropping grass better than having another rider on her back. At last, one of the boys reached down, grabbed up a long clump of grass, and held it out for the horse to sniff at while his brother gently reached out and snagged the reins. If the horse objected to such a turn of events, she hid her disappointment well and came along quietly.

  The driver shouted more instructions to the boys in the strange language, seemingly convinced they couldn’t tie the horse’s reins to the back of the wagon without his oversight. When they were at last done, and back in the wagon, the driver turned and sat down, finding the patient Sandreena still looking directly at him.

  “What?” he demanded. “I’m not going to pay you.”

  “I’m not asking for payment.”

  “Good, then get out of my way. I have business.”

  Sighing at the man’s impossible rudeness, Sandreena said, “One question. Do you know the village of Akrakon?”

  “Yes,” he answered, then with a flick of the reins he started his team forward, deftly moving the horses just enough to skirt around where Sandreena waited.

  As he rode past, she shouted, “Where is it?”

  “You said ‘one question,’ and I answered,” was his reply and the boys burst out laughing.

  Suddenly out of patience, Sandreena turned and urged her horse forward, quickly overtaking the wagon. With one swift motion she reached over, grabbed the man by the collar, hauled him off the seat, and deposited him in the dirt.

  “Try again,” she said, her voice almost hissing with menace. “All right,” said the man, rolling away from her and to his feet in a deft move. With three strides he was back alongside his wagon and then back on the seat. “Akrakon is down the road, maybe five miles. You’ll be there by supper.”

  “Thank you,” she said, putting heels to her horse and moving down the road at a lazy canter. She wished to put as much distance as possible between herself and the obnoxious man.

  Then she remembered what the Father-Bishop had said about the villagers being one of the more annoying tribes of the region. She had thought that meant they were fractious and rebellious. Perhaps he simply meant they were rude.

  As the man had predicted, Sandreena rode into the village of Akrakon near supper time. Two boys were running through the center of the village, perhaps coming down the hill from overseeing a flock, or working in a field, intent on reaching home for the day’s final meal. She pulled up her mount before them and said, “Has this place an inn?”

  Neither boy answered, but one pointed over his shoulder as he darted around one side of Sandreena’s mount, his companion dodging around the other. Shaking her head at the lack of civility demonstrated so far by these people, Sandreena wondered how much information she might extract about the goings-on in the mountains above the village. She might have to club it out of them.

  She had never seen a region like this one. Since leaving Krondor and riding through the Roldem city of Pointer’s Head, she had passed miles of coastal lands, but none like this.

  Both the Kingdom of the Isles and Roldem held claims to the long strip of coastal land running between the southern shores of the Sea of Kingdoms and mountains called the Peaks of Tranquility.

  She assumed the tranquility was reserved for those who lived south of that massive barrier of mountains and hills, for the region between the Kingdom city of Timons and Pointer’s Head was anything but tranquil. Two other cities rested between them, Deep Taunton and Mallow’s Haven, none of which properly acknowledged either Kingdom as sovereign. The local nobles and merchants had done a fair job for decades playing one kingdom off another, building their own alliances, and keeping free of close supervision.

  Only the massive barrier of mountains kept Great Kesh from also claiming the region; they had in the past, but those attempts to annex the area had resulted in Roldem and the Kingdom putting aside their own interests to drive Kesh south.

  Sandreena vaguely recalled from her history that the last battle had been over a century before, when a Kingdom Duke from Bas-Tyra had driven Kesh out of Deep Taunton. But at least that land was rich with forests and farms.

  This side of the Peaks of the Quor left little to covet. Since riding north out of the port city of Ithra, she had seen nothing but rocky bluffs, stone-strewn beaches, a difficult road cut through in a dozen places by swiftly running streams hurling down from the peaks above. The woods above looked dark and uninviting, and those few villages she had encountered were small fishing enclaves, where the inhabitants scraped out a harsh existence.

  Somewhere above her, she knew, had to be some farming communities, else those fishing villages would have vanished ages before. They had no gardens or fields nearby, so one must deduce that they traded their catch for vegetables, fruits, and other necessities. But if there were farming enclaves in the region, she didn’t encounter them. Still, there were occasional trails and pathways leading up into the hills, some with recent wagon tracks.

  But what was strangest to Sandreena was that there was no authority in the region. If Kesh claimed this part of the peninsula, they vested nothing in that ownership; gone were the usual outposts and patrols, governors or minor nobles. It was as if this rocky coastline was all but forgotten by the Empire.

  She rode through the village and judged this the most prosperous place she had seen since leaving Ithar, and it was a poor one at best. There were nothing like shops that were recognizable as such. Only a smithy at the end of the street was obvious, for the huge chimney was belching smoke, and there was another shop she had just passed that appeared to be a woodworker, probably the local barrel-maker, cartwright, wheelwright, and woodcarver all in one. It was a very strange place, from her experience. And it was quiet, as if everyone went about their busines
s without fuss, trying to stay inconspicuous. Even the few children she saw were sullen and stared at her with suspicious eyes.

  Reaching the indicated building, she could scarcely believe this was the inn. A large, ramshackle house, perhaps. Still, there was a hitching rail in front, with two horses tied in place. She rode around the building, leisurely, looking for anything that might resemble a stable, finding only a large corral where a tumble-down, run-in shed stood, with one side completely collapsed. Her mount had endured worse.

  She quickly dismounted and untacked the animal. She put her saddle and bridle on a rail obviously used for such—it still was slightly sheltered by what remained of the roof and the three still standing walls. She quickly brushed down her horse, and picked out the hooves. A well close by provided clean water, and she drew out grain from the sack she carried behind her saddle.

  Ensuring everything was as secure as it was likely to be, she turned her attention to her own needs. She expected a bath would be out of the question—and vowed to bathe at the first stream, lake, or river she found—but hoped at least the bed was something more than a bag full of straw.

  She didn’t worry about her horse’s tack, as her mount was a well-trained warhorse. Anyone foolish enough to come up without her standing there would be in for a very rude shock.

  Sandreena made her way around the modest building to the entrance and entered. The interior of the inn was no more promising than the exterior. A low ceiling would cause a tall man to duck, and Sandreena felt cramped. The long bar and one table provided all the accommodation for eating and drinking, and Sandreena assumed large gatherings were not customary.