Rides a Dread Legion

by Raymond E. Feist

  The conjuration was so lifelike, defenders nearby fell away, uncertain of where the danger came from. The creature was one of the most feared predators on the planets ruled by the Clan of the Seven Stars, and the illusion was so vivid, they could smell the carrion stench from its breath, feel the wind off its wings, and see the vivid ruby highlights on its black feathers. The beak of the creature was dripping in blood and the eyes were alight with rage and hatred. The illusion would remain for at least another minute before it would begin to waver and start dissipating.

  Laromendis cast his wand down again and another demon fell. Archers were now targeting those on the wall, while the heavy engines poured rocks and hot oil, boiling water, and flaming refuse upon those at the base of the wall. The corpses already piled high ignited and the foul smoke that spiraled upward choked defenders and attackers as well.

  The attack faltered, and then the retreat began. Coughing from the rising smoke, the Conjurer moved to where a bucket of water waited, picked it up, and drank from it. He had no idea his throat could be this parched. He ignored the bitter metallic flavor of the water, thinking it wise to not contemplate what made it taste so. Catching his breath, Laromendis looked out over the battlefield and saw something new: a half-dozen larger demons stood equally spaced out along the battle line, directing other demons. He was no expert, but he had read every report he could contrive to sneak a peek at, and this was the first time he could recall anything that looked like organization from the Legion. Usually they just came unexpectedly, a flood of creatures that flew, crawled, ran, and hopped at defenders in waves. Most of them had no weapons, just teeth and claws, but a few carried swords of some alien metal or wore rudimentary armor.

  But these looked like field commanders, wearing armor of a finer make, and they had other demons at their side, each holding a banner of some fashion. The battlefield was too smoky, the light failing, and the standards too distant for him to make out any devices or patterns on them.

  He looked around and wondered if he was the only one to notice. Nowhere did he see any sign of any soldier, officer, or footman, Regent’s Guard or City Watch, moving to carry word to the Regent Lord’s command. Nor were there any magicians or priests making their way down the long stone steps to the bailey below. Most were catching their breath, drinking water, or tending to the wounded. A few sat, back against the wall, legs outstretched, in exhaustion. All were waiting for the next onslaught.

  Laromendis looked around again, and finally decided to take matters into his own hands. The officer detailed to get him to the wall and find him his place in the defenses was nowhere to be seen. Either his duties had caused him to move or he was dead. Either way, Laromendis had no one to tell him not to go. He decided his time on the wall was over.

  Making his way down the long stone steps to the outer bailey, he saw a cluster of officers gathered around a figure Laromendis knew well: Lord General Mantranos, second in command only to the Regent Lord in the army, and a critical force in the Regent’s Meet. He was white-haired and battle-scarred, but still as keen a military mind as the People had ever known. Years of fighting the Demon Legion had brought his skills in the field to near perfection. He had never been able to defeat them; no commander of the Taredhel had ever won a victory, but he had repulsed them, slowed them down, and cost them more blood than any elven commander before him.

  Knowing better than to try to speak directly to the Lord General, the Conjurer studied the group around him. A half-dozen senior commanders were looking down at a hastily drawn map of the northern defenses, now covered with marks in chalk.

  Behind them, ready to carry commands to any position along the defensive front were a half-dozen junior officers. Seeing he was being ignored, Laromendis used his arts to shift his appearance to that of a messenger, covered in blood spatter and nursing an injured arm. He made his way up to stand next to a junior officer and said, “Sir!”

  The young commander turned and saw what the Conjurer wished him to see, and said, “Report!”

  “From the wall, sir. I’m to tell you the Legion has officers!”

  The Lord General couldn’t avoid overhearing the report. He turned his attention to Laromendis and said, “What? Repeat that!”

  “Sir,” said Laromendis, trying his best to sound near fainting from his wounds. “There are a half-dozen demon officers taking the field, with standard-bearers beside them. They’re rallying the demons for another assault.”

  “Who told you to report this?” demanded the Lord General.

  Feigning weakness and disorientation, Laromendis said, “Why…it was an officer…my lord…” He waved vaguely toward the outer wall. “Up there.”

  To one of his younger officers, the general said, “Go see what the truth is.” To Laromendis he said, “Go have your wounds seen to; you’re of no use to us as you are. If you’re not fit for duty, go to the portal and leave with the others.”

  Laromendis bowed as best he could, then moved away. As soon as he was out of sight, he dropped his illusion and hurried toward the translocation portal. As far as the Conjurer was concerned, he had the permission of the military commander of all Andcardia to leave for Home, and he wasn’t going to debate the finer points of this with anyone.

  He reached the translocation portal and saw something truly awe-inspiring. A massive tree, oak-like in form but bearing much larger leaves of a shimmering golden color, was being carried by magic, floating yards above the earth as it was guided by ropes tied to godos, the massive oxen-like creatures native to this world. Slowly, it was being pulled through the translocation portal while a stream of refugees moved alongside. The Conjurer got in line with those waiting to go through and watched as the last two of the Seven Stars were conjured into the air and tied to the teams of godos. Within an hour the trees would be safely back on their native soil, after millennia away, and at that moment, Andcardia would be a memory.

  For at that moment, the Regent Lord would order those remaining on the wall to flee to the portal. Those who reached it before the demons would find refuge, and those who arrived too late would die on this world. Two priests watched as the Conjurer and others around him stepped forward to pass through the portal. Laromendis knew they would give their lives, for it would be their responsibility to destroy the translocation device, the clever machine that housed the magic that let this portal exist. Without it, the demons would have to find their own way to Midkemia.

  Until this battle, the demons had been clever enough to find and hold gates to each world they attacked, but this was different. Or at least the Regent Lord and every Taredhel hoped so, especially Laromendis. For there was only one gate to Midkemia, and despite its massive size, it was just as easy to destroy as the others. Break the machine, and the gate collapsed. Without the machine, the destination would be unknowable. Or that was the theory.

  Stepping through the portal, Laromendis found himself confronted with a sight to make him falter. When last he had stood on this hill, a pastoral valley was all that lay before him. Now, a city was rising up, and from the look of things, in rapid fashion.

  At least the outer walls, thought the magic-user, as he moved down the road to the newly erected walls. The walls would encircle the entirety of the city within a week or so, he judged. Few buildings were erected; mostly wood huts and canvas tents were providing shelter, but as night fell here, he saw a veritable tapestry of campfires. He had no idea how many of his people had come through this gate, but it must be in the tens of thousands. Watch fires along the upper ridges showed other encampments, and he was certain the commanders here would have already sent out groups, families even, to secure and then occupy the villages he had discovered on his last journey through this region. There was easily room for fifty thousand Taredhel in this valley and in the meadows above.

  Without a twinge of guilt for having deserted his post, the Conjurer counted himself lucky to be alive. Moreover, he was without oversight, for while someone here might recognize him, he was
fairly certain no one in authority would take a minute to question his presence. They were otherwise occupied and apparently very busy.

  He looked around. “Now,” he whispered to himself. “Which way did Gulamendis go?”

  Gulamendis rode quietly along the banks of the river. He had reached the River Boundary earlier in the day and went looking for a ford to cross over. But when he found one, he discovered a discomfort, an inability to cross over into the Elven Forest, and decided to look for another way across.

  Now, hours later, he was at the third likely crossing point and still he couldn’t bring himself to cross. He stopped and dismounted. Perhaps there was a geas or some other conjuration that prevented him from riding his demon steed into this ancient and sacred forest. He dismissed the mount with a wave of his hand and waited.

  He listened. The breeze in the branches sang to him as no other place he had visited, yet there was something odd in the sound, something he didn’t quite understand. This land was native to his race, yet he felt alien here, as if he was out of rhythm with this place.

  He sighed and sat down on the bank, to ponder his next act. He looked at the bank of the river, less than one hundred yards away, and the water running swiftly over the shallow rocks. It would be effortless to simply stand and walk into the water, making his way to the other side. In his mind he could see himself doing this without any difficulty.

  Yet when he tried to step into the water, he could not.

  He closed his eyes and used his skills to see if there were wards or a geas in place. There was something, but it wasn’t magic as he understood it. This was something more akin to a feeling, as if he had heard an old, familiar melody, but couldn’t quite remember it days later. There was a haunting quality to it that disturbed him as much as it called to him.

  From behind he heard a voice ask, “Having trouble crossing?”

  The accent was odd, but he understood the words as he quickly came to his feet, his hand going to the hilt of his belt. Gulamendis stood looking down at an elf who was a few inches shorter than he was. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I am having trouble crossing.”

  The elf tilted his head to one side, as if trying to judge something by the manner of Gulamendis’s speech. Like all of his race, he was patient, so he said nothing for a long minute, then said, “Nothing of you is familiar, yet you are kin; that I can plainly see. Who are you and from where do you hail?”

  “I am Gulamendis, of a modest but ancient line, recently a citizen in the city of Tarendamar.”

  “Star Home,” said the elf. “I have never heard of such a place. Tell me, where is it?”

  “On another world, if you can imagine such.”

  The elf shrugged. “I have met those from other worlds, so I can imagine such. But I have never met any of our kin from another world, save those Eldar who returned to us from Kelewan—”

  “Eldar?” asked Gulamendis. “Others of the Eldar are here?”

  The elf nodded. He was dressed in green leather, from tunic to boots, and across his back carried a finely crafted longbow. “Yes. Are you of the Eldar?”

  “Once,” said Gulamendis, “my people were, though we now call ourselves the Taredhel.”

  “The People of the Stars,” said the elf. He smiled. “I like that. Come, you may enter Elvandar and we bid you welcome. I presume you wish to speak with the Queen?”

  “Yes,” said Gulamendis as he walked into the water, now completely able to do so. “I thought a geas or wards prevented my entrance.”

  “More,” said the elf. “The very woods of Elvandar do not permit anyone to enter without welcome, unless powerful magic is used. Only once in memory have invaders reached the heart of our lands, and they were magicians of great power.”

  Suddenly two other elves appeared from out of the trees, and Gulamendis halted. The first to speak to him said, “I am Cristasia, and these are my companions Lorathan and Gorandis. We’ve been watching you for a while, wondering what the problem was.”

  The one called Gorandis said, “Are all your people as tall as you?”

  Gulamendis noticed he was a good six inches taller than the tallest of the three, Cristasia, and he nodded. “I am of average height. Some are taller, but not many.”

  The elves exchanged glances, and then Gorandis said, “Well, we are three days from the Queen’s court, so we should be off.” To Cristasia and Lorathan he said, “Continue the patrol and I will guide him.”

  They nodded and seemed to melt back into the trees as Gorandis started to run up a trail. Gulamendis hesitated then started to run after the elf. He quickly caught up and said, “Do you not have mounts?”

  “We do, sometimes,” answered the forest elf. “We seldom use them unless the journey is long. Three days is hardly worth the bother.”

  “I’m not used to running,” said Gulamendis, realizing that he was going to be pressed to keep up with this woodland elf.

  They wended their way through the woods, moving rapidly along what appeared to be narrow game trails. Twice Gulamendis faltered and once he fell, and Gorandis said, “You have no woodcraft, do you?”

  “No,” admitted the elf. “I am city-born and my time in the wild has been unpleasant.”

  The wood elf laughed. “A city elf! I have never heard of such. Even those who came from across the sea lived on farms or small villages.

  “Well, there is something new every day, as they say.” He turned and started running again. “We were wondering if you were trying to be noticed, the way you trudged along the riverbank.”

  “You saw me?”

  “We’ve been watching you for nearly the entire day,” he replied.

  Gulamendis felt nothing so much as annoyance that this rustic was mocking him. Even more irritating was that he was certainly correct; he had no wood skills and had no desire to gain any.

  Sandreena awoke instantly; she had her mace in her right hand and gripping her helmet in her left as she started to rise. She was already on her feet with her helmet in place before she was completely aware of what had awakened her. She had crawled out the tiny window of the room she had been given by Enos and made her way as quietly as possible to bed down next to her horse. From her perspective, there was little to choose between the run-in shed and the room. Both had dirt floors, evidence of recent use as a privy, straw to sleep on, and a plethora of bugs with whom to share the straw.

  Besides, her horse was well trained and would alert her to any approaching danger, which is what had just occurred. The slight snorting sounds and pawing of the ground would probably not alert anyone nearby, but to Sandreena it was as vivid a warning as any alarm bell in a watchtower. Someone was approaching the little inn in stealthy fashion, and it was almost certain they planned nothing good for the one guest in residence.

  As was her habit when outside, she slept in her armor. It was hardly the most restful way to sleep, but she had grown accustomed to it over the years. Moving as lightly as she could, shield high on her left arm, mace in her right, she kept her faceplate up, giving herself the most area of visibility before encountering the enemy.

  As she suspected, two figures garbed in black were skulking through the open garden behind the house, heading toward the window that would have been her room. She didn’t hesitate, assuming it would only be instants after she saw them that they would see her. She flipped down her visor and charged.

  Three steps from her first target, they saw her looming up out of the gloom and before he could turn to meet her, the first assassin was down from a savage blow to his head. Sandreena doubted he would rise to trouble her again. The other assailant had wheeled around, following her movement, so as she turned, he was already lunging at her with a long sword. She caught the sword’s point on her shield, expertly turning it so that the blade slid along, letting the motion carry the man in black toward her. She punched him as hard in the face as she could with her right hand, still clutching her mace, and the force drove the man backward. Blood flowed down his face
from his shattered nose, and he was blinded for a moment. Sandreena swept downward with her mace, catching his heel, causing him to trip backward. He slammed his head against the ground and for a moment was stunned.

  She calmly kicked him hard in the side of the head, and he went limp. She really didn’t care if the kick killed him—though she thought he was tougher than that—but she would like to question one of these Black Caps.

  Enos and his family had been reticent to the point where she had threatened to leave them there, to answer for the death of the man she had killed. That had terrified them even more than the possibility of being accused of helping her had.

  She really didn’t feel sorry for putting them through all that—they had no way of knowing she couldn’t leave them abandoned because of both temple practice and personal ethics—they were rude and annoying people. She suspected that even under the best of circumstances they’d be cold and rude to strangers.

  She quickly checked, and the first man was dead. The second was unconscious and likely to stay that way for a while. She dragged off the body and hid it under old straw on the other side of the run-in shed. These two might have friends.

  She knelt to examine the unconscious man and saw his breathing was shallow and fast. She had done more damage than intended. She might not have meant to kill him with the kick to the head, but those things were difficult to control in the heat of the moment; she might have two bodies to bury come first light.

  As she began to rise, she sensed someone behind her, and as she spun to defend herself, a blow struck her on the side of the head, glancing down to crack hard into her shoulder. The force of the blow drove her to her knees and only her armor prevented her from suffering a broken shoulder or worse. But the glancing strike to her helmet had caused her just enough disorientation that she was open to another blow from behind. Her last thoughts were, There are two of them! before she collapsed into a dazed semiconsciousness.