“This must have been a remarkable place,” said Simon. “In size it rivals the City of Kesh.” He glanced at Pug and said, “What changed?”
“A mad priest, so the story goes,” said Pug, “opened the seal, admitting the first demon, and for his troubles was devoured. But before the other priests could reseal the breach, they were overwhelmed.”
Randolph said, “Sounds like the demons were ready to launch an offensive through the breach when it was opened.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” agreed Pug.
As they entered the now-deserted ruins, the only sound in their ears was wind. In the hours they had been on this world, there was no hint of life. As far as they could tell, this planet was completely devoid of even the tiniest insect. At one point they had passed through a region just after a rain. Pug had remarked that the scent of wetness lacked something familiar. Simon had replied that life was abundant in the soil, moss, lichen, and spoors of all sort, and water caused their scent to rise. None of that existed here.
They walked down desolate boulevards, immense by human standards. The Saaur were a huge race, and the scale of their city reflected that. Their horses were twenty-five hands at the withers. These were a nomadic people whose concessions to city life were few. No rider of the Saaur would ever be caught far from his mount.
Pug paused, trying to get his bearings. He pointed. “That way lies the main temple.” As they walked, he said, “As I understand it, the great hordes of the Sha-shahan, or Ultimate Ruler, rode throughout this world. It has smaller oceans than Midkemia and, save for a few big islands, it’s possible to visit every part of the globe on horse.
“This city originally was a holy place, and the hordes left it alone. Some of their own shamans came here to study, I was told. But for some reason, the hordes changed their attitude—after centuries of this city being holy and respected, the hordes decided it was time to be paid tribute. When the hordes arrived here to demand tribute, the priests and shamans of this city were divided on what to do. Some wished to continue their work in peace and were willing to submit, but others refused and before a consensus was reached, war erupted.” Looking at Randolph, he said, “You’re the battle-magic expert here. Imagine five thousand magic-using priests and shamans confronting a hundred thousand mounted warriors.”
“Messy,” said the bull-necked man. “If the magic-users were really good, they might hold them outside those walls for a week or so. Then the attrition and fatigue would win out for those still outside the walls.” He pointed at all four corners of the compass. “Somewhere the perimeter would be breached, and the slaughter would begin.”
“Which is precisely what happened,” answered Pug. He pointed. “Over there, somewhere, a gate was battered off its hinges, and the defenders overrun. Mostly priests with temple guards, they were no match in hand-to-hand combat with the horde.
“Had they surrendered then, it would have ended well enough, for after a few public executions to demonstrate the iron rule of the Sha-shahan, Jarwa by name, who would then have pardoned the rest to demonstrate his leniency, the horde would have ridden on, leaving little more than a garrison and tax collector behind.
“Instead, a highly placed priest unsealed the Demon Gate, in the mad hope that the demons would repulse the horde, and that he could seal up the gate after.” Pug shook his head. “He was the first one devoured.” He sighed as they mounted steps leading up into the great temple. There were fifty steps in the flight leading upward, a broad expanse of carved stone, and on each end a pillar rose up, atop which sat empty stone cauldrons where offerings to the gods and ancestors could be burned. “Of course the demons drove back the horde, but they destroyed the only possibility of repulsing them as well, the now-exhausted priests and shamans of the Saaur.
“A very courageous and intelligent shaman, by name Hanam, seized control of a demon through a brilliant ruse, and used that control to infiltrate the demons and get to your mother and me,” he said to Magnus. “He was instrumental in defeating the demon captain Tugor, as Macros, your mother, and I battled Maarg, keeping him on the other side of the rift.”
“Tugor was defeated?” asked Magnus. “I thought one of those imps mentioned him…perhaps I was mistaken.”
“We’ll ask Amirantha when we return. I have the impression that demons are more difficult to kill than we thought,” said Pug. He led them across a large pavilion, into an antechamber. Looking around, he said, “It looks so different.”
The stones of the city themselves were now free of the soot and ash that had coated them the last time Pug had been there. Fires had still raged across the landscape, but a century of wind and rain had effectively rid of any stain the stone everywhere but in the deepest recesses.
Pug recognized a few hallmarks, a massive stone bas-relief showing some legend of the Saaur, and moved toward a deep vault. Once they were inside, the gloom swallowed them; Magnus moved his hand reflexively and light sprang up around them in a comforting cocoon.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Pug felt the urge to whisper. He resisted it and said, “Over there.” He pointed to a cavernous doorway leading into the Seal Chamber, where the Demon Gate had been located. When last he had visited, Pug along with Miranda, Macros, and the Saaur shaman Hanam in the form of a demon, the alien race Shangri had been trying to move a rift to Midkemia directly before the entrance from the demon realm. They had disrupted that and fled, after Macros and Hanam had given their lives to stop the demon invasion. Pug had slain the Shangri who had created the rift and assumed the portal to the demon realm had been closed as well.
When they reached the site of the Demon Gate, all four men froze in astonishment. A body lay sprawled out before the wall that had housed the gate. It was emaciated, barely larger than a human, but Pug instantly recognized it. Now he whispered, “It’s Maarg.”
When he had last seen the Demon King, he had been this mammoth, gross creature rearing up, nearly thirty-five feet in height. Massive jowls hung down from his cheekbones, giving him almost a bulldog-like expression. Eyes of burning fire had regarded Pug with a hatred that came in waves; his mere presence was an extant heralding of evil.
“Everything is so much smaller now,” said Pug softly. He turned Maarg over and the body weighed almost nothing. His face looked like a parchment drawn in on hollow bones and still showed the pattern of being fashioned from the skins of living beings. When Pug had last seen him, every inch of his visage moved and twitched, as if those souls he had devoured were attempting to escape somehow. His nude body was likewise a thing of tattered skins that now looked sewn together like patchwork.
Pug stood up. “He had wings to spread across this chamber, and…” He looked at the wall. “Unbelievable.”
The stone was gouged with deep talon marks, as if once the Demon Gate had closed, Maarg had tried to claw his way back into his own realm.
“How?” asked Magnus.
“When your grandfather died, I thought the gate closed, but Maarg must have somehow slipped back into this realm moments before it closed. Your mother and I were already on Midkemia, with that gate closed.” He shrugged. “He must have devoured every life on this world and when hunger drove him even madder than before, he returned here and tried to get back…” Pug shook his head. “I can hardly feel sympathy for a thing like this, but it must have been a terrible way to die.”
“There’s one thing, Father,” said Magnus.
“What?”
“Amirantha’s imp was terrified of Maarg. If Maarg lies here dead, who is pretending to be Maarg, enough so to convince other demons he’s their king?”
Pug looked stunned by the question.
CHAPTER 19
ONSLAUGHT
Miranda signaled.
She could manage to bring six people with her—Sandreena, Amirantha, Brandos, Jommy, Kaspar, and Father-Bishop Creegan. The moment they appeared at the mouth of the passage leading up into the clearing where the summoning would occur, they were unde
r instructions to remain silent.
Kaspar said, “I don’t care how many times I do that, I’ll never find the experience pleasant.”
Miranda smiled slightly. “It is, however, efficient.”
Kaspar glanced at her and smiled back. “This is true.”
Sandreena looked around, to see if there was any sign remaining of the Black Caps. All appeared quiet. She relaxed and considered this undertaking. She was pleased the Father-Bishop was with them, for while he had never been a warrior like the Knight-Adamants of her Order, he was a magic-user of significant power, especially in the area of banishing demons. Brandos she knew from her first encounter with Amirantha, years before in the village of Yellow Mule. Kaspar and Jommy were also brawlers, if she could judge men, and she could, and would be useful to stand at her side if they needed to protect the spellcasters.
Sandreena also found herself wondering about Miranda. At first the woman annoyed her, and Sandreena couldn’t quite understand why. Then it dawned on her: she had the same expectation of obedience—the woman liked to give orders—that was the hallmark of the High Priestess of her Order in Krondor. The difference was, Sandreena suspected, Miranda had earned that attitude, whereas the High Priestess considered it her birthright.
Miranda looked around, as if saying, If everyone’s ready, let’s begin.
They had fashioned the plan over the last four days. If possible, they were going to try to gain some sense of what was taking place, who these Black Caps, these Servants of Dahun, were in reality, before the mayhem was completely under way. The agreement was they would all observe as best they could from hiding and no one was to launch any assault unless discovered or upon Miranda’s command. Getting some knowledge of the enemy was vital.
Too many times in the past Miranda and Pug had discovered forces at play behind the apparent forces they were facing. Ban-ath, the God of Thieves and Liars, had a hand in everything so far, and they were horrified to discover the so-called Dark God of the Dasati was actually a Dreadlord who had managed over centuries to insinuate himself into the Dasati culture, usurping the allegiance of the Dasati race, twisting and warping them into a wholesale tool of evil.
Miranda had tried to pry as much information out of Amirantha as she could, but he had not had contact with his brother in any meaningful fashion in over a century, and had no notion of what had brought him to this current position, the apparent leader of these Black Caps. After several long discussions, Miranda was convinced of only one thing about Amirantha: he wanted to see his brother dead and now was none too soon.
Miranda’s own childhood had been anything but conventional. Her father, the legendary Macros the Black, had vanished when she was still a child. Her mother, known by several names over the years—Lady Clovis, the Emerald Queen, and others—had been alternately loving and remote. After Miranda matured, the only thing they had in common was their love of magic. But Miranda had inherited, perhaps from her father, a fundamental distaste for the very things that drew her mother deeper into darkness: power and a fear of aging. Ironically, Miranda never seemed to age, though in part it was due to her aging very slowly, and also because of her exposure to the released energies of an artifact called the Lifestone.
All of which gave her a unique perspective: she understood how two brothers could end up being so un-alike, and why Amirantha would show no hesitation in killing Belasco.
Belasco was the mystery. He was unknown to any of them, save Amirantha and Brandos, and in the second case, by reputation only. What the old fighter knew about Belasco came from Amirantha.
It wasn’t so much that Miranda warned about trusting the Warlock; she didn’t. Nor was she particularly fearful of him. If Miranda had something close to a critical flaw, it was her own estimation of her ability. Should the demon-summoner prove to be a danger, she felt certain she could handle him. She was more uncertain what his motives were, beyond dealing with a murderous brother. He said he was envious of the community on Sorcerer’s Isle, and wished to return after this encounter to spend time learning from Pug and the others. Miranda half-believed that. She just didn’t know what he was hiding, and she knew he was hiding something.
Miranda also didn’t care for the fact Sandreena and Amirantha had a past relationship. One that was far from happy, by all appearances. One of the reasons she agreed to have Creegan accompany them was he might be a calming influence on the Knight-Adamant. Like most of those of her Order, Sandreena was used to working alone, unsupervised. She might be a powerful fighter, but she also might be as dangerous as loose cargo on the deck of a ship during a storm.
Jommy and Kaspar were people whom she trusted with her life, and Kaspar had worked hard to gain that trust.
Creegan she had reservations about. Not his character, though she tended to mistrust the politically ambitious, and he clearly intended to be the head of the Church of Dala someday. It wasn’t even a case of his dedication; Pug never would have recruited him for the Conclave had there been any doubt of that. It was his ability. He was not a brawler, not someone who had been tested in battle, in her opinion, though he claimed to have faced demons before in his youth.
And there was always the complication that the Conclave could encounter some serious issues with the Temple if she managed to get one of their Father-Bishops killed along the way. Pug would have forbidden his coming, she knew. But then Pug wasn’t here. He was on another godsforsaken planet who knew where, doing whatever it was he and her son did when they were off on another godsforsaken planet.
She tried not to worry, but couldn’t help it; she was a wife and a mother.
Miranda signaled again and Sandreena, Jommy, and Kaspar took the lead, moving in a roughly V formation, with Sandreena in the van. As the heaviest-armored of the three, she was the most likely to survive any unexpected surprises. Miranda and Amirantha came close behind, with Brandos serving as a rear guard.
Slowly, they made their way along the narrow trail, into the cleft that led up into the clearing where the sacrifices had occurred before. As expected, they encountered another sentry, but this time they weren’t concerned about being subtle. Kaspar threw a dagger that took the man in the throat and he died before he could utter a sound.
From that point on, they walked in a crouch, moving slowly to avoid alerting any second sentry by sound or sight. As Miranda anticipated, with a special ceremony planned, two additional sentries were stationed—ironically, on the very ridge they had planned to watch from.
Miranda motioned to Jommy and Sandreena to follow Kaspar’s lead. He was the most experienced soldier in the group. He knelt and whispered, “Can you get them over here without alerting those on the other side of that ridge?”
“I have a ‘trick,’” she said, thinking instantly of Nakor. How that funny little man would have loved this sort of madness. It was exactly the sort of insanity that seemed to bring out the very best in him.
She whispered, “I’m going to get them over here in a hurry, so you need to subdue them before they can alert anyone. Now, we need to wait until their attentions wander for a moment.”
Time passed slowly, and the air was suddenly filled with chanting, more rhythmic and lower than the sound they heard four nights earlier. Miranda waited, patiently, watching as the two guards stood their post. She would occasionally glance at Kaspar and the others, and they all waited, poised to act. Miranda was gratified to see not one of them was losing focus or letting the tedium dull their readiness. Too much was at stake to grow lax even for a moment.
Then a scream of absolute horror and agony caused the two sentries to look for a moment toward the source of the sound. Instantly, Miranda was on her feet, and with a short incantation she mystically reached out and seized both men as a cat would grab kittens by the scruff of the neck, and had them flying backward in a high arc, to land at her feet. At once, Kaspar, Jommy, Brandos, and Sandreena were upon the men, and they died without a sound.
“Now we go!” said Miranda and she led the wa
y to the ridge from where she had plucked the two sentries.
They hurried, less mindful of the noise they made as the chanting reached a crescendo of screams and chants. They breasted the rise at the same moment, and right away Miranda knew they faced obliteration.
There was no ceremony. Rather, two hundred armed warriors stood ready, poised to charge, and behind them, on a large rock, stood Belasco. The chanting was an illusion, cast by a robed magician at his side, and at his other side was the nude figure of Darthea, clutching Belasco as she would her love. She looked at Amirantha with contempt as Belasco shouted, “Brother! You’ve brought friends! How considerate!” To his mob of warriors, he shouted, “Kill them!”
“Hold!” shouted Miranda to Sandreena and Brandos, who readied themselves for a charge.
With a sweeping gesture, Miranda sent a wave of flame rolling toward the attackers. Men screamed as flames rolled over them, several falling to the ground, only to trip others or be trampled on. Amirantha began to conjure and Sandreena shouted, “Don’t!”
He paused and shouted back, “Why?”
“Isn’t that your lady love over there with your brother?”
Amirantha suddenly realized exactly what Sandreena meant: no demon he conjured could be trusted. They were all in thrall to whomever was behind his brother’s plan.
Amirantha acted as much out of pique as self-preservation. He sent a punishing spell toward Darthea. The demon recoiled, almost pulling Belasco off his feet before he let go of her. The agony she felt was passed along to him for a moment, until contact was broken. He staggered, while she fell and writhed on the stones. She contorted in agony and her body shifted, smoke roiling off her skin. Her features changed, becoming more demonic by the second, as her illusion of human beauty faded. She stopped thrashing and lay quivering and twitching. The thing that lay at Belasco’s feet had the torso of a woman and her face was still beautiful, in an otherworldly fashion, but her legs were those of a black-furred goat. From her forehead two long horns swept back, and her fingers ended in black claws. Suddenly, a burst of green flame consumed her, as Belasco scuttled backward to avoid being burned.
Rides a Dread Legion Page 36
