Rage of a Demon King

by Raymond E. Feist

  Tomas turned, the golden-trimmed red robe flaring slightly, and said, “Is it time for me to don my armor, old friend?”

  “Soon, I fear,” said Pug.

  Almost wistfully Tomas said, “When we were victorious at Sethanon, I hoped we were done with this business.”

  Pug nodded. “Hoped. But we knew sooner or later the Pantathians would come again for the Lifestone.” Pug’s forehead furrowed, as if he was about to say something additional, but he halted himself. “So long as your sword rests within the stone, and so long as the Valheru are not finally vanquished, we did but buy time.”

  Tomas did not reply, but continued to stare out over the railing at the splendor of Elvandar. “I know,” he said at last. “There will come a time when I must retrieve that sword and finish what we started that day.” He had listened with keen interest when Miranda had recounted what she and his son had discovered on their last voyage to the southern continent. Tathar, Acaila, and the other Spellweavers had questioned her repeatedly over the months since she had come, ferreting out details she had forgotten. While Miranda’s patience had been worn thin on many occasions, the long-lived elves took the interminable investigation as a matter of course.

  The sounds of voices announced that Aglaranna and her advisers were coming to join her husband in their private quarters. The Queen, followed by Tathar, Acaila, Redtree, and Calin, entered.

  Miranda and Pug bowed their heads, but the Queen said, “Court is over, my friends. We are here to discuss important issues in an informal fashion.”

  Miranda said, “Thank the gods.”

  Redtree scowled. “My familiarity with your race is limited”—he glanced at Acaila, who mouthed a word—“milady.” He pronounced the word as something alien. “But this rushing to action I’ve observed in humans . . . it’s incomprehensible!”

  “Rushing!” said Miranda, allowing her astonishment to show openly.

  Pug said, “We have been dealing with the Pantathians for fifty years, Redtree.”

  The old elf took an offered goblet of wine and said, “Well, you should have come up with some sense of the enemy, then.”

  Suddenly Pug realized that the old elf had his own sense of humor. It was different from Acaila’s: while just as dry, it had a mocking edge. Pug grinned. “You remind me of Martin Longbow.”

  Redtree smiled and years dropped from his face. “Now, there’s a human I like.”

  “Where is Martin?” asked Tomas.

  “Here,” came a voice as the old former Duke of Crydee climbed into view, mounting a flight of steps from below. “I don’t move quite as spryly as I once did.”

  “You’re still a fair hand with a bow, Martin,” said Redtree. Then he added, “For a human.”

  Martin was the oldest living human Redtree might call a friend. Nearly ninety years of age, Martin looked a man in his late sixties or early seventies. His powerful shoulders and chest were still broad, though his arms and legs were thinner than Pug remembered. His skin looked like old leather, sundried and wrinkled, and his hair was now completely white. But his eyes were still alert, and Pug realized that Martin, over the months he had stayed in Elvandar, continued to have his wits around him. There was no hint of the doddering in this old man. While not quite rejuvenating him, the magic of Elvandar kept him vigorous.

  Nodding at Miranda, Martin smiled. “I’ve known the edhel,” he said, using the elves’ own term for their people, “since I was a baby, and their humor is often lost on humans.”

  Miranda said, “As is their sense of haste.” She looked at Pug. “For months now, close to a year or more, you’ve been saying that we must be about this or that—mostly, ‘We must find Macros the Black’—yet I find us spending a great deal of time sitting around doing little.”

  Pug’s eyes narrowed briefly. He knew Miranda was far older than she looked, perhaps even older than his own seventy-odd years, but often she displayed what he could only call an impatience that surprised him. He seemed about to say one thing, then another. At last he said, “Macros’s legacy to me included many things—his library, his commentaries, and, to some extent, his powers—but nothing could replace his experience. If anyone can help us unlock the mystery of what is behind all we face, it is he.” Pug stood before Miranda and looked into her eyes. “I cannot help but feel that behind all we have seen lurks another mystery, one far more profound and dangerous than what we yet know.” Then his tone lightened slightly as in a mock-chiding voice he added, “And I would expect you, as much as anyone, to realize that often when one is motionless, the most thought is being applied to the problems at hand.”

  Miranda said, “I know, but I feel like a horse too long held under rein; I feel the need to be doing something!”

  Pug turned to Tomas. “There we have the problem, don’t we?”

  Tomas nodded, glancing at the oldest, wisest minds in the Council of Elvandar. “What is to be done?” he asked.

  Pug said, “Once you found Macros by leading me into the Halls of the Dead. Would it be useful to return there?”

  Tomas shook his head. “I don’t think so; do you?”

  Pug shrugged. “Not really. I’m not even sure what I would say should we again face Lims-Kragma. I know more now than I did then, but of the nature of the gods and those other agents who serve, them I still feel ignorant. In any event, I’m grasping at straws.” He was silent a moment, frustration clearly evident on his features. Then he said, “No, the realm of the dead would be a waste of time.”

  Acaila said, “Those beings are not meant for easy apprehension by those who live mortal spans. But indulge me one question, Pug: why would it be a waste of time to seek this person in the Halls of the Dead?”

  Pug said, “I really don’t know. A feeling, nothing more. I’m certain Macros is alive.” He then described how when they had last sought the Black Sorcerer, Gathis—then Macros’s and now Pug’s majordomo at Sorcerer’s Island—had indicated that there was a bond between them, and should Macros be dead, Gathis would somehow know it. Pug finished by saying, “Several times over the last few years I’ve had this sense that Macros was not only still alive but . . .”

  Miranda now looked thoroughly irritated. “What?”

  Pug shrugged. “That he was somehow close by.”

  Under her breath she let out a sound of aggravation. “That wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Martin smiled with wry amusement and asked, “Why?”

  Miranda glanced out over the lights of Elvandar and said, “Because my experience is that most of these ‘legendary’ individuals turn out to be no more than a well-constructed sham, designed to convince us all of their importance, rather than any real indication of their true significance.”

  Aglaranna sipped her wine and sat next to Tomas on a long bench by the railing. “You sound more than irritated in a general way, Miranda.”

  Miranda dropped her gaze a moment; when she raised it again to the Elf Queen, she was composed. “Forgive my petulance, lady. We of Kesh often struggle with issues of appearance, rank, and court standing that have nothing to do with worth or value in any real sense. Many rise high by dint of birth while others far more worthy never achieve any significance, their lives spent in trivial work. Yet those ‘great’ nobles have no sense they achieved high rank by a simple accident of birth.” She made a sour expression.

  “They think the fact their mothers were who they were ample proof of the gods’ favor. Given my . . . history, I have had to deal with more than my share of such men. I have . . . little patience, I fear, for such as they.”

  “Well,” said Tomas, “Macros did construct his own legend to protect his privacy, I’ll grant, but as one who stood beside him more than once I can attest his legend is nothing but a shadow of his real power. He faced a dozen Tsurani Great Ones in this very forest, and while the magic of our Spellweavers aided our struggle, against the alien magicians he alone strove, and he destroyed their works and sent them fleeing to their own world. He is alone amo
ng men I would dread opposing. His power is nothing short of astonishing.”

  Pug nodded. “Which is why we need to find him.”

  “Where do we start?” asked Miranda calmly. “The Hall?”

  Pug said, “I don’t think so. There are too many people willing to sell information who live in the Hall of Worlds.” Dryly he added, “And not all of it is accurate.” He sat across from the Elf Queen and said, “I thought we might journey to the City Forever and question the Dreadmaster we imprisoned there.”

  Tomas shrugged. “I doubt he would know much more than we already discovered. He was but a tool.”

  Acaila said, “Have you considered this sorcerer might be here on Midkemia?”

  Martin said, “Why?”

  The eldar said, “Pug’s ‘feeling.’ It is something I would not dismiss or set aside lightly. Often such feelings are our own minds informing us of something we haven’t apprehended consciously.”

  “True,” said Redtree, taking a bite from a large red apple. “In the wilds one’s instincts must serve, else a hunter doesn’t return with food for his family, or a warrior is left behind on the field of battle.” Looking at Pug, he said, “Where did you feel this Macros’s presence the most?”

  “Oddly enough,” said Pug, “at Stardock.”

  “You didn’t say anything,” offered Miranda, her voice almost accusing.

  Pug smiled. “I was often distracted.”

  Miranda had the grace to blush. “You could have said something at one time or another.”

  Pug shrugged. “I dismissed it as stemming from the fact that most of his powerful tomes and scrolls are housed in my tower. I often feel as if he’s looking over my shoulder when I read them.”

  Tathar said, “There is also this matter of that artifact retrieved from the southern continent.”

  Aglaranna spoke. “The Spellweavers feel there is something alien about it.”

  “Absolutely,” said Tomas. “And it is more than the Pantathian presence. There is something about this that is alien even to the Valheru.”

  Martin said, “There is something I don’t understand.”

  “What, old friend?” asked Calin.

  “In all of this, since the first Tsurani ship was wrecked on Crydee shores to the fall of Sethanon, no one has asked one important question.”

  “Which is?” asked Acaila.

  “Why have all these plots, all these plans, involved such chaos and destruction?”

  Tomas said, “It is the nature of the Valheru.”

  Martin said, “But we haven’t faced the Dragon Lords; we’ve faced only their agents, the Pantathians, as well as those who’ve served or were duped by them.”

  Pug tried to dismiss Martin’s observation. “I think we’ve seen ample proof of the nature of the Pantathians.”

  Martin said, “You mistake my meaning. What I’m saying is that in all of this, much is without apparent motive. We’ve assumed things, over the years, about why and how the Pantathians were acting in the fashion they have, but we don’t know why they’re behaving the way they are.”

  Pug said, “I must be guilty of some oversight. I still don’t see your meaning.”

  Miranda said, “Because you’re not paying attention.” She stepped past Pug to stand before Martin. “You’ve got an idea.” It wasn’t a question.

  The old bowman nodded. Turning to Tathar, Acaila, and Redtree, he said, “Feel free to correct anything I say that isn’t as it should be.” To Pug and Tomas he said, “You have powers I cannot begin to imagine, but I have spent most of my life here, in the West, and I know the lore of the edhel as well as most men, I wager.”

  “Better than any human living,” offered Tathar.

  “In the lore of the eledhel,” said Martin, “some things are said about the Ancient Ones.” He faced the Queen. “Most Gracious Lady, why is that usage preferred?”

  The Queen considered the question a moment, then said, “Tradition. It was once believed that to use the name of the Valheru would be to call their attention.”

  Miranda said, “A superstition?”

  Martin looked to Tomas. “A superstition?” he repeated.

  Tomas said, “Much of the memories given to me of the ancient times is clouded, and even those that are well remembered are the memories of another being. We share much, but much is also unknown to me. The power was once given to the eldar to call us by speaking our names aloud. That may be where this belief originated.”

  Martin better than anyone, except Pug, fully understood the strange duality of Tomas. He had known this half-alien man when Tomas and Pug had been boys at Castle Crydee, and had watched as the mystic armor of the long-dead Dragon Lord Ashen-Shugar had transformed Tomas into the strange being he was today, neither fully man nor Dragon Lord but something of both.

  Tomas looked at the eldar and said, “Acaila?”

  The old elf nodded. “The legends say such. We who were first among the slaves of the Valheru were able to contact them. This may have given rise to the practice of never speaking their names aloud.”

  Miranda said, “What, then, is your point?”

  Martin shrugged. “I’m not even sure I have one, but it seems to me that we’re making many assumptions here, and if any one of them is incorrect, we risk all by building our plans upon such mistaken beliefs.” He stared into Miranda’s eyes. “You returned from the land on the other side of the world with artifacts, apparently made by the Ancient Ones, yet Pug and Calis both say they are ‘tainted,’ not what they seem to be.”

  Acaila again nodded. “They are not pure. We know enough of our former masters to recognize that another hand has touched these items.”

  “Yet they sing to you?” offered Pug.

  “Yes, they are much of the Valheru,” offered Aglaranna.

  Martin said, “So, then, whose is that other hand?”

  “The third player,” said Pug. Looking at Miranda, he said, “The demon, I assume that’s who he meant.”

  Martin nodded. “I think so, as well. What if the Pantathians are not tools of the Ancient Ones but rather are tools of these demons?”

  Tomas said, “That would explain a few things.”

  “Such as?” asked Redtree, taking a sip of wine.

  Pug said, “The Dread, for one.”

  Acaila asked, “What of them?”

  Tomas said, “They are an unlikely ally for my brethren.” He used the term brethren for the Valheru when he was caught up in thinking as one.

  “And an even less likely tool,” supplied Acaila. “What lore has passed down through the generations of the eldar always shows the Dread to be rivals to the Valheru on the occasions when they crossed paths.”

  “Yet,” said Pug, “we didn’t consider the oddity at the time.”

  With a faint smile, Tomas said, “We were a bit preoccupied.”

  Pug’s brow furrowed and his expression was a question.

  “The Riftwar?” Tomas added, with a laugh.

  Pug returned the laugh. “I know what you mean, but what I mean is, why didn’t you think of this before?”

  It was Tomas’s turn to look perplexed. “I don’t know. I just assumed the presence of the Dreadmaster in the City Forever and the Dreadlord at Sethanon were part of the Valheru attempt to distract us. I assumed somehow the Pantathians made contact with those creatures—”

  Acaila interrupted. “You have memories and some knowledge, and great power, Tomas, but you lack experience. You are less than a century of age, yet you wear powers not gained in five times that span.” He looked around the gathering. “We are as children when we speak of beings like the Valheru and Dreadlords. We are presuming when we attempt to understand them, or apprehend their purpose.”

  Pug said, “I grant that, but we must try, for there are things that cannot be allowed to simply come to us; we must discover the purpose behind those who seek to take the Life-stone and end us all.”

  Miranda said, “All of which brings us back to this: we
know little and we need to find Macros the Black, and you still haven’t suggested where we start to look.”

  Pug looked defeated. “I don’t know.”

  Acaila said, “Perhaps you should cease looking for a place and begin looking for a person.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Pug.

  The ancient elf said, “You spoke of a sense of Macros being close by. Perhaps it is time to turn your focus on that sense, look for the presence, and let it lead you to the man.”

  Pug said, “I don’t imagine how that is possible.”

  “You studied with me for a brief time, Pug. There are many things we have to teach you still. Let me instruct you and Miranda now.”

  Pug looked at his companion, who nodded.

  “Do I need to come along?” asked Tomas.

  Acaila looked at the Warleader of Elvandar and shook his head. “You’ll know when it is time to leave, Tomas.”

  To those of the Queen’s court he said, “We will need to retire to the contemplation glade. Tathar, I would appreciate your help in this matter.”

  The old elven adviser bowed to his Queen and said, “By your leave, lady?”

  She nodded and the four of them left the Queen and Tomas’s private quarters. Down through the bowers that formed the elven city in the trees they moved, until they came to the ground, where large cookfires were brightly burning.

  They moved silently away from the heart of Elvandar until at last they came to a tranquil glade. Here Tomas and Aglaranna had pledged their vows; here only those ceremonies most important to the elves were conducted.

  Pug said, “We are honored.”

  “It is necessary,” said Acaila. “Here our magic is most potent, and I suspect we need to use it to ensure your survival.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “Tomas spoke to me of your previous travels to the Halls of the Dead, through the entrance at the Necropolis of the Gods. While we have a different vision of the universe and its order, we elves understand your human vision enough to know that only Tomas’s raw strength allowed you to survive that journey.”