Other men moved along the barricade, guarding against the possibility of the enemy somehow following closely, but as the fire rose along the first barricade, it was clear no one was crossing over that burning mass for at least the next hour. Harper said, “ ’Tis right daft you are, Captain, sir, but it was a hell of a notion.”
Erik sat upright, his back against the barricade. He finished drinking his third ladle of water and accepted a wet cloth, which he used to wipe the dirt, sweat, and blood from his face and hands. “Thank you, Sergeant. It gains us an hour’s respite, and gives us an open killing ground.” He glanced at the east, where the sun would soon be visible above the mountains, and said, “If we can hold here for this day and tonight, we should be able to get safely to Darkmoor with most of the men.” Erik stood and shouted for a runner.
“Find another of your company,” Erik ordered the youth. “I want orders sent to the north and the south that the time to fall back will come soon. Tell both flank commanders that once they see the enemy moving toward the center, I want a show of offense—make it look like a counterattack—then as soon as the enemy is moving away from those positions, they’re to move with all speed to Ravensburg.”
The runner sped off.
Erik sank back down behind the barricade and said, “I need some sleep.”
“You should have an hour, sir,” said Harper, watching the distant fire. When there was no answer, he turned to see Erik’s eyes already closed.
“That’s a capital idea, sir,” said the exhausted Sergeant, who hailed a reserve soldier and said, “I’m grabbing a bit of sleep, so be a good lad and keep an eye on things for the Captain and me, all right?” Without waiting for an answer, Harper slumped down next to Erik and was asleep before his chin touched his chest. Elsewhere along the line, men who had fought all night also tried to rest, while the reserves kept vigil across the burning barricade.
Pug groaned. Miranda said, “Hold still!”
He lay on a table covered with a fresh white cloth while she massaged his back. “Stop acting like a baby,” she scolded.
Pug said, “It hurts.”
“Of course it hurts,” she responded. “You get burned to a crisp by a demon, then as soon as you can, you go find another demon to battle.”
“Seven of them, actually,” Pug said.
She straddled his back, massaging him as they rested after their ordeal. “Well, you’ve got one left to deal with, and you’re not even going to think about it until you’re fit.”
“We don’t have that much time,” Pug said.
“Tomas should be in Sethanon soon, and unless there are more surprises, I think he should be able to deal with this Jakan.”
Pug said, “I don’t know. What little I witnessed when your father fought Maarg, and what I remember when Jakan attacked me, leads me to believe we should all be at Sethanon when the demon finally reaches there.”
Miranda got off his back, and Pug admired her long legs, shown to advantage by a short Quegan-style skirt. He sat up and stretched. “That felt great.”
“Good,” she replied. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”
They left the room in Villa Beata, Pug’s home on Sorcerer’s Isle, and retired to the dining room. A servant, a Jikora reality master, appeared. The creature looked like a large upright walking toad. A year earlier he had appeared unbidden and begged entrance into Pug’s school, and Pug had agreed. Like the other students on Sorcerer’s Isle, he gave service in exchange for his studies. “You eat?” he asked.
“Please,” said Pug, and the ugly creature stalked off toward the kitchen.
The midday meal was pleasant, as it had been each day since they had returned from the Pantathian mines. Though it had been only a week, it felt like ages since they had awakened in darkness, disoriented and exhausted. It had taken all of Miranda’s energy for her to create a mystic light by which they could see.
The bisected demon had started to rot, so they assumed they had been in a stupor for at least two or three days. Pug used his last reserves of energy to transport them to Sorcerer’s Isle, where Gathis had immediately seen to their needs.
They had been carried to their room and put to bed, where they slept for another day. Upon rising they had eaten, returned to bed, and slept the day through again. It had now been over a week since their return, and Pug felt as if he was getting close to his old strength back.
Gathis approached as they finished their meal and said, “May I have a word with you?”
Miranda rose. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, please,” said the goblinlike creature. “This concerns you as well, Mistress.”
She sat down. Gathis said, “As I once told you, I shared a bond with the Black One”—looking at Miranda, he said to her—“your father, Mistress.”
She nodded.
To Pug, Gathis said, “When Macros last left Midkemia, at the end of the Riftwar, I told you I would know if he should die.”
Pug said, “You think he is dead?”
Gathis said, “I know he is dead.”
Pug glanced at Miranda whose face was an unreadable mask. Pug said to Gathis, “Of all of us, you knew him best. The loss must be difficult for you. I am sorry.”
“Your commiserations are appreciated, Master Pug, but I think you misread me.” He motioned for them to follow. “There is something I need to show the two of you.”
They rose and followed him down a long hall. He led them outside, across the meadow that rolled away from the rear of the large house, and up a gentle rise to a plain hillside. When they were halfway up the rise, Gathis moved his hand and a cave was revealed.
Pug said, “What is this place?”
“You shall see, Master Pug,” said Gathis, leading them into the cave.
Inside the cave they saw a small altar, upon which rested an icon. The image was of a man sitting atop a throne, a man familiar to both Pug and Miranda.
“Father,” whispered Miranda.
“No,” said Pug, “Sarig.”
Gathis nodded. “It is indeed the lost God of Magic.”
“What is this place?” asked Miranda.
“A shrine,” Gathis said. “When the Black One found me, I was the last of a race that had once held a position of some importance in our world.”
“You said you were related to goblins in the way the elves are akin to the moredhel,” said Pug.
“That’s an oversimplification. Elves and Dark Brothers are the same race, taken to different paths. My people, while distant kin to the goblins, were far more than that. We were a race of scholars and teachers, artists and musicians.”
“What happened?” asked Miranda.
“The Chaos Wars lasted for centuries. To the minds of the gods they were nearly instantaneous, but to lesser beings they lasted for generations.
“Humans, goblins, and dwarves were among those who came to Midkemia at the end of the Chaos Wars. My people remained in our birth world. While other races thrived, mine did not. Macros found me, the last of my race, and brought me here.”
Miranda said, “I am sorry.”
Gathis shrugged. “It is the way of the universe. Nothing lasts forever, perhaps not even the universe itself.
“But one thing my people were as well as those other things I mentioned was a priesthood.”
Pug’s eyes widened. “You were a priesthood of magic!”
Gathis said, “Exactly. We were worshippers of Sarig, though by a different name.”
Pug looked around and found a rock ledge upon which to sit. “Go on, please.”
“As the last of my race I was desperate to find someone to carry on the worship of the God of Magic. Before I died I wished to see the continuation of what we believed was a most important cause, the return of magic to Midkemia.”
Miranda said, “There’s always been magic in Midkemia.”
“I think he means the Greater Magic,” said Pug.
“More,” said Gathis. “The return of magic in the or
der intended.”
“Intended by whom?” asked Miranda.
“By the nature of magic itself.”
“There is no magic,” said Pug, laughing.
“Exactly,” said Gathis. “Nakor believes there is a primary reality in the universe that anyone may manipulate, take advantage of, and use beneficially, if he but tries. He is partially right. What is known as the Lesser Magic to humans is an intuitive magic, a magic of poetry and song, of feelings and senses. It is why the Lesser Magicians chose totems and elements with which to identify.
“The priests of the other orders believe that all magic is prayer answered. They are correct, though not in the way they think. It is not their gods answering their prayers, but rather magic itself responding in accordance to the nature of their particular clerical calling. This is also why the high priests and other highly advanced members of each order can effect magic that resembles one another’s, while lesser practitioners would find such displays anathema.
“All is of a piece.”
“So you’re saying that magicians are in actuality worshipping Sarig?” asked Miranda.
“In a manner of speaking, but not exactly that. Each time a spell of the Greater Magic is incanted, the opportunity exists for prayer, for a tiny bit of that worship to feed Sarig, bringing him that much closer to returning to us.”
“Well then,” said Miranda, “why aren’t you down at Stardock gathering converts?”
Pug laughed. “Politics.”
“Exactly,” said Gathis. “Can you imagine what should occur if one such as I appeared and claimed all that I have told you?”
Miranda nodded. “I see your point. I’ve experienced enough to know you’re probably right, and I still find it difficult to believe.”
“That’s because you’re a product of your training, as was I,” said Pug. “We must rise above that.”
“What does this have to do with us? I mean, why are you telling us this now?”
“Macros the Black was the single most powerful master of magic upon Midkemia until the advent of Master Pug’s return from Kelewan,” said Gathis. “It is my mission to remain as close to whoever that person may be as long as I live.
“As long as the Black One existed, no matter how far removed, I was bound to him. Now he no longer exists, and I must continue in my mission of working on behalf of Sarig.”
“So you want to create a similar bond with me?” asked Pug.
“In a manner of speaking, but you must understand exactly what this entails.
“You know what the bond was between Macros and Sarig. Sarig claimed Macros as his own, his agent on Midkemia, and provided him with his powers. You were the one who severed the bond between them.”
Pug said, “But at the last Macros used Sarig’s powers to defeat Maarg.”
“Perhaps,” said Gathis. “I was not a witness to that, but if it is as you described it to me when you first returned, then that was Sarig’s last gift to Macros, the power to destroy himself and the demon, rather than fall prey to whatever it was stood behind the demon.”
“Whatever it was stood behind the demon?” asked Miranda, and suddenly she was aware again of the knowledge that had been blocked from her memory. “I think I understand.”
Gathis nodded. “I think you do, as well. Master Pug, you, on the other hand, are not connected to Sarig. You were not even given your powers on this world. Your ties to the Tsurani heritage and their practices, your native ties to Midkemia conspire to make you something of a neutral agent in this.
“Which is why you now have a choice.”
“And that is?”
“You now understand that an ages-old conflict is under way, between powers so vast and ancient our mortal minds can barely comprehend them; we can only serve our tiny part in the great conflict. Your choice is this: you may continue to act as an independent agent for those causes you consider worthy, or you may dedicate yourself to Sarig, taking the place of Macros. If you do so, you gain greater power than you already have, for you will not only have the full measure of the gods’ powers and knowledge native to Midkemia, you will also have your knowledge from Kelewan.”
“So you’re saying I was chosen and trained to be Macros’s successor?”
Gathis regarded Pug for a silent moment. “I have come to know this much about the gods: often we act for reasons about which we are uncertain. Who is to say if anything Macros ever did was without Sarig’s influences? Macros found you as a baby and unlocked something rare and powerful within you; I do not know if he understood where you would be today. I can’t say he chose you to be his successor, but I can say you now stand in the place where you can choose to be such. It is up to you.”
“What do I give up?” asked Pug.
“Freedom,” said Gathis. “You will find you need to do things without understanding exactly why. Macros claimed he could see the future, and that was partially true, but part of that claim was theatrics, the showmanship of a vain man attempting to make everyone think he was far more than he really was. It’s ironic, for he was more powerful than any man I’ve met, until I met you, Master Pug. But even the most powerful among your race has flaws, I have discovered over the centuries.
“In any event, you will find your life is no longer your own.”
Pug said, “You offer a great deal, but you demand a great deal, as well.”
“Not I, Master Pug; he does.” Gathis pointed to the statue of the god.
Miranda said, “How long does he have to think this over?”
“As long as he needs,” said Gathis. “The gods move along a stately course, in their own time, and the lives of mortals are but fleeting heartbeats to them.”
Pug said, “You’ve given me a great deal to think about. What happens if I say no?”
“Then we will wait until another appears, one whose nature and powers are such that the god chooses him to assume the mantle of Sarig’s agent.”
Pug looked at Miranda and said, “Something else for us to discuss.”
She nodded.
Gathis said, “I will leave you alone. Perhaps the god himself will guide your thoughts. If you need anything, I will be back at the villa.”
The green-faced steward of the villa departed and Pug said, “What should I do?”
“Be a god? Seems like a hard one to reject.”
Pug reached out and pulled her to him. As he held her close, he said, “It also seems like a hard one to accept.”
“Well, we have time,” said Miranda, hugging him back.
“Do we?” asked Pug as his mind turned to the question of the war.
* * *
Erik shouted orders as the battle reached a critical stage. For two days they had fought along the second barricade, suffering one breach, which had taken every reserve at Erik’s disposal to close. He had successfully evaluated the demands for defending this position and had set up a schedule for rotating his soldiers in and out of the line, so that those who had fought longest could get some rest.
The wounded were being evacuated along with the support baggage to Darkmoor. Erik knew that it was only a matter of minutes before he would give the order to withdraw and he had to set the torch to his boyhood home.
He’d had moments of regret in anticipation of that act for months, since reviewing Calis’s original plan of battle, but at this point he was so exhausted he felt nothing. Perhaps that would change when he actually saw the Inn of the Pin-tail, the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall, and all the other familiar landmarks of Ravensburg in flames, but right now all he was concerned with was an orderly withdrawal.
The enemy seemed limitless. By Erik’s rough calculation, they had lost six thousand men at the two barricades, while he had lost fewer than fifteen hundred. But he knew that losses of four to one were acceptable to the Emerald Queen, while such a ratio was disastrous to the Kingdom. He needed to do better than six to one for the Kingdom to withstand the enemy.
Erik blocked a blow from a particularly mu
scular man with a war ax, then skewered him with a sword thrust. He stepped back from the battle, letting a soldier take his place. Glancing around, he judged it time to withdraw. By the time they reached Darkmoor, night would be falling. He moved far enough from the fighting so he need not worry about anything except possibly a stray arrow and signaled for runners. Four of them came to stand before him and saluted. He said, “Pass the word up and down the line. General withdrawal on my signal.”
The soldiers hurried off, and Erik saw the magician Robert d’ Lyes rushing toward him. “Is there anything I can do to help?” the magician asked.
“Thanks, but unless you have a way to get those bastards on the other side to withdraw for a few minutes, so we can get out of here safely, I think not.”
The magician said, “How many minutes?”
“Ten, fifteen. More than that would be good, but in that time I can get the last of the wounded to the wagons and the rest of the mounted infantry in the saddle. The horse archers can hold the enemy at bay while the foot soldiers move out; if we can do that, we might all survive to fight in Darkmoor.”
Robert said, “I have an idea. I don’t know if it will work, but it might.”
“We’re pulling out, so give it a try,” said Erik.
“How long before you give the order?”
“Five more minutes,” said Erik as he signaled for his horse.
As a soldier ran up leading Erik’s mount, d’ Lyes said, “That should be enough.”
The magician hurried to a position a short distance behind the fighting, risking an errant arrow for his troubles. He closed his eyes and started a chant, then put his hand in his shirt and pulled out a small leather pouch. Opening it, he reached inside and took out something—Erik couldn’t see what—and made several passes with his hands.
Suddenly a cloud of greenish black smoke appeared at the crest of the barricade. Instantly the invaders inside began to cough and retch. The smoke expanded, following the ridge line, and men on both sides fell back.
Rage of a Demon King Page 50
