Rage of a Demon King

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Can you get a squad down here in time?”

  Erik motioned to a runner. “With Your Highness’s permission?”

  Prince Patrick nodded.

  Erik said to the runner, “Head north, on the fastest horse you can find, and tell Sergeant Jadow Shati to come here with as many mother-murderers as Harper can spare. He’ll know what I mean.”

  The runner glanced at the Prince, who nodded, and the messenger ran from the room. Patrick said, “Your wounds?”

  Erik looked at his bandaged lower left arm and ribs and said, “I got sloppy. I’m fine.”

  Patrick smiled. “You don’t look fine, Captain, but I’ll take your word for it.”

  Just then Greylock entered the room, dirty, sweating, and bloody. He said, “I need the reserves, now, Highness.”

  Patrick shrugged. “Take them. We have nothing left to lose.”

  Erik glanced at the Prince and said, “I’ll go with the General. I think we need every sword at the wall.”

  Patrick drew his sword and said, “Very well.” Greylock turned and grabbed the Prince of Krondor’s tunic. To lay hands on royalty was a hanging offense, but at that moment he wasn’t a General offering insult to his liege lord, he was the old Swordmaster of Darkmoor training an impulsive young soldier. “Highness, your position is here. And if you go get yourself killed, and we win this war, then I have some very difficult explaining to the King and I would rather be spared that conversation with your father. Be a good lad and do your job, and we’ll do ours.” He released Patrick’s tunic, then brushed aside an imaginary speck of dirt, saying, “I think that’s it.” Turning toward the door, he said, “Erik, shall we go?”

  Erik followed, leaving a chastened ruler, who swore as he realized his commander was correct.

  * * *

  The demon bellowed as he swooped down toward the abandoned city of Sethanon. He challenged any who might interfere with his goal, and none answered.

  Jakan landed before a destroyed gate, leading into a burned-out keep. He looked around and saw no one.

  Something called to him and he felt frustrated he could not locate the origin of the call. He turned, bellowing a challenge toward every compass point. No one answered.

  Screaming his rage to the sky, he set out searching, looking for something to fight, someone to kill, the source of the calling that sang to him, pulling him toward a goal he didn’t understand, but one which filled him with a hunger that surpassed anything he had known before. Then a thought came to the demon. The demon didn’t recognize that the thought was not his own, that a vast and evil being an unimaginable distance away was reaching out to plant in the demon’s mind knowledge: how to reach the Lifestone.

  Nakor looked upward. No one heard the demon roar, but they sensed it. “He’s near.”

  Tomas nodded, holding the golden blade in his hand. He glanced at Pug and said, “I didn’t realize how much I missed this.”

  Pug said, “I really wish you didn’t have to use it.”

  Miranda said, “I feel the same way.”

  All waited as the demon above stalked the city, searching for the source of his hunger. “Maybe he won’t find us,” Nakor said.

  “Want to bet on that?” asked Miranda.

  Nakor grinned. “No.”

  Pug said, “If he doesn’t figure out how to shift his place in time slightly, he could look for us for years and not find us.”

  Nakor said, “If he’s stupid, maybe, but I think the Nameless One might turn him in the right direction.”

  “Right,” said Miranda, glancing upward. “You would think of that.”

  Again they felt the demon’s rage, reverberating through the ground into the chamber.

  Miranda looked at Calis, who stood with eyes closed and hands on the Lifestone. The gem was now half the size it had been when they had found it, and the specks of green energy were flying through them constantly. Miranda said, “Nakor, you look younger.”

  Nakor grinned. “Am I handsome yet?”

  Miranda laughed. “Hardly, but you do look younger.”

  “It’s the Lifestone,” said Pug. “It’s rejuvenating us.”

  Miranda’s forehead furrowed. “That explains it,” she said as she put her hand on her stomach.

  “What?” asked Nakor.

  “Cramps. I haven’t had them for a hundred and fifty years.”

  Nakor laughed.

  Suddenly the room erupted in a howl of rage, echoing through the rocks from above.

  “I think,” said Nakor, “he’s very close.”

  Erik stood on the wall overlooking the main gate. A huge ram was being rolled toward the outer wall and Manfred shouted, “Fire!”

  Catapults unleashed a veritable rain of rocks, and many of the attackers were struck down, but the ram rolled toward them. It had a wooden roof, protecting the men below, and Manfred said, “If they breach this gate, they’re into the inner city. We can’t fight house to house. We’ll have to fall back to the citadel.”

  Erik said, “Reinforcements are on the way.”

  “Well, they better get here in the next hour,” said Manfred. “Otherwise we’re going to be overrun.” He turned and shouted, “Oil!”

  Cauldrons of hot oil were poured over the wall, showering scalding death over those below. Men screamed and some retreated, but another wave rushed the wall, carrying scaling ladders.

  “Down!” shouted Greylock, and Erik and his half brother both acted instinctively, ducking behind the wall over the main gate to the city as a hundred arrows flew overhead.

  Men who had been slow to react screamed, many falling from the wall into the city streets.

  Manfred crouched next to Erik, both with their backs against the cold stone of the city walls. Manfred looked around at the injured and dying. “If your reinforcements don’t get here in the next ten minutes, I’m giving the order to withdraw.”

  Erik, hunkering down, said, “They can’t get here in ten minutes.”

  “Well, then we’d better begin an orderly withdrawal.” He turned to a man in the tabard of Darkmoor, with a sergeant’s chevrons embroidered above his heart. “Tell the men to withdraw by sections. Start at the south wall, and get them to High Street. We’ll fight our way back from there. Destroy the catapults. We can’t allow them to be turned on us.”

  A thunder of hooves and Erik risked a glance between two merlons. Saaur riders were massing at the far end of the gate. Erik said, “Manfred, as soon as that gate is open, you’re going to have a company of Saaur riders coming through!”

  Manfred turned to glance over the wall. “Always wondered what they look like—” His eyes widened. “Mother of gods!”

  “We need to leave now,” suggested Erik.

  Manfred agreed. To the sergeant he said, “Burn the catapults, then general withdrawal. Every man for the citadel!”

  Word was passed and archers fired down into the streets below, while men with poles pushed over scaling ladders. But as soon as the withdrawal began, ladders were again put up and invaders began climbing.

  Manfred and Erik ran down the stone steps to the street. Already chaos was let loose. A few civilians who had been too stubborn or too stupid to evacuate were now in the streets with sacks over their shoulders, running for the citadel. Wounded soldiers were being carried by healthy ones, and a few bowmen kept their heads and fired at the enemy as they came over the wall, but generally the retreat was turning into a rout.

  “Have you seen Greylock?” demanded Manfred

  “Not since he went to look over the southern wall.”

  “I hope he makes it,” said Manfred. An arrow struck the ground inches from his boot and he jumped.

  Erik grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him hard to the left, almost yanking him off balance, as three more arrows flew through the spot he had just occupied.

  “Thanks,” Manfred panted as they hurried around a corner.

  “Archers usually work in groups,” said Erik.

  They ran
down a cross street and turned to their right, then left again, and Erik could see the lights from the citadel’s highest tower above the rooftops. The streets sloped upward, toward the old castle, and by the time they reached High Street the thoroughfare was clogged with terrified refugees, out-of-breath soldiers, and men carrying their wounded comrades.

  “Make way!” shouted a voice and Erik saw Manfred had been recognized by one of Darkmoor’s soldiers. “The Baron’s here! Make way!”

  Erik stayed close to his half brother. They bullied their way through the press and made it to the edge of the drawbridge. Soldiers lined the sides of the bridge, frantically waving though those moving across it.

  Erik and Manfred both slumped to the cobbles in the bailey as soldiers ran to their aid. “Water,” gasped the Baron.

  Erik gasped, “I forgot how tired you can get running at this altitude.”

  “I forgot how tired you can get just running,” said Manfred.

  A bucket of water appeared and Manfred drank from it, then passed it to Erik, who gulped from it as it poured over his chest and arms.

  Manfred shouted, “Sergeant!”

  His sergeant appeared, and said, “M’lord?”

  “Word to the lookout above. The moment he sees the enemy at the other end of High Street, close the drawbridge.”

  Erik said, “Manfred, you can’t wait that long. You’ve got to start clearing it now or you’ll never get it closed in time.” He pointed to the flood of humanity, the civilians with slow-moving carts, the old men and women on foot, who were trying to squeeze through the gatehouse, and who were only succeeding in getting in one another’s way. “Look!”

  Manfred studied the situation, then said to the sergeant, “Clear the drawbridge. Tell those on the other side to hurry to the eastern gate. We can keep that one open a little longer. The others will have to make do as best they can.”

  Both men knew that being trapped outside the citadel was a death sentence.

  Manfred stood and motioned for Erik to follow. “We’d better report to the Prince.”

  Erik rose and moved after his half brother. They trudged through the central entrance to the keep and from behind could hear the angry shouts and tearful pleading of those being forced away from the entrance in anticipation of the gate’s being closed.

  Manfred led Erik up the stairs to the office occupied by the Prince.

  Patrick looked up and said, “Full retreat?”

  Manfred said, “Everyone is moving back here.”

  Patrick looked at Erik. “Greylock?”

  Erik motioned toward the city. “Out there somewhere.”

  Patrick said, “Damn!” He glanced out the window and saw fires beginning in the outer districts of the city. “Is there anything good in all of this?”

  Erik said, “The one good thing is they’re now fighting on three fronts. We’ve got men along the ridges with the dwarves and elves who will be harrying their flanks, and if we can hold out until morning, the bulk of the Army of the East will be here.”

  The Prince motioned for them to sit and both men did. Manfred said, “Unfortunately, the Army of the East will be on the wrong side of the city walls, and unless someone slips out and opens the gates for them, we may have a serious problem.”

  Erik said, “Manfred, you have any secret passageway to the eastern gates?”

  Manfred shook his head. “Nothing that clever, sorry to admit. The palace is lousy with bolt-holes and passages, but the old city walls are just solid stone with a few storage houses built in. We’ll have to wait, and when morning comes, if we must, we might be able to sally forth and seize the eastern gate closest to the citadel, letting our army in.”

  Erik said, “We have a long afternoon and a longer night ahead, Manfred.”

  Manfred said, “Highness?”

  Patrick remained calm in the face of all the ill news. “I need a situation report as quickly as you can get one to me. You and Erik find out how many of our men made it back, how many we think might still be out in the city fighting, and what we need to do to defend this citadel. Food and water are not problems, as this matter will be decided within one day.”

  Erik and Manfred both rose, bowed to the Prince, and departed. Outside, Manfred said, “I know the disposition of the units assigned to the castle, so I’ll start there. You head down to the courtyard and see who got here, and get them organized.”

  Erik smiled. “M’lord.”

  Manfred looked at Erik. “Mother always feared you’d attempt to usurp the office of Baron. Right now I’ll give it to you.”

  Erik smiled. “No thanks. Then I’d be the one to have to climb all those stairs to the towers.”

  “As I suspected, a practical man.” Manfred turned to quickly climb the steps to the next level of the keep, while Erik headed down toward the courtyard.

  Suddenly it went quiet.

  Pug held up his hand and tilted his head as if listening.

  Then the demon stood in the room.

  Nakor whispered, “I didn’t know demons could transport themselves.”

  “Or time-shift,” added Miranda.

  Then the demon realized he wasn’t alone in the cavern. A roar that rattled the rock walls, causing dust to fall from cracks in the ceiling, shook everyone to their bones.

  Pug unleashed his first spell, while Tomas interposed himself between his son and the monster.

  Crackling blue energies sprang up around Jakan, who howled. But he wasn’t screaming from pain but rather in outrage at what he saw before him: Calis manipulating the Lifestone, freeing the trapped energies within.

  “No!” the beast bellowed in the tongue of Novindus. “It is mine!”

  To Pug, Jakan resembled Maarg, but a leaner, more muscular-looking version. There were no accumulated rolls of fat, nor was he covered in as many tortured skins of his victims. Pug noticed that his tail was pointed, lacking the serpent’s head Maarg had possessed.

  Jakan struck out at Tomas, but Tomas had reflexively put up his white shield, causing the mighty blow to skid along the surface, leaving no mark on the golden dragon embossed upon it. Then Tomas’s blade slashed out, and Jakan howled as he drew back, a venomous red-black poison dripping from his wound. It hissed and smoked where it hit the stones.

  Miranda sent a stream of energies toward the creature, and struck him hard enough to move him a little to his left. Tomas seized the moment to strike while Jakan turned to see from where the new attack came. Tomas’s blade bit deep in the creature’s right thigh, and Jakan lashed out with his right hand, claws the size of daggers swiping at Tomas.

  Tomas turned the attack and thrust, again drawing poisonous blood.

  “Press the attack!” cried Nakor.

  Pug loosed a bolt of energy, a blue spear of light that passed through the demon’s wing, ripping a hole the size of a man’s fist. The demon stepped back, his wings brushing against the stone wall of the cavern, and lashed out again at Tomas. Tomas stepped back, preferring to dodge the blow rather than attempt to block it.

  The creature hung back, obviously confused by the sudden opposition. Then Nakor shouted, “It’s healing!”

  Pug watched and saw that the first wound Tomas had caused was closing rapidly.

  Nakor said, “The Lifestone! It’s healing the wounds.”

  Pug calculated. Calis had reduced the stone to less than a third its original size, and it appeared that the diminution was accelerating, giving him hope they would be done with this trial in less than an hour, but that meant keeping the creature at bay until Calis was finished. Pug turned to Miranda and said, “Rest. Tomas and I will try to keep this creature away from Calis until we’re done. If one of us falters, you must take over.”

  He turned and hurried to stand as close as he dared to the monster, and he crossed his wrists. A stunning bolt of red light shot out, striking Jakan hard enough in the face to slam him back into the wall.

  Tomas didn’t hesitate. He hurried forward and delivered a murderous ba
ckhand slash with his sword, cutting deep into the creature’s leg and sending a gout of poisonous blood spurting across the stones. The blood smoked upon contact and a stench of rotting things filled the air.

  Jakan howled in a murderous rage and leaped at Tomas. Tomas tried to move back and succeeded in getting far enough distant that the demon didn’t land atop him, but it put Jakan close enough that he could attempt to seize Calis.

  A clawed hand the size of a man shot out toward Calis, and Tomas reacted by slashing down as hard as he could with his golden sword. He hacked through a wrist four feet thick, and the creature screamed in pain and pulled away, his hand severed from his body.

  A stream of the foul black blood shot through the air and drenched Calis, who screamed in pain and fell back from the Lifestone.

  “Calis!” shouted Miranda, and she and Nakor ran to him. Immediately Pug and Tomas threw themselves into the battle. Energy lashed out, and Tomas struck with his sword, forcing the wounded demon back. Jakan clutched the bleeding stump of his arm to his chest, letting them force him to the wall.

  Nakor hurried to Calis, grabbing one of his hands, while Miranda took the other, and they dragged him out of the pool of black blood. Instantly the Lifestone ceased being active.

  Calis lay on the floor twitching as his skin burned, peeling as if he had been bathed in acid. He clenched his teeth and kept his eyes closed, and made low animal noises of agony. Miranda and Nakor both felt their hands stinging and quickly wiped their hands on their clothing. Holes appeared in the fabric, but at least their hands stopped burning.

  Miranda looked around and saw the servants of the Oracle huddling in the farthest corner of the great hall, sheltered behind the recumbent form of the dragon. She ran to them and said, “We need help!”

  The oldest member of the band, the one who had spoken to her before, said, “There is nothing we can do.”

  Miranda grabbed the old man by the arm, hauling him to his feet. “Think of something!”

  She dragged the old man closer to the scene of battle and pointed to Calis, who lay moaning. She pointed at him and said, “Help him!”