Into a Dark Realm: Book Two of the Darkwar Saga

by Raymond E. Feist

Pug laughed. Then his face returned to an expression of concern. “Magnus, all I can tell you now is that I know it is imperative we travel to the Dasati homeworld, to the very heart of their empire, and that we must do it via a particular world—where I suspect we shall find the cause of these incursions into Kelewan and the origin of the rifts—and then we must do whatever we discover needs doing to save our world and Kelewan.”

  “But what I don’t understand is why should we be at risk at all? The Talnoy is safely contained in the Assembly and no more rifts are troubling Midkemia. Why not destroy the Talnoy? Tomas’s memories of the Dragon Lords say they are not impervious to all harm. Or at least remove it to some other place, perhaps a deserted world?”

  Pug sighed. “I have considered all that, and more. If we can learn anything valuable from the Assembly’s study of the device it is worth the risk. I am unwilling to disturb any of the Talnoy still hidden from the Dasati by the wards in Novindus. If need be, the Assembly can remove the Talnoy back to Midkemia via a rift to our island, and your mother knows what must be done should that be necessary.”

  Magnus stood up. “Let us go for a walk. I feel the need for a change. My stomach no longer bothers me and this room has become confining.”

  Pug agreed and they left the merchant’s quarters. They were expected to be there at sundown when Danko was due to join them for another exercise in magic. Nakor’s observation about “stuff” in this world behaving differently had proven apt; once the Ipiliac magician had begun his tutoring, Pug quickly recognized that everything in this realm followed different laws of behavior and required new rules of operation for magic to work. It was, as Pug had observed after the first lesson, like learning a new language.

  In the plaza they encountered another of the Ipiliac festivals in progress. Pug had been amused to discover that these people had many such events, some commemorating holy events or dates of historic significance. This one seemed to have something to do with food, as small cakes were being thrown to the crowd from those in the procession.

  Pug snatched a muffin-sized confection out of the air and nibbled it. “Not bad,” he observed, handing half to Magnus, who held up his hand to decline the offer.

  They walked the plaza, venturing a little way down the main boulevard, still amazed at the scale of the Ipiliac city. Buildings rose up a dozen stories, all smoothly faced with matching stone. There was nothing of this city that remotely resembled any human city that either father or son had visited, none of the slapdash construction seen in the Kingdom, nor the accommodations to the weather seen in the Hotlands of Kesh, where houses were squat dark havens from the day’s heat; nor Kelewan, where buildings were uniformly painted white to reflect the sunlight, and manors were built with wood and paper, sliding walls to accommodate breezes, and many fountains and pools.

  Down one side street a small parade approached: a woman of wealth riding in a sedan chair carried by burly—by Ipiliac standards—bearers. Magnus and Pug stepped aside as the regal woman passed, bedecked in what could only be called a provocative fashion: a slender girdle studded with jewels from which hung the lightest of skirts, leaving very little to the imagination, and a top consisting of complex beadwork which shifted and moved with tantalizing glimpses of bare skin beneath. Her black hair, the most common hue among these people, was piled high on her head and gathered in a ring of gold, falling down the back of her head like a horse tail, and she wore gems on every finger.

  As she moved on, Magnus observed, “This acclimatization we are undergoing has an interesting effect, Father. I found that female attractive.”

  “They are a handsome race, once you get used to their alien appearance,” observed Pug.

  “No, I mean attractive in a way that I might find a human woman arousing. Which is strange.”

  Pug shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. I found the elf queen to be beautiful by any standard, yet it was not a genuine physical yearning; but Tomas was smitten long before he transformed into what he is today.

  “Maybe it has something to do with the changes we are subjecting ourselves to, or maybe it is merely a case of your having a more encompassing view of beauty than your father.”

  Magnus said, “Perhaps. I wonder who she might be. Were we in Kesh, I would think she was a member of the nobility or a minor royal. In Krondor, a courtesan to some man of wealth.” He shook his head in resignation. “Here? Can we learn enough about the Dasati in…anything approaching a reasonable time to survive a visit to their world?”

  Pug sighed. “I think I can say with some conviction we will, but as to how I come to believe that…” Once again he wondered about telling his son about the messages from the future. “Let us say I believe this journey is less dangerous than it looks.”

  Magnus was silent for a minute, then he said, “You have to stop treating me like your son, Father. I am, and have been for years, your most gifted student. I am nearly as powerful as you or Mother in several skills, and I suspect I may someday outstrip you both. I know you’re trying to protect me—”

  Pug cut him off. “If I was trying to protect you, Magnus, I’d have left you back on the island with your mother and brother.” He looked around, as if trying to frame his thoughts and choose his words carefully. “Don’t ever claim that I’m trying to protect you, Magnus. I’ve kept silent a dozen or more times when you’ve gone in harm’s way and every fiber in me screamed to send someone else. You may be a father someday and when you are you’ll understand what it is I’m saying. If I merely wanted you to be safe, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “You lost a brother and sister you never knew, but I lost children I loved as dearly as I love you and Caleb.”

  Magnus stood with his arms crossed and stared down at him, and for an instant Pug saw his wife in his son, both in his stance and expression. At last Magnus sighed. He looked Pug in the eye and said, “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “Don’t be,” said Pug, gripping his arm. “I appreciate your frustration. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t recall my own as I grew into my power, and I will remind you that your growth has been far more easy than my own.”

  Magnus smiled warmly. “I realize that.” He knew that his father had struggled while training under his original mentor, the old Lesser Path magician Kulgan, because at that stage in his life, Pug had been a natural adept of the Greater Path, a distinction which was no longer significant, but had very much been so when he was a boy. And after that came four years spent as a slave, then another four training with the Assembly of Magicians on Kelewan. By comparison, Magnus’s training had been positively idyllic.

  “Still,” continued Pug, “it remains to be seen exactly how we are going to survive the coming journey.”

  A voice from behind, speaking unaccented Keshian, said, “Exactly the question you should be asking.”

  Pug and Magnus had not noticed the speaker approach, so they both reacted quickly, assuming positions that could only be called defensive: weight distributed evenly, knees slightly bent, and hands near the daggers in their belts. Neither felt competent enough to attempt a magical defense yet.

  “Be at ease. If I wished you dead, you would both already be dead,” said the speaker, a tall Ipiliac with the most human-looking face either had seen so far, made so in part by deep-set eyes and a heavy brow of bushy black hair. He wore his hair down to his shoulders, another unusual feature among these people as most men trimmed theirs at the nape or higher. His face was lined, suggesting his age to be past his prime, but his eyes were alert, his gaze scrutinizing, and his bearing and clothing could only be called a warrior’s: quilted gambeson jacket, a crossed leather harness bearing several weapons, and breeches and boots, suggesting he was a rider.

  “I am Martuch,” he said calmly. “I am your guide. I am of the Dasati.”

  TWELVE

  ENEMIES

  Miranda threw a vase.

  Exasperation overcame self-control and she needed to vent her frustration. Instantly regretting the
act—she liked the simple but sturdy pottery—she reached out with her mind and stopped the ceramic vessel scant inches before it reached the opposite wall, preventing it from shattering. She willed it back to her hand and replaced it on the table where it had stood a moment earlier.

  Caleb entered just in time to witness the display. “Father?” he asked.

  Miranda nodded. “I miss him, and it makes me…”

  Caleb grinned, and for a moment she saw her husband’s smile. “Impatient?” he offered.

  “A wise choice of words,” she said. “Is there news?”

  “No, not from Father or Magnus, nor do I expect any soon. But we do have a message from the Assembly requesting your appearance at your earliest convenience.”

  Miranda did a rough calculation in her head and realized it was midmorning on both worlds, for the uneven days caused long periods where midafternoon on one would be the middle of the night on the other. “I’ll go now,” she told Caleb. “You’re in charge until I return.”

  Caleb held up his hands. “You know many of the—”

  “Magicians don’t like it when you’re in charge,” she finished. “I know. And I don’t care. This is your father’s and my island, and that makes it your island when we’re not around. Besides, Rosenvar is still in Novindus with the Talnoy, Nakor and your brother are with your father, so that means you will just have to cope with any petty annoyance that comes along. If a dispute arises, settle it, or at least postpone resolution until one of us is back.

  “Besides, my son, I may not be long on Kelewan.”

  “I can only hope,” said Caleb.

  As his mother walked away, she turned and said, “Any word from the boys?”

  Caleb shrugged. “They don’t have the ability to communicate quickly, Mother. I’ve asked a couple of our agents in Roldem to keep a watch when they can, but how much trouble can they be in surrounded by an entire university of La-Timsan monks?”

  “You are in so much trouble,” said Zane.

  “So much,” echoed Tad.

  Jommy shot them both black looks as he stepped out onto the practice floor. The students were training with swords, and while Jommy knew how to club a man with the hilt, cut his throat after kicking him in the groin, and every other dirty trick Caleb had been able to teach him, this was tournament sword fighting, with rules, a Master of the Sword to observe they were followed, and his opponent was Godfrey, Servan’s closest ally, and from the way he held his weapon, he was no stranger to the practice floor.

  Jommy tugged at the tight collar of his jacket as the Master of the Sword motioned for the two opponents to come together at the center of the floor. The rest of the class watched quietly, all of them under the supervision of half a dozen monks.

  The Master of the Sword spoke just loudly enough for his voice to carry over the muttering of the boys without yelling. “This practice is to demonstrate the counterstrike.” He turned to Jommy and said, “As Godfrey is the more experienced with a sword, you shall launch an attack. You may choose any line, high, middle, or low, but light or no contact only. Is that clear?”

  Jommy nodded and returned to where his two foster brothers stood. Tad handed him the helmet, a basket face-mask sewn to a cloth back. He lowered it over his head and took the starting position.

  “Start!” commanded the Master, and Jommy hesitated, then launched a high blow, attempting as best he could within the rules to take Godfrey’s head off.

  Godfrey easily beat aside the strike, extended his arm, and delivered a hard touch to Jommy’s chest; then as he withdrew his sword, with a flick he struck the only exposed part of Jommy’s body, the back of his hand.

  “Ow!” Jommy shouted, dropping his sword, to the obvious delight of the other students, who laughed loudly.

  “Pick up your sword,” the Master said.

  “He did that on purpose,” Jommy said accusingly as he knelt to pick up his weapon.

  Godfrey removed his helm and grinned at Jommy with contempt.

  With disdain, the Master of the Sword said, “It’s a poor swordsman who accuses an opponent as a means of disguising his own shortcomings.”

  Jommy stared for a long moment at the Master of the Sword, then said, “Right. Let’s do it again.”

  He removed his own helm, walked to Zane and handed it to him, ran his hand through his damp hair, then nodded once as he retrieved his headgear. Putting the helm back on, he turned to face Godfrey.

  Tad said, “I don’t like that look.”

  “Remember what happened the last time we saw it?”

  “That tavern in Kesh?”

  “Yes, where that soldier said that thing to the girl—”

  “The one Jommy had taken a liking to?” Tad finished.

  “That’s the one.”

  “That wasn’t good.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” agreed Zane.

  “This can’t be good,” said Tad.

  “No, it can’t,” agreed Zane.

  Jommy walked to the center. The Master said, “Again,” and directed the two combatants to their positions. “On the last pass,” he said to the observing students, “this lad”—he pointed at Jommy—“overextended his attack, putting himself off balance, off line, and leaving himself open to a simple beat from his opponent’s sword, which put him further off line and left him open for the counter-blow.” He glanced at the two opponents and said, “Begin!”

  Jommy came in, exactly as he had last time, repeating every move until the moment when Godfrey beat aside his blade. Rather than extend his arm fully, Jommy circled his blade around Godfrey’s so his hilt was inside the other boy’s, forcing Godfrey to try his own circling move, attempting to catch Jommy’s blade, and again force it to the outside.

  But instead of making another circle, Jommy raised his blade as if saluting, an unexpected move that caused Godfrey to falter. That was all the time Jommy needed. But instead of retreating a step to give himself room and reestablish his right-of-way, required before a touch could be claimed, Jommy just cocked his elbow and drove his sword hilt into Godfrey’s face with as much force as possible.

  The practice helms were designed to ward off a sword’s tip or edge, not withstand a full-on blow from an angry youth of considerable size and strength.

  The face-mesh folded and Godfrey went to his knees, blood flowing from under the mask. “Foul!” cried the Master of the Sword.

  “Probably,” said Jommy. “But I’ve seen worse in a fight than that.”

  The Master of the Sword looked at the senior monk in attendance, Brother Samuel, who managed to control any impulse to laugh that visited him. A solder in the Army of Roldem before receiving the call to La-Timsa’s service, Samuel was in charge of the students’ martial training. Jommy, Tad, and Zane had taken an instant liking to the man, and he seemed to enjoy their rough-edged approach to the subject. While the three boys might be far behind the others in matters of history, literature, philosophy, and the arts, it was clear their previous “education” had included a fair amount of hand-to-hand combat and swordplay. They might not be duelists, but they were fair brawlers. Brother Samuel tilted his head and arched his eyebrows, as if to say to the Master of the Sword, “You’re in charge: you deal with it.”

  “This is the Masters’ Court!” he said, as if that explained everything. “These lessons are to perfect the art of swordsmanship.”

  “Then I won,” said Jommy.

  “What?” The look on the Master of the Sword’s face was one of incredulity.

  “Certainly,” said Jommy, putting his own helmet under his right arm so he could gesture with his left hand.

  “That’s outrageous!” shouted Servan.

  Jommy took a deep breath, and in a tone used by those talking to little children or very stupid adults he said, “I knew you wouldn’t understand, Servan.”

  To the Master of the Sword he said, “My opponent was trying to establish a line of attack that would make me step back while trying to disengage his bla
de, correct?”

  The Master of the Sword could only nod.

  “So, if I did that, he’d have pushed my blade to the outside and lunged, and unless I was a lot faster than him—which I’m not—he would have touched me and I’d have lost. Or he would have beaten it to the inside, made a quick follow to reestablish his line and probably get right-of-way before me, and another touch. One more touch, he wins the bout.

  “On the other hand, if I punch him in the face, and he can’t win off a foul, we have to start again, and maybe this time I win.”

  “This is…” Words seem to fail the Master of the Sword.

  Jommy looked around the room and said, “What? Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work after a foul?”

  The Master of the Sword shook his head. “The bout is finished. I declare Godfrey the victor.”

  Still nursing his bloody nose, Godfrey hardly looked the winner. He glared at Jommy, who merely smiled at him and shrugged.

  Brother Samuel instructed the boys to change back into their uniforms: today’s lesson was over. Servan whispered something into Godfrey’s ear while the injured boy glared at Jommy.

  Brother Samuel walked past each boy in the class in turn, offering an observation or two on their fighting styles, and when he got to the three boys from Sorcerer’s Island, he said, “Tad, well done. Quickness is a good advantage. But be a little more cautious in trying to anticipate your opponent’s next move.” He looked at Zane and said, “You need to anticipate more. You’re too cautious.”

  Then he looked at Jommy and said, “I’d never take you to a tournament, boy, but you can stand on my left at the wall, anytime.” He winked and walked away.

  Jommy smiled at his foster brothers and said, “Well, it’s nice to know someone appreciates my better qualities.”

  Zane looked past Jommy to Servan and Godfrey. “He may be the only one.” He dropped his voice. “You’re on your way to having a couple of very powerful enemies, Jommy. We’re not always going to be at university and a relative of the King may have a very long reach.”