Into a Dark Realm: Book Two of the Darkwar Saga

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Then ask if anyone has been behaving oddly. Father says that it takes someone occupying another’s body a while to adjust.”

  “He’s right,” said Miranda, as she stopped her pacing as something else struck her. “My father had books on necromancy which are right here on this island.”

  “Then might I suggest you consult them, for if you can’t find the man, perhaps you can find the magic.”

  “You’ve given me an idea,” said Miranda, quickly hurrying out of the room.

  Caleb looked at the door his mother had just used and said quietly, “You’re welcome.”

  Pug stood waiting as the Dasati Martuch stood next to Magnus, with a priest of some sort from a local temple on the other side of him. They were learning the dominant language of the Dasati, using “tricks” Nakor had employed before—a type of magic Pug had witnessed during the Riftwar used by an Ishapian priest named Dominic. The local priest was necessary because Nakor’s command of his “tricks” was still tentative at best and would take more refinement before he would risk anything dealing with the mind.

  All Pug knew was that it had taken the better part of an hour, but he now spoke fluent, idiomatic Dasati; and he had a throbbing headache. Magnus looked as if he were going to throw up his lunch.

  “The discomfort will pass,” said Martuch.

  The only one who appeared completely untroubled by the experience was Bek, who now seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of moving on to the second plane of reality.

  Martuch said, “Before we depart, there are things you must know for the journey, and things you need to know for when we arrive.

  “Delecordia is a world that has somehow reached a balancing point between the first and second realms of reality. There have been many theories and speculations by great minds among the Ipiliac, but no one knows how, why, or when it happened. Nor do we have any knowledge of any place like it.”

  “The Hall of the Worlds is a big place,” said Nakor with a grin. “You’ll find another one, someday, I bet.”

  Pug knew better than to bet against Nakor.

  Martuch went on. “The people you see here are descendants of refugees. Ages ago when the ancestors of the current TeKarana rose to preeminence among the Dasati, there was a worldwide war and those who opposed his reign fled here. The details are lost in antiquity.” He looked around. “The Ipiliac are people you could reason with, find common ground with, come to terms with, but we Dasati are less like the Ipiliac than you are.”

  He studied Pug. Pug endured the gaze and understood. “You fight every moment you’re here, don’t you?”

  “More than you will ever know. It takes constant effort not to draw a sword and start a slaughter. The Ipiliac and other races are what I was taught to abhor: lesser beings, weaklings not worthy of existence.” He sighed. “In time, I have been told, the struggle will be less overt, less conscious, and I believe that to be so.” He ventured what Pug had come to understand was a Dasati smile. “I’ve gone entire minutes without wanting to take your heads, of late.” Then his tone turned serious. “When we leave here, it will be unlike anything you’ve experienced, for there is no ‘door’ into a Hall in the second realm, or at least no one has found anything like the Hall in the lower realms of reality.”

  Pug interrupted. “How do you know that?”

  “In good time,” said Martuch, holding up his hand. “There will be time for answers to such academic questions when we get to our destination.” He glanced around, and said, “Right now, we need to concentrate on survival. Remember this: there is no escape. There is nowhere to which you can flee. Once you are on Kosridi, you are stuck there. And there you must remain until your mysterious mission is over. And always, every waking moment, you must remember that the most dangerous person among the Ipiliac is less of a threat to you than the gentlest soul among the Dasati.

  “You are disguised as Attenders, which is both a risk and safety. Their moral position and impulse to help others makes them despised among most Dasati, yet it will help you mask any blunders you might make.” He held up his hand. “I caution you, say or do nothing unless we speak first. There are countless ways you can get yourself killed, and I cannot protect you until we reach our safe haven.

  “I will be a warrior, a Rider of the Sadharin—that is one of the societies of warriors I’ve mentioned to you. You are under my protection because I find you useful, but should you make any blunders, I will be expected to kill you as quickly as a stranger might, so heed my warning: If I must, I will kill one of you to save this mission. Do we understand one another?”

  They looked at each other, and Pug knew what Magnus was thinking: that Martuch would have his hands full killing any of the four. No one said a word, just nodded in agreement.

  “Lastly, speak to no one, under any circumstances, unless I instruct you to. We shall travel by thought alone to the world of Kosridi, and to the castle of an ally a few weeks’ travel from the capital city. We shall rest there, and there you shall hone your deception, learning to be Dasati from other Dasati besides myself. After that we will travel to Kosridi City and take the Star Bridge to three worlds, until we reach Omadrabar.” Looking at Pug, he said, “I trust by the time we do, we will both have a clear idea of what this mad quest is, and how it will benefit both our causes.”

  Silently Pug thought, We can only hope.

  SEVENTEEN

  WARRIORS

  Jommy waved his sword.

  From down at the bottom of the hill, Grandy returned the signal. The boys had been given a relatively safe post, overseeing a company of wounded soldiers behind the lines. Jommy, Servan, and Tad were up on a ridge, scouting the best route out of the area of main conflict, while Grandy, Zane, and Godfrey were down below with the three wagons of injured men. A few walking wounded hobbled along beside the wagons, which were slowed enough by terrain for them to keep pace. They were wending their way through an alpine meadow cut by several game trails. The afternoon sun had turned the day warm and bright, but riddled the landscape with deep shadows, and keeping the slow-moving wagons on the correct path down the mountain was tricky. Without the three boys scouting ahead, the wagons could easily have wandered down a dry wash leading nowhere. Jommy knew that once over this last ridge it was a straight run down a trail that would take them to the waiting riverboats.

  The conflict had reached a crescendo about five miles to the northeast, as General Bertrand’s and Kaspar’s forces had brought the infantry from Bardac’s to bay. The invaders had holed up in an old frontier fortress, now half destroyed by the elements. Roldem’s siege engines, two small trebuchets and two large ballistae, were being brought up to reduce the other half of the fortress to rubble. Of the Bardac cavalry, no sight had been seen, and speculation had run through the camp that they were already back across the border into the Holdfast.

  Servan turned to Jommy. “Once we’re over this ridge I think we should see a fairly quiet run down to the river. The boats should still be there—” Suddenly he stopped.

  Jommy heard it at the same instant. “Horses!”

  Neither boy had to be reminded that all the Roldemish cavalry was up at the front, providing a screen for the siege engines. Jommy was off down the hill, a half-step behind Servan, and a step ahead of Tad, who looked surprised to see his two companions racing down the hill. Then Jommy’s shout penetrated, and Tad heard the sound of hooves on the rocks down a long draw.

  Grandy, Zane, and Godfrey had heard it as well. The injured men who were able to were helping the others out of the wagons. Any man caught in the open wagons when the cavalry struck would be dead.

  Four archers and two swordsmen had been detailed with the six young officers, and before Jommy could even think to consider what to do, Servan was giving orders. “You, you, and you,” he said to the first three archers, pointing at each one in turn. “Up on those rocks and shoot at the first head you see coming up that draw, man or horse, I don’t care.” To the fourth archer, he said, “I w
ant you over there”—he pointed to an outcropping that rose up to the defenders’ right—“and see if you can discourage them from turning toward you.” To the two fit guardsmen and the other boys he shouted, “Unhitch these wagons and turn them on their sides! Let’s go!”

  Jommy saw no sense in debating who was supposed to be senior, for he had no idea what to do, and at least Servan had the men following orders. The young cousin to the Prince shouted, “Any man who can wield a weapon, behind the wagons. The rest of you, up this trail”—he pointed to a game trail leading off over the ridge—“and hide as best you can!”

  Those who could helped those who couldn’t move by themselves up the trail. A half-dozen wounded men joined the archers and the swordsmen.

  Servan grabbed Grandy and said, “Head up the trail with the wounded.” When the Prince hesitated, he shouted, “Go! Protect them!”

  Grandy nodded and did as instructed. Jommy knew he offered as much protection as a squirrel, but the order gave the boy a sense of purpose and saved his pride.

  The wagons had been overturned and Jommy saw that everyone was as ready as could be; and the freed horses were now scattering through the woods. “Get ready!” he shouted, shifting his weight and looking to see where the charge would come from.

  Then suddenly the air was full of war cries and arrows.

  The three archers peppered the first riders, emptying at least four saddles, and when they tried to turn, the fourth archer killed the first two men who left the line of attack.

  Those behind lowered themselves over the necks of their mounts and charged the wagons. Jommy judged them a ragtag outfit, mostly mercenaries from what he could see, no uniforms, no organization. He knew that if they were offered an avenue of escape they’d take it, so he ran to stand next to Servan and said, “If they break for the north, let them go.”

  “Let them go?” said the young noble.

  “Yes! These are swords for hire and will not die in a lost cause.”

  Then the riders hit the wagons. Jommy saw Tad whirl and cut a rider from his horse, while Zane leaped up from his crouch behind one of the wagons to pull a Bardic man from his saddle. As Jommy expected, the riders needed less than a minute to get around the sides of the three overturned wagons, and now he faced two armed riders trying to turn in behind the defenders.

  The wounded men were putting up the best fight they could, but Jommy knew they were overmatched. The archers would quickly run out of arrows and had no swords or shields, just trench knives. Jommy picked the closest rider and struck hard at the man, who caught Jommy’s blade on his own. The man quickly began the short chopping blows favored by cavalry that prevented an infantryman from getting in too close, and Jommy was forced to retreat. Another rider came at Jommy from his left, and the boy spun, bringing his sword around quickly as he ducked. The rider’s sword passed harmlessly over Jommy’s head, but Jommy’s blade bit deep into the rider’s leg. The man shouted in pain and couldn’t keep his saddle with only one good leg.

  Jommy saw the now riderless horse turn and without thought he made a two-step dash and leaped into the saddle before the first rider could turn and come at him. Jommy was a good swordsman, and a good rider, but he had never fought from horseback before, not even in practice. He knew from what Caleb, Kaspar, and Talwin Hawkins had told him that an experienced warhorse would know what his rider wished because of leg pressure, but Jommy had no idea if this was an experienced animal or not; and he was not its usual rider. He quickly took the reins in his left hand and raised his right just in time to block a blow from the first rider.

  Jommy lashed out with his right hand, a sweeping sideways blow that almost took him out of his own saddle. And the horse turned in place! His leg pressure on the horse’s left, along with the slight tug on the reins, had caused the mount to follow the natural movement of Jommy’s blow. He put his heels to the horse’s barrel and was off after the first rider. The man turned just as Jommy caught up with him and suddenly there was a tall redheaded rider swinging a murderous blow at him.

  The man tried to lean back in the saddle, but he overbalanced, and in that instant, Jommy had him. Jommy recovered from his forward sweep and dealt the man a lethal backhanded sword blow that took him completely out of the saddle.

  Jommy turned his mount and saw that Servan, Tad, Godfrey, and Zane were being hard-pressed by half a dozen riders. Jommy charged.

  He rode his horse like a madman, forcing the frantic animal to slam hard between two mounts. He ignored the rider on his left, hoping he wouldn’t lose his head for doing so, and leaped from the saddle, dragging the rider on his right off his horse.

  Suddenly Jommy was rolling on the ground, gouging, kicking, kneeing, biting, punching with the hilt of his sword, for he had no room to swing the blade. Horses were whinnying in alarm and stamping all around him, and the boy and the man he battled with rolled wildly. Jommy prayed he didn’t get stepped on by a frightened horse.

  He slammed the hilt of his sword into the man’s jaw and saw the man’s eyes lose focus. Jommy hit him again and the man’s expression went slack, but only for an instant. He was an experienced warrior, and no matter how strong Jommy was, the man had probably endured worse. The man shook his head to clear it and was about to draw back his own fist when a boot toe struck him in the temple. His eyes rolled up into his head.

  A strong hand grabbed Jommy by the back of his uniform tunic and hauled him to his feet. Zane let go and said, “Glad you could join us.”

  Jommy turned and struck a blow at a rider who was trying to get away. The riders withdrew, heading up the north trail as Jommy had suspected they would.

  He shouted, “Let them go!” and then realized no one in this little company was in any shape to give chase. Jommy let the sword slip from his fingers and sat down hard on the ground, whatever strength he had left flowing out of him like water out of a cracked gourd.

  Servan sat down next to him. “That was a close thing.”

  Jommy nodded. “Very. You did well, the way you got everything organized. Very impressive.”

  “Thanks,” said Servan.

  Tad hurried over. “I’m going after Grandy to see if he’s all right.”

  Jommy nodded and Godfrey said, “I’ll go with him.”

  Servan said, “I watched you when you rode your horse into the fray, you madman. You almost lost your head pulling that man from the saddle. The rider on your blind side barely missed you.”

  “Well, you know what they say, ‘a miss is as good as a mile.’”

  “They do say that, don’t they?” Servan smiled and then laughed. “And the way you were rolling in the dirt. The biting, kicking, all that. Did you actually try to chew off his ear?”

  “You bite anything you can,” said Jommy. “It takes his mind off killing you.”

  Servan laughed. “I take your meaning now.”

  “About what?”

  “That practice bout, back at the Masters’ Court. When you punched me in the face.”

  “My meaning?”

  “About how you do whatever you need to do to win,” said Servan. “Dueling doesn’t seem like much preparation for what we just went through.”

  “I don’t see any wounds on you, so I reckon you did well enough.”

  Again Servan laughed. “True. Is it always like this?”

  “What?”

  “This feeling? I’m almost giddy.”

  Jommy nodded. “Sometimes. You’re damn glad to still be breathing. Not like those blokes.” He pointed to a half-dozen corpses nearby. “It can make a man downright silly.”

  “Ah,” said Servan, leaning back against the overturned wagon.

  “Other times it makes you so sick to your heart you’re certain you’ll die from the ache,” said Jommy, remembering the torture to the captured Nighthawk Jomo Ketlami. He lowered his head for a minute. “But most of the time you’re just so tired you can’t move.”

  Servan took a deep breath. “We’d better get these boys organ
ized.” He stood and turned to offer Jommy a hand up.

  The larger boy took it and when they were standing face-to-face, Jommy said, “One thing.”

  “What?”

  “About that bout at the Masters’ Court. So, then…what you’re saying is, I won?”

  Servan laughed, and put up his hands. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “But you just said…” began Jommy; but the royal cousin turned his back and started giving orders to the men.

  Valko stood motionless for a moment, then moved to the huge window overlooking the courtyard. His mother rode in on the back of a small varnin, dressed as he remembered her during the Hiding. He didn’t know what he expected, perhaps to see her in some regal court attire, or being carried in a palanquin by Lessers. She dismounted and handed the reins to a lackey, then quickly entered the keep.

  Valko left the rooms he was using while his father’s quarters were being made ready for him. He had chosen to remove all the personal items, having a bitter taste still from the killing. It had been nothing like the triumph he had imagined when he was a child, a moment of glory as he began building his own personal empire.

  His mother entered the long hall leading to his father’s quarters, and Valko called to her, “Mother, over here!”

  She hurried to him, looking exactly as he had remembered her. She was tall, commanding, and still beautiful, with only a touch of grey at the temples as her still-dark hair fell to her shoulders. He understood why many men desired her, but now he understood why he was her only child. It had all been part of a plan.

  Her eyes were the most intense Valko had ever seen and her gaze filled him at once with a giddy feeling and dread. She was his mother, and the love between mother and son was unique among the Dasati. She would have died a hundred times over to save him.

  She embraced him, a gentle hug which lasted an instant, then said, “We must be alone.”

  Valko indicated the quarters he had set aside for her, next to those used by his father. “I will be taking the lord’s quarters tomorrow,” he said as he walked her to her rooms.