Into a Dark Realm: Book Two of the Darkwar Saga

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Now we need no fire, for there are agents that will do the same without heat.” He motioned and two servants emptied the contents of the two bags into the water and stepped back.

  The reagents began to react and the water began to bubble. The defiant youth’s shouts quickly turned from rage to agony. Some of the mixture splashed onto a servant standing too close, and he clawed at his eyes in pain.

  The guests began to laugh uncontrollably. The louder the prisoner screamed, the more the guests became lost in paroxysms of hilarity. The lad splashed liquid up on his own shoulders, neck, and face and blisters and reddish-orange wounds began to form.

  The screaming lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, and when the prisoner neared death, Valko could see the guests rising from their seats, staring with avid hunger. The women were ready, Valko could see, many of them running hands up and down their own bodies, and many of the men were showing obvious signs of lust.

  His mother had been right. A single death, arranged at the proper moment, was more effective than the random slaughters usually orchestrated for these events. Watching half a dozen Lessers trampled by animals or eaten by starving zarkis caused too much distraction, but one death, artfully done, brought intense focus.

  Valko signaled to a servant. “Ask Lord Makara’s daughter if she would join me.” The servant ran over to the indicated girl and whispered to her. Her head came around and her eyes were alight with hunger as her hands clutched at the fabric of her dress. Valko knew that if he wished, she would let him take her right now in front of the assembled company.

  Several of the lords of the Sadharin had left the head table and were standing close to females they would bed tonight. Valko considered a great number of declarations would occur, and in years to come, many sons would arrive at castles as a result of tonight’s mating. Only Valko, his mother, and a handful of the Riders of the Sadharin knew that every match was orchestrated by the Bloodwitches, and that every child born of tonight’s mating who survived their Hidings would become servants of the White.

  Thoughts of the White were difficult to entertain while caught up in the blood and lust of the moment. Valko smiled as the youth’s last breath left his body and declared, “Weakling.”

  His mother whispered, “He did not seek to cross Camareen lands, my son. He sought to come to this castle. He was Aruke’s son. He was your brother.”

  Valko felt an odd chill rise up within and his head snapped around. He locked eyes with his mother and at that moment his feelings were so confused he didn’t know if he could keep from striking her. Yet her soft touch made him focus. “Had you done anything other than what you did, you would have appeared fatally weak to your guests: you would have shown everyone that you are not worthy to rule the Camareen. Just know the price of what you do. You have just begun the struggle, my son, and the pain you now feel will return, many times, in the years to come.” She caressed his cheek as she had when he was a baby. “Go now,” she whispered. “Put aside all thoughts of pain and suffering, blood and death. Go, make a powerful son this night.”

  Valko forced his confusion aside, left the table, and found the girl waiting for him at the door leading from the hall to his quarters. He put his arm around her waist and embraced her, violently, hungrily, and without tenderness. Then he took her hand and led her to his bedchamber.

  The dinner was strange. Pug sat at the head of the table, Martuch across from him. Ipiliacs dressed in odd clothing moved silently around him, placing dishes and removing them, filling flagons and cups without a word.

  Martuch insisted they dine this way every night for a week before leaving, for it was, he said, the best way in which they might become more attuned to all things Dasati.

  “This food is not exactly what you will eat on Kosridi, but it is close. Enough so that if you’re served a common dish you will not react to it in an unexpected fashion.

  “Those serving you are acting in the fashion of Lessers, so watch them. You will almost certainly never find yourself at a table such as this, for this is how the warriors dine. The only time men and women dine at the same table is if they are alone, perhaps after coupling.”

  Pug nodded. Martuch had been an exemplary teacher, his mind a repository of a million details of Dasati life. Pug could not imagine anyone better suited to prepare them for this expedition.

  For weeks they had been practicing the language, and a convincing story—that they were three Attenders, serving Martuch; and the young warrior Bek was the son of a distant noble in a minor society who was making a pilgrimage to the TeKarana’s city of Omadrabar, which was not unheard of, especially if the young warrior was inclined toward becoming a Deathpriest. For in Omadrabar was the great temple of the Dark One, where Martuch claimed the living god resided, and from where all power emanated.

  Pug worried about Bek, though Nakor said the young warrior would be kept under control. He seemed a different being here on Delecordia, and Pug wondered what change arriving on the second level of reality would bring about. He was becoming Dasati in many ways. He had to only be told once what was expected of him, and he complied, flawlessly.

  Nakor had indicated from the first that he suspected that something alien, dangerous, maybe even something linked to the Nameless One, resided in Bek. But perhaps that darkness came from the Dark God of the Dasati. Pug hated that there were so many unknowns, yet he trusted that at least he must survive, or how would he otherwise have sent back the messages?

  His big concern was for Magnus and Nakor, for he knew in his heart that Lims-Kragma’s bargain with him, when he lay near death in her hall, was not an idle threat. He would watch everyone he loved die before him, including his children. But every day he prayed that this day would not be the day on which that pain began. Now, he wondered, was he fated to lose his son and Nakor on this mad mission?

  Pug put aside his misgivings, knowing the worry over something he could not control was a waste of energy, both mental and emotional. Every member of the Conclave knowingly agreed to go in harm’s way, risking their lives for a greater good. Even so, being aware of that didn’t lessen Pug’s concern.

  Martuch would play the young Bek’s mentor, a warrior pledged in alliance to Bek’s mythical father. Dasati alliances were so complex, so multilevel in nature, that no one other than a Facilitator who worked at the Hall of Ancestors could possibly recognize every named lord, family, clan, or battle society.

  On that subject, Pug said, “Martuch, you said you will be a Rider of the Sadharin. Is this a true position for you or a pose?”

  The old warrior nodded. “I am of that society. You will find that among Dasati warriors, it is well respected and has a long and glorious history. It also numbers among its members many who are sympathetic to our cause.” He reached for a pomba fruit, tore it open with his thumbs, and bit deep into the pungent flesh. “The agents of the Dark One would like nothing better than to know this, Pug. To reveal that any of the Sadharin are sympathetic to the White would guarantee its utter destruction.

  “The TeKarana, in distant Omadrabar, might order the destruction of an entire region on Kosridi just to ensure that the ‘infection’ was completely obliterated. Thousands would die.”

  “The White?” asked Pug. “Who or what is the White?”

  Martuch said, “It is a long story, or rather a series of long stories. But this you should know: in lost antiquity, there were two forces that ruled our universe, the Dark and the White.”

  “Ah,” said Nakor. “Evil and good.”

  “So you call them.” Martuch shrugged. “I still wrestle with the concepts, though I have accepted them as true. All our lives we hear of ‘the White’ as if it is a thing to be feared, a disease within the body of Dasati society, and more than once my mother scolded me as a child in the Hiding with warnings that if I was disobedient I would go to the White.”

  He laughed as he remembered. “What would she think now?” He put down his knife and said, “The White is an organization, but i
t is also a belief, a fervent hope, that there is more to existence than mindless slaughter and the Purgings. We have little of what you would think of as civilized ways—music, art, literature—things the Ipiliac take for granted, and I suspect you humans do as well. When I first encountered a book that wasn’t religious doctrine or a cautionary fable of the Dark One’s power, I could scarcely believe my eyes. What madness would possess someone to sit and put meaningless words on paper for the entertainment of others? And music that is not battle songs or temple hymns. The Lessers have their work chants, but music that is there to be listened to for pleasure alone? Strange.

  “I was sent here to learn these things, Pug, and as the Dasati best able to communicate with you, I was given the task of being your escort.”

  Again, Pug had a tantalizing suspicion that there was more to it than Vordam’s merely finding a guide for them. “Who sent you?”

  Pug had asked that question before, and again got the same answer. “Many things will be made known to you, but not that, not now.” Martuch’s tone left no doubt the subject was not going to be discussed.

  “Understood,” said Pug. Nothing about the Dasati was half-measured, he had concluded. They were the most dangerous mortal beings he had ever encountered. Not only were they faster than humans, more vicious than hunting trolls, and as courageous as the bravest Tsurani warrior; they possessed a mind set that could only be called murderous. Death was their answer to most social problems, and Pug wondered how such a society could come into being, or survive.

  He remembered Nakor had often remarked that evil was by definition mad, and if that was true, the Dasati were the maddest beings in two universes. From what he had been told by the oracle, and what he had been able to glean from Martuch’s talks, this society had not always been this way. The rise of the Dark God of the Dasati was shrouded in antiquity, confused by myth and legend, but it had occurred relatively late in this race’s history. Until then, they had been much like the Ipiliac: complex, mostly peaceful, and productive.

  Pug said to Martuch, “In our history we have a time known as the Chaos Wars, when mortal beings and lesser gods rose against the greater gods. It is a time lost to us in history, but we know a little of it. Was the rise of the Dark One after such a conflict?”

  “It was,” said Martuch. “Winners write history, it is said, and the Deathpriests make no differentiation between canon and history. His Darkness’s scriptures are history as far as we are concerned.

  “The only reason I know of these differences is the Ipiliac records, which go back to before their flight from Omadrabar.”

  “I would like to see those records, if time permits.”

  “It does, and it would be a wise use of your remaining time.”

  “How is it you came to Delecordia?”

  “That is a story for another time, to be told to you by another. But this much I am willing to share: until twenty-five years ago by your reckoning of time, I was much like any other young Dasati warrior. I had survived the Hiding, found my way to my father’s castle, and killed in the Testing Hall to earn my place in his service. I was welcomed into the Sadharin and did all that a proper Dasati warrior could do. I hunted down children during the Purging, killed females who tried to protect them, mated with females for political advantage, and was always ready to answer the Karana’s call to arms.

  “Twice I helped crush rebellions, or so they were called by those who sought their enemies destroyed; and three times I served in campaigns against rival battle societies. Six great wounds I bear on my body and more light ones than I can number, but I had no doubt at my supremacy. Sons came and survived, and I found a female who pleased me enough that when our son arrived, I called her to join our household. We had what you would call ‘a family.’ That concept does not exist in the Dasati mind, but that is what I was: a happy family man in my world.

  “Then something happened and life as I knew it changed. I would never again be able to judge myself by the standards of my race, and since that time I have worked to change my people.” He looked off into the distance, as if remembering. “My female—wife if you will—misses me as she often reminds me. My sons do a reasonable job of ruling our small estate, and we live in a time of relative peace.” He put down the peel of the fruit he had eaten and wiped his hands on a cloth. “Things are as they should be in the Dasati Empire,” he said with a wry, bitter tone. “The only people to die are the innocent.”

  Pug said nothing.

  Martuch chuckled. “Do you know that in the Dasati language there is no word for ‘innocent?’ The closest we have is ‘unblooded,’ meaning someone who has yet to take a life.” He shook his head as he reached for a wine cup. “To have innocence, you must explain the concept of ‘guilt.’ That’s another word we do not possess. We speak of ‘responsibility.’ I think it’s because the guilty are already dead…inside.” He stood up. “Excuse me. I’ve had too much to drink.” To Pug he said, “The archives are down the street outside, to our left. It is much like the other buildings, but there is a blue banner showing a circle of white hanging above the entrance. Go there and whatever you wish to see will be shown to you. I will return in the late afternoon tomorrow. I bid you good night.” And with that, he left.

  Magnus turned to his father. “Strange.”

  “Yes, very,” said Pug. “From the Dasati point of view…”

  “You are weak and deserve death,” said Bek, matter-of-factly.

  “My father is hardly weak,” said Magnus. “None of us are.”

  “I don’t mean you or your father,” said the young fighter. “I mean humans. You are weak and deserve death.”

  Pug took note that Bek spoke of humans as “you” and not “we.” He glanced at Nakor who shook his head slightly.

  Magnus said, “Father, I think I will retire. I wish to meditate for a while before sleeping.”

  Pug gave his assent and the younger magician left the room. The servants stood waiting, and Pug realized they would not leave until the table was vacant. He signaled to Nakor who said, “Bek, let us go for a walk.”

  Ralan Bek stood up smartly. “Good. I like walking in this city. There are so many interesting things to see, Nakor.”

  Pug and Nakor got up and followed Bek out of the door into the early evening air. Pug took a deep breath and said, “I guess we are completely adapted, for now this smells much as the air would in Krondor or Kesh.”

  “Better,” said Nakor. “Not as much smoke and rubbish.”

  Walking down the street, Pug said, “The Ipiliac are more fastidious than humans, from everything I can see.”

  “Yes,” said Bek. “This is a very nice city. It might be fun to see it burn.”

  “It might not,” said Nakor quickly. “One fire is pretty much like another.”

  “But think how much bigger the fire would be, Nakor.”

  Pug said quietly, “Maybe it’s a bit of Prandur inside,” making a reference to the fire god, known as “the Burner of Cities.”

  Nakor chuckled. “Bek, would you like to see something new? Something marvelous?”

  “Yes, Nakor, I would. This is a very interesting place, more than most I’ve been, but lately I’ve started to get bored with all the sitting around and talking.”

  Pug glanced at Nakor who motioned for him to wait. “You can go visit the archives tomorrow. This is something you should see, too.” They walked through the city, nodding politely to citizens who passed by, getting only the occasional odd glance; Martuch and Kastor had both mentioned that visitors from other worlds were a rarity on this world. They reached the eastern gate of the city and Nakor pointed. “Up that hill.”

  Pug said, “What are you taking us to see?”

  “Wait,” said the little gambler, with a delighted glint in his eye.

  They climbed the hill and then Pug and Bek saw what Nakor had led them to see. Far in the distance a shimmering line rose up out of the east, rising into the night sky to vanish into the distance.


  “What is it?” asked Bek.

  “The Star Bridge,” Nakor answered. “Martuch told me we might see it on a clear night. That city is Desoctia, and the Ipiliac use that bridge to travel to a world called Jasmadine. It’s the same magic we will use to travel between the Dasati worlds, I have been told.”

  “How far is that city?” asked Pug.

  “About two hundred miles if you flew there.”

  “Then that bridge must be very big,” said Bek.

  “Or very bright,” said Pug.

  They stood silently for a time, merely watching the distant shimmer of a bridge of light that would take them into another realm of reality.

  NINETEEN

  KOSRIDI

  Martuch raised his hand.

  All eyes turned to him. The four humans and the Dasati warrior stood in the middle of a large vaulted chamber, in a place Pug could only think of as being like his Academy on Stardock, a place of study and learning. He had visited it, along with the archives in the last few days, learning as much as he could about the Dasati—which proved to be little, as most Ipiliac history seemed to deal with their history since reaching Delecordia.

  The bits he had read were not heartening, as the Ipiliac perspective on the Dasati as a whole was what one would expect from a vanquished people speaking of their oppressors. Even so, Pug felt they were as ready as they would ever be to make this incredible journey.

  The room was a hall used for meetings and social gatherings and big enough, he had been told by the Ipiliac wizard who was accommodating this move to the second realm, that they could do this in private and without distraction. Pug, Magnus, and Nakor had listened eagerly to the wizard as he described what he would do to aid their journey, but even Pug felt he barely understood the arcane arts employed.

  Martuch spoke. “In a moment, the transition will begin. It will be unlike anything you have experienced, if you’re lucky. I have made this transition a dozen times and each time I swear it will be my last. Are you ready?”