Wrath of a Mad God

Jommy saw Kaspar and Captain Stefan fighting back to back twenty yards up the hillside as half a dozen pirates circled them. Jommy looked at Servan.

‘What now?’

Jommy was a good leader in the field and had a rudimentary grasp of tactics, but Servan was a born leader, a first rate strategist as well as an instinctive tactician. ‘That big rock is our rally point, and I’ll try to get to them—’

Jommy looked over again to where Kaspar and Stefan fought, and saw Jim Dasher – again seemingly out of nowhere – appear behind the two men fighting Kaspar. With a dagger in each hand he stabbed both men in the back of the neck, and they dropped instantly to the ground. Suddenly it wasn’t six against two, but four against three, and as one of the men turned to see what happened to his companions, Kaspar ran him through and it was three against three.

Jommy shouted, ‘I’ll go this way, you go that, get the men moving! Get word to the General where we rally!’

Servan nodded and ran off, circling away from the flailing tower of flames that howled and lashed out in all directions. Jommy headed down the beach to where a knot of his men faced off against an equal number of pirates. Both sides seemed more concerned with getting untangled than with killing one another. Jommy shouted, ‘To me!’

Breaking off the fight, his men retreated towards him, and within moments a fairly orderly withdrawal was underway. Moving to the agreed-upon position, Jommy motioned for the men to follow. ‘Rally at that rock. Look for the General!’

Now the conjured creature, burning as brightly as the hottest fire Jommy had ever seen, lumbered in his direction. ‘Watch out!’ he warned and motioned for his men to move off and circle around to the rally point.

As they pulled away from the flaming monstrosity, men shouted that another boat was landing. ‘Things are getting out of hand,’ Jommy said to himself. As he glanced to see where the raiders were positioning themselves, he realized he was being flanked. If he wasn’t careful, the enemy he had left behind would use his retreating men as a screen, allowing them to loop around and hit Kaspar’s position from the rear.

‘You, you, and you,’ Jommy said pointing at the three nearest soldiers, two from Roldem and one from Kesh, ‘follow me.’ He gave a great war cry and charged at the closest raider.

From behind him he heard one of the soldiers from Roldem shout, ‘Are you mad?’

Jommy shouted back, ‘I want them to think so!’

The others followed and Jommy raced straight at the pirates who, seeing the men running straight at them, braced themselves for a charge. Just short of contact, Jommy shouted, ‘Run!’ and turned and fled back up the beach towards the hillside where Kaspar and Stefan were organizing a defensive position. A quick glance over his shoulder made Jommy wonder at the futility of that: the creature was becoming ever more enraged, thrashing out at anyone within reach. The only benefit this gave to Kaspar’s forces was that the raiders now had to consider the monster as much as the men they were fighting. The difference was that Kaspar could organize his forces and pull them up the hillside to the base camp on the ridge a mile away if he had to. The raiders had nowhere to go but try to launch the boats, but now two of them were flaming from the horror’s touch and no man looked willing to brave getting past it to the remaining boats. Some would no doubt flee up the coast to where the fourth boat had landed, but Jommy doubted it could hold all who wanted to escape the monster.

‘They’ll be coming this way in moments,’ he shouted. ‘Get to the General and dig in!’

Already fatigued from the short but intense struggle on the beach, men ran uphill in the mud, and suddenly Jommy realized there was no sound of fighting behind him. All he could hear was the echoing bellows of the monster, the rain in the woods above, and the panting of men nearly out of breath as they struggled to get to safety.

They reached Kaspar’s position and saw men furiously making defensive positions, with brush and rocks and digging small trenches with swords and daggers. All the while the bowmen struggled to keep their strings dry enough to be effective against the enemy who were surely only moments behind those coming up the hill.

‘Here they come!’ shouted Kaspar.

Jommy reached the first line of defenders and turned. A knot of raiders had formed at the base of the path and were fanning out to attack. He glanced to the north and saw another band of raiders fleeing for the remaining boat. As if reading his thoughts, Kaspar said, ‘If we get through this we’ll send a squad that way to round up any stragglers.’

‘Why shouldn’t we get through this, General?’ asked Servan, still out of breath.

‘They’re attacking uphill and we’re ready,’ said Jommy.

‘I’m not worried about those cutthroats,’ said Kaspar. ‘It’s the thing following them that bothers me. It’s stopped getting bigger, but it’s setting fire to everything it touches.’

‘And we’re standing uphill,’ said Captain Stefan.

‘Ah, maybe we should pull back and get on the other side of the ridge?’ observed Jommy.

‘No time,’ said Kaspar. ‘Archers!’ he shouted.

A few arrows arched overhead and the attackers scattered, but the bow fire was ineffective. ‘Damn rain,’ said Servan.

The men hurrying up the hill looked at those waiting for them and just kept coming. Jommy flexed his knees, his sword ready to parry or strike; and then it struck him. The only battle cries were from his own men: those coming at them were labouring, their panting breath barely able to meet the demands of the climb, let alone enabling them to shout or scream. There was a grim resignation on their faces. They were determined but they didn’t show the usual edge of madness that Jommy had seen in other confrontations. These men knew they were going to die.

Jommy made his way back until he was next to Kaspar. ‘General, those men are going to let us kill them.’

The former Duke of Olasko nodded. ‘They have that look, don’t they?’ He turned and shouted, ‘I want prisoners!’ Then with an eye on the flaming monstrosity behind them, he quietly added, ‘Should any of us survive.’

The creature had wandered aimlessly lashing out at anything it could, but now it seemed to have turned its attention to the hillside. Jommy said, ‘I think it’s seen us.’

‘I have no idea if the thing even has eyes,’ said Kaspar, ‘but we’d better get this under control, because it’s definitely coming this way.’

The first half a dozen raiders to reach the defenders threw themselves forward with manic ferocity. Several of Kaspar’s men were wounded, but every attacker was cut down. Jommy waited, but no one approached him directly. He saw there were a dozen corpses on the ground just below where he waited, and farther down the hillside a knot of perhaps two dozen men watched. One of them said something and others nodded, then they broke forward, and now Jommy could hear shouts and cries. He did not recognize the language, but the intent was clear: they meant to kill as many of Kaspar’s men as they could before dying in their turn.

Jommy saw one of the raiders turn, run down the hill and taunt the creature. How he had managed to do this, Jommy couldn’t imagine, but it mattered little because the man had attracted the monster’s attention. He slowly led the fiendish being up the hill and then waited. Jommy’s eyes widened in astonishment as he saw the raider put down his sword and let the creature crush him as a man would an insect. The man’s scream was short and high-pitched and came to an abrupt halt. His body had exploded into flames a second before the creature’s fiery hand had touched him: even at this distance, those on the hillside could feel the heat.

A second man raced down, halfway between the monster and Kaspar’s position just as the attackers reached the defensive position. But this time instead of a furious assault, the tempo was more that of a probing attack, something Jommy had come to understand was what soldiers did at times when they were trying to gauge the enemy’s strength.

Suddenly he understood. ‘General!’ Jommy shouted.

‘Yes?’ replied Kaspar as he easily slapped aside a half-hearted thrust from a raider who had got between two soldiers. The General slashed with his blade and the raider fell dead, his throat fountaining crimson.

‘They’re bringing that thing up to us! They’re dying in order to bring it here!’ Jommy said.

‘Idiots,’ said Servan, but he looked distinctly nervous.

Jommy was forced to admit their tactic was effective, if you didn’t mind dying to make it work. A third raider had now given himself up to the creature, and the ferocity of the heat was almost unbearable.

As if recognizing the hopelessness of their position, a handful of the enemy feigned attacks and purposefully left themselves open for killing blows.

‘Prisoners!’ shouted Kaspar. ‘Keep one of them alive!’

Jommy couldn’t stand his ground; everyone started to retreat before the forge-like heat of the monster. At the same time the raiders advanced and Jommy was forced to fight while backing up a steep hillside. The footing was wet and treacherous. Jommy killed one man only to almost die as another man shoved his companion into Jommy’s blade. Only a quick blow over Jommy’s shoulder by another soldier gave him the seconds he needed to pull his blade free.

Jommy almost lost his balance as his heel caught on a rock, and he barely avoided an enemy’s sword thrust. He lashed out wildly and even though his opponent was willing to die, he pulled back out of reflex. When he sprang again Jommy was ready and the man died silently.

A desperate struggle ensued as men wishing to live tried to give way to men willing to die. Jommy felt the tempo of the conflict change and he recognized a difference in the battle around him: panic was imminent. The men of Kaspar’s company were becoming desperate as they attempted a nearly impossible organized withdrawal, and the attackers were becoming frantic as they sought to keep from being captured while leading the monstrosity to their foes.

As they struggled to retreat up the hillside, a loud thrumming filled the air.

The creature was abruptly bathed in light as a shaft of white brilliance shot down from the clouds. It became transfixed, unable to move, and several men took wounds because they had stopped fighting in order to watch it.

Jommy killed a man in front of him, and glanced over the dying raider’s shoulder. The enemy appeared to have sensed that the day had been lost, and they began to back away.

Abruptly both sides disengaged. Jommy shouted, ‘General?’

‘Wait,’ came the order and Jommy did so. He watched the creature below as the raiders moved towards it, never taking their eyes off Kaspar’s men. The rain now appeared to be cooling it off, as if the creature’s mystic fire had lost its power. The sizzling sound of steam exploding off its surface diminished and its colour faded from a brilliant hot yellow back to the red-and-black appearance of molten rock. Jommy looked over his shoulder at Kaspar, and saw another figure high on a rock behind him. ‘Look, General,’ he said, pointing.

A being dressed in buckskin leather, with long flowing golden hair, stood holding a staff above his head. He appeared to be chanting. It was obvious to Jommy and Kaspar this was the author of the mystic light.

With a shudder, the creature dissolved like hot rocks falling apart. Great clouds of smoke filled the air.

‘Prisoners!’ shouted Kaspar: too late. The raiders, seeing no escape, wordlessly turned their swords on one another.

Jommy had seen enough men die in fights to know killing blows when he saw them. He turned to Kaspar and shook his head. The General’s expression was a mixture of disgust at losing his prisoners and open relief at the intervention of the newcomer, who was obviously a magician. With a sigh, he said, ‘Must be one of Pug’s, come to look out for us. Good thing, too—’

Jommy shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, General.’

Captain Stefan and Servan both came to stand by their commander as the figure on the rock put his staff down. ‘It’s an elf,’ said Servan. ‘As I live—’

Kaspar said, ‘I think you’re right, Lieutenant.’

The elf said something, a question from the tone of it.

‘I speak more than a dozen tongues and I don’t recognize it,’ said Kaspar.

The elf walked slowly down from his position above them, then halted half a dozen paces above Kaspar and studied them for a moment. ‘I said, who are you to be trespassing on the Peaks of the Quor?’ He spoke the tongue of Kesh, but with an odd accent and cadence.

‘I’m Kaspar, former Duke of Olasko and commander of this company. As for trespassing, I’m here with the permission of the King of Roldem and the Emperor of Great Kesh, both of whom claim this region.’

The elf’s features showed no emotion, then after a second resolved into an expression of dark humour. ‘Your masters’ vanities do not concern me. This land belongs to the Quor.’

Trying to remain civil, Kaspar said, ‘I want to thank you—’

‘Before you thank me for anything, human, realize I did not save you from the elemental creature. It was a thing of magic so foul I needed to dispose of it before I deal with you.’

‘Deal with us?’ said Kaspar.

‘Yes,’ said the elf. ‘You are all my prisoners.’

Instantly, men took combative stances, for while there was only one elf, they had just seen him vanquish the monster with seemingly no effort. Kaspar said, ‘And do you, alone, intend to capture all of us?’ There were still thirty combat-ready soldiers behind him.

‘No,’ said the elf and then he raised his voice and said something in the other language.

As if by magic elves appeared from behind rocks and trees, at least twice as many as Kaspar’s band. The one thing that stood out most about them was their appearance: all were blond, had sun-browned skin, and the same sky blue eyes as the magician. And all of them wore the same buckskin so that it was almost a uniform, save for a slightly different cut to a tunic or fringe on the sleeves. Some elves had feathers or polished stones woven into their braids or a warrior’s knot, and many wore their hair down, long past the shoulders. Most carried bows, with arrows pointed at them, and another half a dozen carried staves. Kaspar was certain they were magic-users like the elf before them. After a moment he said, ‘Throw down your weapons.’ Reluctantly the men obeyed, and Kaspar said to the elf, ‘We surrender.’

The elf nodded. ‘Gather your wounded who can travel, and come with us.’

It took a few minutes to find those able to move and render them aid so they could travel. A dozen men were too injured to move and the elf said, ‘Leave them. They will be attended to.’

Kaspar nodded and when his men were ready, elves began escorting them up the hillside, along the same trail that led down from the cave Kaspar had used as his base of operations. As they reached a point where the elf had first revealed himself, a strangled cry from behind them caused Jommy to flinch. As he started to turn, he felt a strong hand grip his arm. Jim Dasher said, ‘Don’t look. It’s better not to.’

Jommy nodded. The men too injured to move were being killed quickly by the elves, and although Jommy knew it was probably kinder than letting a man die slowly from a gut wound or exposure, he still hated the thought of it.

Slowly the captives wended their way up the hillside high into the mountains above.

The rain continued.

• CHAPTER THREE •

Upheaval

PUG LOOKED AT THE SUN.

He shifted his perception through the visible spectrum and then into the other energy states he could now recognize. No matter how hard he tried, he could not find true words to express what he was seeing. He had been on the Dasati home world for two weeks, hiding in a complex of rooms under the protection of Martuch, a Dasati warrior and secret follower of the White. He had taken the opportunity to fine tune his control of his abilities in this realm.

Nakor the Isalani, his companion and long-time friend, sat on another bench in the little garden, watching Pug. His charge, the strange young warrior Ralan Bek, was with Martuch, practising his role as Martuch’s protégé and mastering more of the subtleties of being a Dasati warrior.

Magnus, Pug’s older son, sat on the bench beside his father, lost in his own thoughts as the three magicians contemplated their mission. He trusted his father implicitly, but still had no idea what had brought them into this dark realm, to a place to which no human had ever travelled, seeking only his father knew what. Magnus recognized the threat posed by the Dasati, yet he had no concept of what they could possibly accomplish here, on a world an unimaginable distance from home. Distance, he corrected himself, was meaningless in discussing where they were. There was a good deal of proof that this world would have a twin in their own universe, perhaps even a world known to Magnus, but how they would get home to their own plane of reality was beyond Magnus’s understanding.

That last awareness sparked concerns in the young magician; he was, after his mother and father – and perhaps Nakor – the most powerful practitioner of magic on the world of Midkemia, and some day would most likely surpass even them. But for all his ability, talent and knowledge, he had no idea how they would return. He had tried to understand the nature of the magic employed to bring them here, and bits of it were … familiar, echoing things he knew about transporting the body from location to location, as well as being reminiscent of rift magic, but how it all came together, that was lost on Magnus. Martuch had indicated that in one way it was an easy transition to make, but had been vague on details.

As much as Magnus knew he must trust this Dasati renegade, deep within he harboured doubts. While they seemed to be serving roughly similar causes, they were not entirely after the same goals, and Magnus had no doubt that Martuch would put serving his own people’s needs ahead of the lives of the four humans from Midkemia.

Now the other reason for Magnus’s discomfort entered the tiny garden. It was, if he was to believe what his father had told him, his grandfather, the legendary Macros the Black. But the man who stood before him was not human, but Dasati. Yet the man had memories that could have only belonged to Macros, spoke flawless King’s Tongue, Tsurani, and Keshian, as well as any number of other languages from Midkemia and Kelewan, and in so many things demonstrated that he had the mind of a human from his home world. Yet the entire question of Macros’s presence on this world, in this form, raised questions that went far beyond troubling. Secretly, Magnus was frightened.

Macros had been absent most of the time since Pug and the other arrived, and Pug and he had had only minutes at a time to speak. The tall Dasati nodded a greeting and came over to stand before Pug and Magnus. ‘May I sit?’ he asked.

Magnus nodded, moving over on the stone bench to make room for the Dasati magician.

‘Even after weeks, my mind is reeling,’ said Pug. ‘I realize you have … changed, yet I can see … you are still you.’ He studied the features of the Dasati sitting next to him. ‘I’ve been, by any reasonable measure, patient, I think you’ll agree.’ He glanced at his two companions. ‘We understand from what we’ve pieced together that you are the leader of a group constantly in peril, and that you have many responsibilities. But you are here, now, so as we have this time, why don’t you tell us the complete story?’

Nakor rose from his bench and walked over to sit down before Pug. ‘As much as I enjoy a good story, it would be useful if we heard only the truth this time, Macros.’

Macros smiled. ‘Perhaps my most grievous sin was lying. At that time …’ He looked away as if into a painful memory. He took a breath. ‘It was so many years ago, my friends. I was an arrogant man who refused to trust others enough to tell them the simple – or in some cases not-so-simple – truth and let them choose whether or not to do the right thing.

‘I manipulated people with lies, so that I could ensure …’ He shook his head. ‘Another sin was vanity, I’ll confess. I was so certain back when … when I was young, when I was human.’ He waved his hand in a general circle. ‘This experience has been humbling, Pug.’ He looked at Magnus. ‘I’ve a grown grandson and I have missed every day of his life.’

‘You have two,’ said Magnus. ‘I have a younger brother.’

‘Caleb,’ said Macros to Magnus. ‘I know.’

Pug was still grappling with the fact of his alien existence, forcing his mind to accept what he could see with his own eyes. Once past that amazement, he was still left with another issue: that the man before him was Macros the Black, his wife’s father.

As he had just openly admitted, he was a man who had used people as one might use tools, and shamelessly lied to gain advantage. He had put people in harm’s way without their consent, and had made choices for others that had resulted in pain, suffering and death. As a result, trusting him was a difficult task. Then again, Pug had watched Macros die defending others against Maarg, the Demon King. It had been the highest act of sacrifice and almost certainly had saved Midkemia from horrors for which the Serpentwar would have been but a mild prelude. Maarg would have almost certainly destroyed the entire world given enough time.

Macros spoke calmly. ‘The time for duplicity is over.’ He looked at Magnus and reached out, his hand gently touching his face. ‘I’m younger than you, in this body,’ he said with a bitter smile, ‘despite being hundreds of years in memory, I’m but thirty years as the Dasati measure time.’ He took his hand away from Magnus’s face. ‘Around the eyes, you resemble your mother.’ Magnus nodded slightly. Macros’s gaze went from his grandson, to Nakor, then to Pug.

‘Start at the beginning,’ said Pug.

Macros laughed. ‘For this story, the beginning was my ending. As I told you, I died at the hands of Maarg, the Demon King.’ He looked across the garden, and gazed into the distance, focused on memory. ‘When I died …’ He closed his eyes. ‘It is difficult to remember, sometimes … the longer I live as a Dasati, the more … distant my human memories are, the feelings especially, Pug.’ He looked at his grandson Magnus. ‘Forgive me, my boy, but whatever familial ties I should be feeling are absent.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I haven’t even asked about your mother, have I?’

‘Actually, you did,’ said Magnus.

Macros nodded. ‘Then I fear my memory is fading very rapidly. Ironically, for a human who has lived the span of more than nine hundred years, it would seem that I am dying.’

Pug’s shock could not have been more evident. ‘Dying?’

‘A disease, rare in the Dasati, but not unheard of; should anyone besides our group and our Attenders suspect, I would be killed out of hand for weakness. The human ailments of the elderly are alien to the Dasati. Should the eyes fail or the memory fade, the person so afflicted is killed without thought.’

‘Is there anything—’ began Magnus.

‘No, nothing,’ said Macros. ‘This culture is about death, not life. Narueen said there may be something the Bloodwitches could do in their enclave, but that’s a continent away and time is of critical importance.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, if you’ve already died once, death is hardly something to fear, is it? And I’m interested to see what the gods have in store for me this time.’ He winced slightly as he shifted his weight. ‘No, death is easy. It’s dying that’s the hard part.’ He looked around. ‘Now, as I was saying, my memory seems to be fading, so I’d tell you what you need to know and then we can see if we can serve a common cause.’ Looking at Nakor, Macros said, ‘The gambler. The one who cheated me! Now I remember.’

Nakor smiled. ‘I told you how when you revived from your ascension to godhood.’

‘Yes … you slipped me a cold deck of cards!’ Macros looked amused at the memory. Then his eyes narrowed and he studied Nakor more closely for a moment. ‘You are more than you seem to be, my friend.’ He hiked his thumb in the direction of Martuch’s home and said, ‘As is your young friend. He has something within his being that is dangerous, very dangerous.’