Wrath of a Mad God (13 page)

Caleb frowned. “Only the rest of the day?”

“Yes, because you’re not heading out to go hunting or
whatever else you want to do. I’m sure your wife won’t object to you staying at home for a few more days…or weeks.” Caleb’s frown deepened. “I’m not going to be here for long. I have a lot to do and I need to come up with a plan on how to accomplish it without your father and Nakor around.”

“Do what?”

Miranda sighed. “Convince the Kings of the Isles and Roldem, as well as the Emperor of Great Kesh, to accept refugees from Kelewan should it come to that.”

Caleb blinked in surprise. “Refugees? You’re thinking of contingency plans?”

Caleb saw his mother visibly wilt before his eyes. All her usual strength and vitality seemed to ebb away and she sat back in the chair with a look of resignation he had never seen before. Softly she said, “No. Not a contingency. An eventuality.”

Pug sat quietly watching the faces of those nearby, as the sun settled behind the western horizon, a portion of the city wall so vast and so distant it looked like a remote ridge in the evening haze. He occupied a small bench where, he had been told, Lessers who farmed the grove came to eat their midday meal. The others were arrayed around the workers’ shack, the only building in the grove, shielded from casual sight by hundreds of adapa fruit trees. Pug considered the fruit a Dasati apple, though the color was more of a yellowish-orange than red or green, and there was a luminous shimmer to the surface when it was freshly picked, the flesh of the fruit being a deep purple color.

As the sun disappeared from view, Macros turned and said, “It’s done. The Great Culling is now over.” With a heavy sigh he came to sit down next to Pug. “The killing will continue for a bit—the fights don’t simply stop because the sun has set, but combatants will now withdraw rather than press the issue, and those in hiding will slowly emerge, and tonight the cleanup will commence.”

Nakor stood a few feet behind Pug, observing the bucolic peace that all knew to be an illusion. Safety was almost an impossibility on this world, yet for a moment, he could see in the faces
of the others the same thought: once this had been a tranquil, lovely world, with industrious people whose lives in many ways resembled those on Midkemia. Softly he said, “This is how it should be.”

“Yes,” said Pug as the sun set completely and the sky above turned into a stunning riot of colors, the western clouds reflecting a spectrum no human eye could ever appreciate. “What happened?”

“The Dark God,” said Macros. Pug could tell that his illness was taking more of a toll than usual; the exertion of the last day was bringing him to the edge of exhaustion.

Nakor said, “No, it’s more than that.”

Magnus also approached. “What do you mean?”

“It can’t just be one local god, no matter if he’s this world’s version of the Nameless—a Greater God—disrupting the balance. We know what happened when the Nameless One tried to take dominance during the early part of the Chaos Wars on Midkemia: the surviving Greater and Lesser Gods put aside their differences and combined to banish him to somewhere safe until order and balance could be restored. That didn’t happen here. The Dark God overwhelmed the combined might of hundreds of other Dasati gods. But how?”

Macros said, “Not hundreds. Thousands. We don’t know how. The history of that era is lost.”

Pug nodded. “Logic tells us that the Dark God could not have done it alone. He must have had allies.”

“Who?” asked Magnus. “And what happened to them?”

“Perhaps he turned on them at a crucial moment, until he alone remained,” offered Macros.

“No,” said Nakor, again softly, as if afraid to be overheard.

“Too many things would have had to fall into place for him. It’s too unlikely.” He offered a rueful smile.

Pug nodded in agreement. He weighed his words carefully, then looked at Macros. “What do you know of the next realm?”

“The third plane of existence?”

Pug nodded.

“Nothing, really.”

“The fourth?” asked Pug.

“Again, nothing.”

“The fifth?”

Macros sighed. “I had a few very painful but highly memorable moments in the fifth plane. When you closed the rift to the demon realm behind me, I was left in the clutches of Maarg, the Demon King. I unleashed every bit of power I possessed, stunning him for the briefest instant, and he released his hold on me. I fell to what I take it was a stone floor, in some sort of demonic palace. Merely touching it caused me great pain. I had only a few impressions, then I lost consciousness. I expect Maarg killed me moments later, for the next thing I knew I was in front of Lims-Kragma, listening to a litany of…” He faltered.

“What?” asked Pug.

“Until this moment, I had no memory of…the time between my death and my childhood here.” He paused. “In fact, I had no memory of a childhood, really. Impressions of a mother and being in hiding, and a difficult journey to…” He looked from face to face. “I really didn’t live that life. My memories are…someone else’s.”

Nakor nodded. “Somehow Lims-Karagma put you in another’s body.”

“How many years has it been since I died, Pug?”

“About forty.”

“I’ve been here, or at least I remember being here, thirty-three or so Midkemian years.”

“What happened to the rest?” asked Magnus.

Macros let out a slow breath. “It’s a mystery.”

Nakor said, “Not really. What is your earliest memory, of you being you, Macros, not the Dasati you thought you were?”

“Eleven years ago, after a summer rite, I was walking home and became overcome with dizziness. I ducked out of sight, afraid that someone might see me weakened…” He shook his head.

“Before that, I was a Lesser, a minor fabricator of clothing.”

“A tailor,” said Magnus.

“Yes,” said Macros.

“But in only eleven years you have fashioned a planetswide
resistance to the Dark God, and have won over thousands of followers,” said Pug.

Macros closed his eyes. “The White has been around a lot longer than me…”

“Who was the Gardener before you?” asked Magnus.

Macros appeared confused, uncertain. “I…don’t know.” His shoulders rounded as he slumped down, looking troubled.

“I awoke under a stone wall, not unlike those you see around here. I had a massive headache and I stumbled back to the hovel where I…where this body lived.” He looked Nakor in the eyes.

“I was not reborn, was I?”

Nakor slowly shook his head. “I don’t know, but I think not. I think somehow the gods of our home world took your mind and put it in another body. I think that’s why you’re sick.”

“Dying,” corrected Macros.

“Who was the Gardener before you?” repeated Magnus.

Now Macros looked genuinely disturbed. “I don’t know,” he said again. “I don’t know who would know,” he added quietly. “No one here is likely to know. Perhaps Martuch, Hirea, or Narueen, or they might know…”

“What?” asked Pug.

“The Bloodwitch Sisters. If anyone knows, it is they.”

Nakor stood, as if ready to depart. “Then we must ask them.”

Pug said, “Yes.”

Macros said, “But we should…”

For the first time in his life, since meeting Macros the Black on Sorcerer’s Island—back when Pug was only a simple squire in Lord Borric’s court at Crydee Castle—Pug saw confusion and uncertainty in Macros’s face. “Nakor is right. We are embarking on the most dangerous undertaking attempted in this, or perhaps any other, world. There is a being who calls itself the Dark God of the Dasati, who endangers not only this world, but countless others. And we are going to stop it.

“I am not going to attempt such an undertaking rashly, and waste the lives of myself and my friend and my son because
someone else wants us to act the part of mindless dupes. I need to know who is truly the person responsible for all this.”

Magnus said, “We need to know who controlled the White before you.”

“I…” began Macros, then he faltered. He shook his head.

“I left my home, in a quadrant of the city not too distant from here, and I took the Star Bridge to another world. Mathusia. From there I traveled to…a place. I don’t remember where, but when I got there, they were expecting me!”

“What sort of place was it?” asked Nakor.

“A Bloodwitch enclave,” said Macros softly.

“Then we must speak with whoever is in charge of the Bloodwitch Sisterhood.”

“Lady Narueen?” asked Magnus.

“No,” said Nakor. “She is important, but she’s not in charge.”

“How do you know that?” asked Pug.

“Because whoever is in charge isn’t having babies and hiding out and risking being killed by crazy Bloodknights. Whoever’s in charge is somewhere very safe telling others to go out and take risks.”

“Father’s in charge of the Conclave, and he certainly takes risks.”

Nakor grinned, and even through his false alien visage, the smile was all his own. “Your father, at times, is not the sanest man I know, but on our world, it’s rarely the case that when you step outside the door of your home, everyone and everything is trying to kill you.”

“Rarely,” Pug agreed dryly.

“Where are the Bloodwitches’ leaders, Macros?” asked Nakor.

“On the other side of this world, in a hidden valley in a mountain range called the Skellar-tok.”

“Then we’d better get started,” said Nakor. “If we don’t take these Lesser servants with us, we can travel faster.”

Macros laughed. “One more night won’t make a difference. I need to rest, and you do as well, though not so much as I do.
Besides, I need to remain here until word of what has occurred reaches us. I may be someone else’s idea of a dupe, but I am still the leader of the White and I need to know my people are safe and ready to serve.”

“One night,” agreed Pug. Looking around, he said, “While it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept outside, I don’t imagine you brought us here to this grove just to sleep on the ground.”

Macros shook his head and laughed. “No. There is a hidden entrance to an underground safe haven over there. It’s a little…lacking in amenities, but it will serve until morning.” He led them to the workers’ shed, and opened the door. Inside two Lessers stood waiting, both armed, which was unusual for those of their rank, and Macros motioned them aside. He waved his hand and Pug felt magic coalesce in the air. A trio of planks in the floor vibrated and then vanished and suddenly a flight of narrow steps led down into the gloom. With another wave of his hand, Macros caused light to appear at the bottom of the steps and down they went. Whatever the two guards left above might think about all this went unspoken, as they resumed their duties of protecting everything in this nameless shed without a word.

J
im ducked behind a boulder.

Not for the first time since leaving the elves, he cursed himself for a fool. Up till now, one of the things that had made him both successful and dangerous was an optimism bordering on the foolhardy, a sense there was nothing he couldn’t do once he put his mind to it. Blessed with mental agility as well as a physical quickness bordering on the supernatural, he could quickly assess situations and make snap judgments that were almost always correct.

But it was those occasional moments when he wasn’t correct that had nearly got him killed over the years. Now, he was certain this was going to be one of those moments if he made a wrong move.

He had considered the location of the trail taken from the beach up to the elves’ stronghold, and where the ships lay at anchor on the opposite side of the peninsula and had judged a game trail up into the mountains they had passed along the way to Baranor a likely route over the crest—he had even spied a gap in the peaks in the moonlight and was feeling confident of his choice. His only concern at that time had been either other elven pursuers, which he doubted, or those wolf-riding creatures, of which there had been no sign.

Until he almost walked into their encampment.

He crouched low expecting to hear a howl of alarm at any second, but after moments passed with no outcry, he ventured to peer around the edge of the rocks.

Creatures fashioned out of nightmare sat in a large circle around a fire, or something more or less like a fire, because while it burned and gave off light and heat, it wasn’t the familiar yellow-white of a bonfire, but an alien silver-red with flickering flashes of blue. Jim had only seen the wolf-riders at dusk, but now he saw them illuminated by this fey fire, and the sight was unnerving, even for a man who considered himself immune to any surprise. The creatures looked like humans in form, having a head, arms, and legs, but they lacked features and, from what Jim could see, clothing. Their surface seemed to be an ever-changing, rippling fabric or fluid, but nothing that could rightly be called “skin,” and as he had seen before, a faint wisp of smoke or steam would coil up from the surface now and again. And the creatures they rode, the “wolves” hunkered down at their side, tongues lolling, were also otherworldly. Their eyes visibly glowed, and Jim knew from the first encounter he had had with them that this wasn’t the result of reflected firelight. They were eating something, though from this distance Jim couldn’t tell what it was. Then one of them tossed something in an arc above the fire to a companion and Jim felt his gorge rise as he recognized what could only be an arm. The arm of a human, elf, or goblin, he couldn’t tell what, but it was not the limb of an animal.

Jim judged the size of the camp and tried to calculate a way around it. There were huts at a distance from the fire, fashioned
from something as alien to him as was everything else he associated with these beings. They were round, with flat tops, and looked as if they had been made from massive discs of some featureless stone rather than from cloth, leather, or wood. There were no doors or windows he could see, but from time to time a figure would emerge directly though a wall or vanish into one.

The most disturbing thing about the entire tableau was the silence. There was no talking, no laughing, not even the sound of heavy breathing. He knew they were capable of sound, for he had heard their shrieks or battle cries earlier that day, but now there was only an unnatural silence. However they communicated, it wasn’t through what Jim thought of as normal speech.

Jim peered around trying to find the flying creatures the elves called “void-darters.” If they were flying around the area, he wanted to know before he tried to skirt the village.

As quietly as he could he edged around the encampment, trying to keep sight of any movement that might betray an unsuspected trap or an unexpected encounter. After he was nearly opposite the position at which he had begun, he saw what could only be a cage, fashioned from what appeared to be the same material as the huts. Inside it, movement revealed the whereabouts of the flying creatures. He felt a small surge of relief. These alien creatures were either supremely confident or stupid, for there was nothing like a sentry or any defenses posted. If he knew what would kill them, Jim could have engineered an assault that would have them all destroyed within minutes.

He continued to edge his way around the camp until he reached a rise above it, then he hurried along the trail toward what he hoped was a pass through the peaks and down to the anchored ships.

The sky to the east was visibly lightening and Jim knew that dawn was less than an hour away. He felt a sense of relief for he had been hunkered down on the east side of the peaks unsure of which way to descend. The path he followed had cut through a gap at the ridge, but on the eastern slope had quickly narrowed until he was faced with the certain knowledge that he risked fall
ing to his death until he could see better. He was barely above the tree line so when he looked down all he could make out in the low light from the setting moons was a sea of treetops. He knew that somewhere down there must be a way to the shoreline, but at this point it was foolhardy to move without better light.

Patience was a learned skill for Jim Dasher, who by nature tended to the impetuous and rash, but over the years he had harnessed those qualities and directed them. Now he was decisive and quick to act, without thoughtlessness. And right now he needed to think.

The inheritor of a legacy of service to the Crown and to the common people of Krondor, he had discovered early in life that one doesn’t often get choices as to when difficult decisions must be made. Life was rarely convenient.

James Dasher Jamison was hardly a reflective man, but there were moments when he did consider his role in a larger scheme and wondered if he would every truly realize what it was he was fated to accomplish. A boy of great promise, he was the grandson of Lord James, Duke of Rillanon, the King’s most trusted advisor. He was also the grandnephew of the man in control of the largest shipping enterprise in the Bitter Sea, Dashell Jamison. Something had occurred between the two brothers: once close, they were estranged by the time Jim was born.

Jim’s father, Dasher Jamison, Lord Carlstone, had been one of the finest administrators in the King’s court, and his mother had been Lady Rowella Montonowksy, a daughter of Roldem’s nobility and a distant cousin to their queen. In all things, Jim should have been a child of privilege and refinement.

Sent to study in Roldem, he had been quickly judged to be one of the most promising students at the university. They had waited for him to blossom as a scholar. Instead he had discovered the streets of Roldem, and the back alleys as well. His instructors at university were defeated, for while he was repeatedly absent without permission, Jim always excelled at his studies. He had a natural ability to hear or read something once and know it perfectly, a gift for logic and problem-solving that made mathematics and the natural sciences easy for him, and an ability for
abstraction and logic that made even the most obtuse philosophies manageable. In short, he had been the perfect student, when he chose to be around. He was indifferent to the canings he earned for each transgression, considering the welts on his back the cost of doing what he wished. Finally, the monks who were in charge of the university judged their efforts to be futile and had sent the young man back to his family in Rillanon.

His father was determined to harness his son’s reckless nature and to make a courtier out of him, so he gave him a minor position in the King’s court. More often than not Jim was gone from his office, wasting time in gambling halls, inns, and brothels. He had a flair for gambling which earned him a steady income on top of his family’s allowance, and a taste for women of low estate, which had got him into a fair share of brawls, landing him in the city gaol more than once. His father’s position had freed him every time, though the gaoler had warned Lord Carlstone that he could not protect his wayward son much longer.

Jim’s father had used every means of persuasion at his disposal to curb his son’s appetite for the seedier side of life, including a threat to hand him over to the King’s army for service if he couldn’t stem his impulses for low living, but all to no avail. At last his grandfather had taken a hand and had sent Jim to Krondor to work for his uncle, Jonathan Jamison, son of Dashell, Jim’s great-uncle.

Jim took to his new surroundings as if born to them, and quickly discovered that he had a flair for business. He also soon realized that there was a very questionable relationship between his great-uncle’s many business enterprises and any number of criminal activities in and around Krondor. At first it was smuggling, then sabotage of a competitor’s shipments or a well-timed fire in their warehouse. By the time he was twenty years of age, Jim was running a gang at the docks, the Backwater Boys, and collecting money from various merchants to facilitate the safe arrival of goods that somehow avoided the Royal Customs House.

Then a year later, Jim was dragged out of his home in the dead of night by four men clad in black. He had incapacitated
two of them before they had clubbed him unconscious, and when he awoke, he had found himself in the dungeon in the Prince’s palace.

After a cold night and long day, he was visited by Lord Erik von Darkmoor, former Knight-Marshal of the Western Realm and currently retiring Duke of Krondor. The choice given to him had been simple: learn to love a contemplative and solitary life in a very dark and damp cell without any outside windows, or work for the Prince of Krondor as an agent.

Lord Erik made it clear that his relationship to the Duke of Rillanon would not save him from the choice; his grandfather would receive a most sympathetic message from Lord Erik regretfully informing him that his grandson had gone missing, perhaps a victim of foul play. It wasn’t for two more years after he started working for Erik that Jim discovered the entire thing had been his grandfather’s idea and that his great-uncle was also in on the plot.

But by then Jim was fully ensconced in the intrigue and politics of the nation, an agent for the King working in the darkest alleys as well as on the roofs and in the sewers of the cities of the Western Realm. To everyone he met he was either James Dasher Jamison, only son of Lord Carlstone of Rillanon, grandson of the Duke, or he was Jim Dasher, a member of the Mockers, the apparently roughly—but in reality very well—organized criminal underground of the city.

By the time he was taken into the Conclave at the age of twenty-seven, he was a practiced thief, assassin, and spy for the Crown, considered their finest operative and perhaps the most dangerous man not a magician in the Kingdom. Jim cared nothing for his reputation, for the most part being ignorant of it, but he did take pride in doing whatever he did well. For it was here, in the darkest hours of the night when he was alone with himself, that he truly understood himself: he was the great-great-grandson of Jimmy the Hand, the most legendary thief in the history of the Mockers. One-time street urchin, servant to Prince Arutha, advisor to kings and princes, at his death he had been the most powerful duke in the Kingdom. Jim was less clear about his
own personal ambitions—he had no desire to be a duke; he loved adventure too much to be cooped up in a palace in meetings all day. He enjoyed the intrigue, murder, skulking in shadows, and being faster than the other man, that much luckier than the fellow trying to kill him, more intelligent than his opponent. He relished the constant sense of danger and the incredible sense of accomplishment he got from his missions. At the end of one, he welcomed the hot baths and clean sheets, the company of willing women, the wine and food, but after a few days he wanted nothing more than to be back in the alleys, running silently across rooftops or slogging through the sewers, one hand on his knife hilt, waiting for an attack he was certain was around the next corner.

But there were moments, like the one he was experiencing now, sitting cold and alone in the dark on the top of a distant ridge of mountains, when he judged himself quite mad. To himself he muttered, “No sane man could want this life.”

But he knew he did want it, even needed it. He had made up the Jimmyhand story as a blind, a way to make his relationship with Jimmy the Hand of Krondor a seemingly false claim, thereby heading off any possible suspicion that he was, indeed, that worthy’s great-great-grandson, and therefore the son of nobility. Too many people still lived who might connect the grandson of Lord James of Rillanon with his own grandfather, the legendary former thief-turned-noble, Lord James of Krondor.

No, he admitted to himself, Jim loved this life, even the bloody-handed work, for he knew he belonged to something larger than himself, and he was certain that every man whose life he had taken had deserved it. That sense of serving something more important than his own petty desires had taken what had been little more than a collection of rash impulses, a self-indulgent desire for danger and thrills, and turned it into something useful, even noble at times, and in that, Jim had discovered a balance to his life.

Then things had changed and he experienced a set of feelings that were new to him. He had met a woman.

As he sat on top of a peak in a distant land, waiting for the
sun to rise so that he could find his way safely to ships at anchor in shark-infested waters to carry word to a band of magicians about some creatures from the darkest pit of hell and a band of elves no one had ever heard of, all he could think of was would he ever see Michele again?

The sun had begun to light the eastern sky and the solid mass of darkness below him was now resolving itself into defined shapes. He pushed aside thoughts of his new love, and his constant concern that having someone to care for was perhaps the worst idea he had ever considered, and looked deep into the gloom. At first the still-impenetrable shadows confounded his eye, but after a while he began to discern a way down. What he had at first thought might be a tiny rivulet formed by ice melt or rain looked promising, and he started moving toward it. After reaching the head of the small gully, he decided to venture slowly downward and made a silent prayer to Ban-ath, God of Thieves, who also was considered the God of Misadventures: if there was ever an undertaking worthy of being called that, this was it, thought Jim Dasher.