Wrath of a Mad God (16 page)

Nakor kept his eyes down as he had been instructed since they had first arrived in the Dasati realm. He glanced up occasionally to make sure he didn’t lose track of his “masters,” Martuch and Hirea. Also, he made careful note of how this part of the Grand Palace was laid out. The structure was massive. In a city
on a scale that dwarfed any human construction he had seen, this palace was the crowning achievement in excess. It had taken the three companions less than an hour to reach the entrance from where they had hidden in the Grove of Delmat-Ama, but from there it had been almost a half day’s ride along the streets that were within the precincts of the palace, and so far they had reached only the outer warrens. Sundown was less than an hour away. As far as they were able, the two Dasati warriors gave Nakor a narrative about this monstrous construction.

The Great Palace, home of the ruler of the Dasati Empire, occupied more space than the entire city of Kentosani on the Tsurani home world of Kelewan, and that city contained over a million people within its walls. More than two million Dasati lived within the palace precincts, five million in the central capital city. Nakor realized that the estimates of how many Deathknights the TeKarana could order into the field to invade the first realm was vastly understated. Macros had said two million Deathknights, but Nakor was convinced he was not thinking of the Dark One stripping every Dasati warrior from the Twelve Worlds and unleashing them…Something wasn’t right. Once they established a bridgehead into the first realm, either on Kelewan or Midkemia or some other world, vast numbers of worlds would be in peril. But even for this god, that was a brutish and simple plan.

The wily gambler weighed every piece of evidence that he could discern, either through direct observation or from what others had said, either to him or what he had overheard when they didn’t realize he was listening. He now came to an inescapable conclusion: the Dasati could not be defeated by the armies of every nation on Midkemia and Kelewan combined. At best they could be delayed. And at worst, they would sweep aside all opposition as if they were fighting children with play weapons.

Nakor resolved that whatever Pug found out about the history of this world, whatever revelations were discovered when he found the leaders of the Bloodwitch Sisterhood, no matter what the true nature of Macros—and he had serious doubts he was as he seemed to be—whatever any of them discovered, there
was going to be but one solution to the coming crisis: the destruction of the Dark God.

As he considered this conclusion, Nakor weighed all the Dark One’s actions in the past and something began to emerge, a sense of the true purpose behind the apparent mindless killing and destruction. There was a plan at work, a pattern of things unfolding, and he was tantalized by almost understanding what it was.

The deeper into the palace they traveled the more certain Nakor was that something profoundly evil existed at the heart of this society. Their art—what there was of it—was nothing more than a twisted celebration of their dark faith. He had been struck that since entering the second realm he had seen nothing that resembled decoration or art, except on the Dasati themselves. They had some expression of beauty—once you adjusted to their appearances, they were a very handsome race, he decided—but there were no paintings or tapestries hanging on walls, no variation in color in buildings or signs. Some of this he was convinced was due to their having a very different color sense than humans—they could see below red and beyond violet, like certain creatures in the first realm, and they could see heat, which made them lethally dangerous fighters at night.

But it wasn’t until they were inside the palace that Nakor saw anything like fine art, and here it was in the form of ghastly murals, showing murder, torture, execution, and slaughter in praise of the Dark God. If there was a narrative aspect to the murals, Nakor couldn’t discern it, but he did intuit that this particular section had to do with some grand conquest in ages past.

At several points along their march, as Nakor followed Martuch and Hirea, he saw what he took to be an aspect of the Dark God himself. He seemed to be shown as a shadowy presence, without features or costume. Given the vividness of the rest of the subjects in the mural, Nakor found this odd. The warriors were depicted with a stylized accuracy, heads larger than life, so as to show their ancient headgear, each with its unique style, since replaced by the badges worn on the chestplate. The swords were different, too, as were the battle flags and banners.
The victims were shown piled like cordwood, after being sacrificed to His Darkness.

Other murals showed long lines of prisoners being marched toward a vast pit and cast down into it, more sacrifices for the Dark One. As they approached their destination, Nakor saw the themes of the murals turning to a more martial focus, the themes being repeated of powerful warriors in service to the Dark One, led by the TeKarana and his Karanas in triumph over a variety of alien species.

There was nothing merely triumphant in this, thought Nakor. He had visited many worlds since meeting Pug, and nearly every civilization on Midkemia, and had encountered other martial societies, even those bellicose by nature, but nowhere did he see suffering and pain celebrated as he did here. It was as Kaspar had related to them when discussing his vision at the Pavilion of the Gods, when first shown the Dasati by Kalkin, also known as Ban-ath, the God of Thieves. These people thought pain was amusing, and suffering funny. Never, from his perspective, had Nakor encountered a more twisted view of life and death.

No, he amended to himself as they reached their destination. There was a common theme. All life was suffering leading to death, and the only question was whether you were to suffer or to cause suffering. Then at the doorway that led into the Hall of Warriors, he saw one anomalous image. A Lesser, dressed as a healer, down in one corner, offering a cup of water to a suffering victim. It was odd, almost an afterthought, yet somehow significant, thought the little gambler.

As he hurried not to fall behind, one other detail caught his eye. A tiny glyph below the figure of the Lesser, almost unnoticeable if one was not examining the tableau carefully, and for a moment it made him almost stop in his tracks. It was a symbol that by any rational measure should not have existed in this universe, let alone be adorning this wall. Nakor pushed aside his astonishment, realizing that any break from the character of his adopted role could quickly end his life.

The hall they entered was large and functional, without a single decoration on any wall. Massive grey-black stones scintil
lated with the energies that had grown almost commonplace to Nakor, though he still had trouble finding the words to describe what he was seeing. A series of benches were arrayed in rows across the floor and a dozen young men sat waiting to be called. Around them were warriors, fathers, teachers, brothers-in-arms, all bidding their young warriors good fortune and urging them to bring honor to the houses and societies that had spawned them. There was nothing Nakor would call regret on any face, but rather uniform pride in one of their own being selected to serve the TeKarana.

Bek sat alone on a bench near the far wall, isolated enough that a short conversation would not be overheard. Nakor glanced around the room and noticed that a few of the young warriors recruited to the TeKarana’s service were attended by Lessers. “They can take a servant?” asked Nakor.

Hirea said, “Yes, but you can’t be thinking—”

“Yes,” interrupted Nakor. “I must.”

Further debate was interrupted by the arrival of a Deathpriest, escorted by two palace guards. He said, “I recognize the badges of the Scourge and Sadharin.” He looked down at Bek and said, “You wear no badge. Which society do you belong to?”

Before Bek could answer, Martuch said, “He is my retainer, by name Bek.”

“Sadharin. Which house?”

Now they were rapidly getting into murky water, for it was never considered for a moment that any of the visiting humans would undergo this level of scrutiny. Martuch said, “Langorin.”

The Deathpriest’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Your name?”

“Martuch,” he replied, inclining his head in a deferential gesture that was so slight it bordered on insolence.

“You are known, even here, Martuch of the Langorin. Is this your son?”

“No,” Martuch answered quickly. “He is from a Lesser family.”

Nakor wondered if this might be a ploy by Martuch to get Bek dismissed.

The Priest looked confused, both curious and dubious. “How is this possible?”

Martuch looked at Bek in such a way he was clearly telling the young man to pay close attention to the story. Nakor knew that Bek at times seemed single-minded, even to the point of simplicity, but he was anything but stupid. He was murderous and bloodthirsty and he took pleasure in others’ suffering, but he was no fool. A quick glance from Bek told the diminutive gambler that Bek would follow Martuch’s lead. “I found him during a hunt. He had been chased down by one of my youngest retainers, the son of one of my most trusted old companions, and Bek had pulled him from the saddle, taken away his sword and killed him.”

“Impressive,” said the Deathpriest, his expression changing.

“Not by half; by the time I reached the struggle, he had killed another Deathknight with his newly acquired sword and had wounded another grievously. He stood defiant, not a hint of fear, daring me and others to come and die. I knew at that moment I needed to take him into my service, to train him for some special role. Now I understand why I was fated that day to take him in; the Dark One has marked him for a higher calling.”

“Apparently,” said the Deathpriest. He made an imperceptible motion with one hand and the guard closest to Bek moved. His hand shot down to the hilt of his sword and in a single motion he drew it, and with a looping arc, aimed it for Bek’s neck. But before the blade had cleared the scabbard, Bek had moved just enough to his right to draw his own sword, reach back and drive it home. While the palace guard’s blow cut through empty air, Bek drove his own blade through the man’s stomach, punching through his armor and completely through his body, so that the point protruded from his back.

Martuch and Hirea stepped back to draw their own swords while Nakor moved away, ignored for the moment, but ready to defend himself and Bek with whatever “tricks” might be needed.

But to everyone’s surprise, the Deathpriest shouted, “Hold!” The second palace guard stood ready to attack, but held his place.

Bek grinned at the Deathpriest. “A test?”

“Impressive,” repeated the Deathpriest. He looked at Mar
tuch. “You would not be the first head of a family to embellish the accomplishments of a called warrior, to gain reflected glory for your house and society. I found it hardly credible, the story you told, but now…” He glanced to where Bek easily pulled his blade free of the man’s corpse and added, “I believe this young man, with a sword he had never wielded before that night, killed two—”

“Three,” interrupted Martuch. “The wounded warrior died a short time after.”

“Three of your Deathknights.” He turned to Bek. “Stand up.”

Bek did so, and if he had been impressive sitting on the bench, he was now doubly so, for if anything his Dasati guise had made him even larger and more menacing than he was in human form. Martuch said, “It was a more than fair bargain. He is the equal of a dozen men.”

“This one will rise quickly, I think,” said the Deathpriest. He glanced at Nakor. “Is this Bek’s Attender?”

“Yes,” said Martuch. “I gave this thing to him some time ago.”

“Come with me,” said the Deathpriest to Bek, and Nakor followed the young man.

Silently, Nakor sent up a short prayer to whatever kind god might just happen to listen. He took one moment to give Martuch and Hirea a quick glance over his shoulder, then followed his strange young companion into the heart of evil.

Pug was nearly exhausted by the time they landed. One unanticipated consequence of their chosen method of travel had been a particularly vicious flying predator that had a keener perception than most. An almost disastrous attack several hundred feet above the surface of another canton of the city had nearly caused him to lose control, which would have killed them all, less than an hour into their journey. He and Macros together destroyed the flock of winged killers, while Magnus kept them from falling to their death below.

Since that first encounter, Pug had had to fine-tune his spell of invisibility to cover a range of the spectrum beyond that which the Dasati eye could see, as well as somehow defeat those
creatures that hunted by heat. He had used his prodigious ability to fashion such a mystical masking, literally on the fly, but the cost had been one of near-exhaustion by the time they reached their final destination.

Valko had endured the journey with a stoicism that would have shamed a Tsurani, Pug thought. If a young Dasati warrior could be termed “likable,” then Valko was such. He only mentioned his almost uncontrollable desire to murder them twice, but the context was how difficult he judged his personal struggle with new concepts and leaving old values behind, which was as close as any Dasati came to being personally revealing, Pug decided. In a very alien way, it was admirable.

They reached a mountain stronghold that was invisible to all but the most powerful scrying magic, but Pug had no difficulty sensing it as they approached. Perhaps it was a result of the manipulation he had been controlling for almost a full day as they jumped halfway around the world. Macros let out an audible sigh of relief when they touched the ground, and said, “I had none of your burdens, Pug, but I fear my constitution is far less robust than what it once was.”

“Is there any danger in approaching this enclave?” asked Magnus, who seemed relatively fresh despite his efforts over the last day and more. Pug was impressed by his son’s endurance.

“Most certainly,” said Macros. “We would do well just to stand here and let them come to us.”

For nearly an hour they waited, then at last a ripple in the air around the invisible enclosure announced the arrival of a quartet of young women. Pug suspected they were either among the most puissant of the Bloodwitches, or those they could most afford to lose if Pug’s group proved hostile.