Wrath of a Mad God (7 page)

“In all our encounters with the Serpent Priests,” said Pug,

“we found them clever, but hardly brilliant, dangerous in numbers, but never individually.” He mused for a moment, then added, “I never considered that the time trap was actually a spell of majestic complexity and required skills beyond their abilities. At least one of those priests was inspired.”

“All things return to the Nameless One,” said Nakor. “As he has touched Leso Varen, he must have so done with a Pantathian high priest. There was your inspired genius.”

Macros waved his hand. “Yes. Had they all had that level of talent, the war would have turned out very different, but other than that one savant, they were always a nuisance at most—”

“Nuisance?” interrupted Pug. “Tens of thousands died over the course of two wars because of that
nuisance
.”

“You mistake my meaning,” said Macros. “They created
chaos, but as Nakor observed, it was the Nameless One at the root of it all.”

Macros stood and walked a pace, turned and said, “There is so much to tell, and it’s difficult to know where to begin.” He glanced from face to face. “Should a question occur to you, perhaps it were best if you leave off asking until I make this following point.” He waved his hand in the air, and a globe appeared, an illusion that Pug instantly recognized, for he had used such things to teach students at the Assembly on Kelewan, the Academy at Stardock, and upon Sorcerer’s Isle.

“Consider this globe to be all that can exist,” said Macros.

“Surrounded by the void, it represents all of what we comprehend.” He waved his hand and the globe was now banded with shades of grey, from a nearly black band at the bottom to an off-white one at the top. “Each layer represents a plane of reality, with the centermost one being our own…
your
own,” he corrected himself. “As you noticed on Kosridi, it’s a physical match for Midkemia, as this world is a match for Kelewan.”

“Kelewan,” said Pug. “I had no inkling.”

Macros nodded. “You sit within a garden that is roughly in the middle of the great hall in the Emperor’s palace in the Holy City of Kentosani, if I remember my Tsurani geography. There’s an affinity between physical creations that I do not pretend to understand—it can even be argued that there is but one physical expression and that the planes are overlays, spiritual realms that actually exist in the same space. It’s all very difficult and borders on the abstract debates ordinarily suitable only for students of natural philosophy. But I can appreciate your not recognizing Omadrabar being analogous to Kelewan, because this world has been occupied by the Dasati a great deal longer than Kelewan has been home to humanity.

“Were you to rise up to a great height, you would find that while the seas would look familiar, far more of this world is covered by construction.” He paused. “Did you know that given the manner in which the Dasati farm, they’ve been forced to include gigantic farming enclaves within the cities, so they can feed the populace?”

Macros shrugged. “Enough digression. These levels or planes of reality have been stable for…well, I guess since the dawn of time and as you see them.” He waved his hand, and suddenly there appeared a distortion, as if someone had stuck a long needle through the sphere from the bottom, pushing a small part of each layer upward, until it intersected the layer above. “Then came something I can only call the Disturbance.”

Pug glanced at his companions, but said nothing.

Macros continued. “Like the cause of the upheaval that brought humanity to Midkemia, we’ll never know the cause of the Disturbance.”

Nakor grinned. “Are they the same?”

Macros frowned like an annoyed schoolteacher. “If you find out, please let me know. This Disturbance is an…imbalance, a pressure upward from the lowest to the highest realm of reality. Just as the Dasati are attempting to manifest themselves into our…
your
realm, so are creatures from the third realm attempting to rise up into this one.”

“You’re describing a cataclysm of unprecedented scope,” whispered Pug.

Macros nodded. “Yes, my friend. The entire fabric of the universe is being rent apart, and we must stop it before it gets worse.”

“How?” asked Magnus quietly.

Macros sighed, a very human sound coming from a Dasati.

“I have no real knowledge, just intuition, and even that is…not compelling.” He waved his hand and the conjured sphere vanished. “The Chaos Wars appear to have been an attempt at reordering the balances within the entirety of reality, from the highest to the lowest plane. We can only speculate on what occurred in the other realms of reality, but I suspect balance was restored, else the crisis we face would be even more catastrophic. We’ve had no evidence of any interaction between your native realm, the one I used to live in as well, and the one above it, the first heaven.”

“Because the Nameless One is imprisoned?” suggested Nakor.

“Most likely,” said Macros. “So, the chaos comes from the
lower realms. His Darkness, the Dark God of the Dasati, is so powerful in his supremacy that whatever incursions from below threatened this plane have almost certainly been dealt with.”

“If I might ask a question?” inquired Magnus.

“What?” asked his grandfather, barely hiding his impatience at the interruption.

“Why here? Why Kelewan and Midkemia?”

Macros paused, then said, “Not a bad question.” He smiled.

“I suspect there must be a locus somewhere, or loci, where the incursions from one realm to the next manifest first, analogous to the first Tsurani rift into Midkemia, in the Grey Tower Mountains.

“Remember, the gods of each realm are local expressions of a much vaster entity, spanning universes. The Nameless One is a manifestation of evil on an unimaginable scale, one that spans the entirety of the universe within which Midkemia resides, a universe of billions of worlds, with countless creatures on them, multitudes having visions of that evil, giving it a legion of guises. Yet, we can assume with some degree of certainty that just as the Nameless One was confined in Midkemia, so he was in many other places, the result of the conflict which seemed to center on that world.

“I expect the farther one traveled from Midkemia, the less likely it would be that the history of the Chaos Wars remained unchanged. Remember the sphere? If you were at the extremities the ordering of the planes of existence seemed normal, unchanged. Yet if you were at the point of the incursion, you would be amid chaos.”

“You build a persuasive argument,” said Pug. “But what I wish to know is how this applies to us, finding ourselves here?”

Macros nodded and smiled. “To the heart of the matter.” He looked directly into Pug’s eyes. “The Nameless One is confined, but as you have witnessed, not without influence, even some power, albeit limited by the other surviving Greater Gods, the Controllers.

“He doesn’t appreciate the incursion from ‘below’ by the
Dark God of the Dasati. As much as possible, he’s working in concert with the other gods of Midkemia to restore the proper order of things.”

“We’re working on behalf of the Nameless One?” asked Nakor.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” replied Macros. “It is my belief that ultimately we all play a part in the Nameless One’s plans.”

“That plan being?” asked Nakor.

Macros’s expression became grimmer than before. “I believe we are seeing a struggle between gods, my friends. And I believe in some fashion we are weapons.”

“Weapons?” echoed Magnus. “We are just three magicians and a…?” He glanced at Nakor.

“Bek may be a weapon. There is little about him that is natural.”

“There is a prophecy,” said Macros. “A Dasati lord will rebel against the TeKarana, and prepare the way for the Godkiller.”

Pug said, “You think Bek…”

“Is the weapon,” said Nakor. “It is almost certain.”

“What I don’t know is if he is
the
weapon.” Macros coughed, fighting back the impulse even as Pug saw his chest tighten and the spasm hit him. When he finished, he said, “Even the lowest of the low would attack me if they saw such an overt sign of weakness.”

A servant hurried in, and moments later a warrior in the garb of the Sadharin followed. “Master,” said the servant. “Something—”

The soldier interrupted. “Word from Martuch. You must flee. Within the hour the announcement will come from the palace. At sundown we shall begin a Great Culling.”

Macros drew himself up to his full height, his will overcoming his weakened body. “You know what to do,” he said to the servant. “Take only what you must and get our people to the closest sanctuary.”

“Master,” said the servant, bowing his head and running off.

To the soldier he said, “Return to Martuch and tell him to
meet me at the Grove of Delmat-Ama as soon as he is able. If possible, have him bring Valko and anyone else he thinks will serve. It is close to the time, I think.”

The young warrior nodded respectfully, then hurried off. Macros said to himself, “Please the gods they survive.”

Pug asked, “What is it?”

Macros said, “Get your things. We leave within minutes. The TeKarana has called the Great Culling, and at sundown everyone within the Dasati Empire will have license to kill whomever they may. All truces are abated, all alliances put aside, murder is the will of His Darkness.”

“What does it mean?” asked Magnus.

Macros looked troubled. “It means the Dark God is hungry. It means the usual slaughter of his subjects is not enough to feed him. I fear it means he is ready to begin his invasion into the next realm.”

Pug, Nakor, and Magnus exchanged glances. Nakor said, “What about Bek?”

“He’s fine with Martuch,” answered Macros. “In some ways he is more Dasati than any Dasati Deathknight I’ve met. The next night and day will probably be the most fun he’s had in his life. I just hope he leaves Martuch alive.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” asked Pug.

“There are no allies or friends, save those arrangements made in the moment. Martuch and the other Lords of the Langradin will have safe houses and provisions put by close to the Langradin Great House, by habit if nothing more. But for most common people tonight is a bloody game of chance, and the prize is survival. If one can survive from sunset tonight until sunset tomorrow, the usual order will return. They may be bloody rules, but they’re rules.

“But for one day there will be no rules. Want something that belongs to your neighbor, take it. Want to settle an old grudge with someone who is too well protected for you to attack, now’s the time. Or if you’re just ambitious and the death of a few better placed individuals in your own faction, your own battle society, or even your own family would benefit you, sharpen your
blades. Every death will be seen as a gift to His Darkness, and every murder a benediction.

“Bands of Deathpriests and Hierophants will be on the streets in every town and city. Anyone is fair game. Bands of ravagers will roam the countryside. Anyone with resources will hole up and barricade every door and window, or find a hole to hide in. We, on the other hand, will be on the road, trying to reach a bucolic hamlet a day’s ride south of the city, and it will take us most of the night and day to reach the boundary of the city.” He looked from face to face. “I have little fear for our safety. Any one of us should have enough skill to defend ourselves from whoever we meet along the way.”

“But you fear discovery.” said Nakor.

“Yes,” said Macros. “For if word of our existence reaches those who know what I am, or who might guess who you are, then the entire weight of the Empire, every resource of the TeKarana and the Dark God will be turned to destroying us.”

Pug said, “Then let us go.”

Macros smiled. “Yes, let us go. And if you have a prayer left in you after all you’ve seen, now would be the time to use it.”

M
iranda looked defiant.

Two members of the Assembly—Alenca and a magician named Delkama—had just finished conjuring a sphere of illusion, a translucent bubble scintillating with sheets of energy which arced across its surface, sizzling patches of bright gold light and brilliant steel blue. It had slowly expanded and caused more than one usually implacable Tsurani noble to flinch visibly. It was a ward, designed to ensure that no magical scrying could spy upon the proceedings about to commence. Moreover, should anyone be attempting to view the proceedings remotely, they would only see three magicians addressing the Emperor on matters unrelated to what was really being discussed. This elaborate charade was for the
benefit of Leso Varen, should he be close by and able to use his considerable powers to eavesdrop on the Council.

The other members of the Assembly of Magicians who accompanied Miranda looked alarmed. Despite being among those of highest rank in the Empire, even they were tradition-bound to show respect bordering on awe to the Emperor. Yet Miranda stood before the Light of Heaven her shoulders back, her eyes fixed on the young man, and her expression one of expectation. She had just instructed—no, almost ordered—the leader of the Empire of Tsuranuanni to say nothing until the protective measure was in place.

Rarely in the history of the Empire had an outlander stood before the Emperor. The chamber of the Imperial High Council was sacrosanct, as was the entirety of Kentosani, the Holy City, and those who had been there were either ambassadors or captive leaders. Even then it was unusual for the Emperor to attend in person, for he was the divine presence, the embodiment of Heaven’s bounty and a grace to the Tsurani people. Yet so terrible was the message from the Assembly to the Imperial Throne that Sezu, First of that Name, Ruler of the Nations of Tsuranuanni, took it upon himself to grace the audience and listen in person to the alien woman’s warning.

The vast hall of the High Council was filled to capacity as every ranking noble—every man and the few women who were ruling lords and ladies of the hundreds of Houses of Rank in the Empire—had attended to hear Miranda’s warning. Dressed in a riot of hues, they wore robes of house colors—here one of yellow with crimson trim, there another of black trimmed with pale blue—each bedecked with beading and braids and adorned with precious stones and clasps of precious metal. They were arrayed according to Tsurani tradition in groups that constituted clans, but many who sat silently, waiting for the Emperor’s reply, stole glances at confederates in other parts of the hall, at members of their own political parties. Tsurani politics was not only deadly, it was convoluted and intricate, an ever-shifting balancing act on the part of each ruler, weighing blood loyalty on one side against expediency and opportunity on the other.

Miranda spoke. “Majesty, lords and ladies of the High Council, we come today with a warning, for as dire a threat as can be imagined now bears down on this world.”

Miranda had rehearsed all she would say as she and the Great Ones had awaited the gathering of the Council, and she moved quickly from the discovery of the Talnoy on her world by Kaspar of Olasko to the recent incursion of the Dasati into this world. She glossed over nothing, and she had no temptation to embellish. The unvarnished truth was frightening enough. When she had finished, she saw the Emperor sitting quietly and realized he did not look surprised by anything she had said. She glanced at Alenca who gave the slightest shake of his head, indicating he didn’t understand the lack of reaction, either. She knew that the Light of Heaven had been kept current as to what the Assembly was doing regarding the Talnoy in their possession, but she knew none of what had occurred since she had been captured had been communicated. The existence of the Dasati incursion had to have been a shock to the young Emperor, yet he sat calmly as if considering what to ask to be prepared for his evening meal. Emperor Sezu had come to his office only recently, four years before, and like his father before him had ruled a relatively peaceful empire.

Miranda turned her attention from the Light of Heaven to the High Council. Once again she was astonished at the Tsurani mind, for although she had just delivered as dire a warning as could be imagined, she suspected as many as a third among the attending lords were wondering how to gain advantage from the coming chaos, and from their expressions, fully another third seemed incapable of fully understanding what it was they had just heard. It was the last third, who did understand the dangers of which she spoke, who realized they were all in peril, who showed the proper distress and who waited silently on the Light of Heaven’s pleasure. The impatient shifting of silks and the nervous scuffling of leather sandals on the floor was a counterpoint to the silence as all waited for the Emperor to speak.

Beside the youthful ruler stood another black-robed magician, Finda by name, an older mage with whom Miranda had
only a passing acquaintance. He was the current advisor from the Assembly to the Imperial Throne and from his expression it appeared he would rather be just about anywhere else in the vast Tsurani Empire at this moment.

Miranda was not the expert on Tsurani society her husband was—he had lived among them for years—but she still understood it well enough to have a sense of what was likely to be the reaction among the ruling families. The warlike Tsurani traditions still dominated the politics of the Empire, the “Game of the Council” as it was called, but rather than armed confrontation new means of domination and influence were employed: wealth, influence, and social position. With the occasional murder, midnight raid, and abduction thrown in, Miranda thought. At times Tsurani politics reminded her of nothing so much as the criminal wars in Great Kesh; the Mockers of Krondor would have fitted right in.

Five great families—Keda, Minwanabi, Oaxatucan, Xacatecas, and Anasati—still dominated the many clans and political parties that defined the governance of the Empire. Traditionally they had been the only families able to claim the title of Warlord, until the current Emperor’s great-grandmother seized the throne for her son. And above all others there remained one constant: the Emperor. The Light of Heaven could overrule any judgment of the High Council. He could order war or force feuding clans to put down their arms at whim. Such was his power.

All waited as the Emperor upon the golden throne, seat of power for two thousand years in the Empire’s history, pondered his response. The assembled lords of the great and lesser houses were silent to a man. No one dared speak before the Light of Heaven.

Miranda took note of the empty chair at his side, set slightly lower on the dais. It had been placed there by Sezu’s great-grandmother, the legendary Lady Mara of the Acoma, Mistress of the Empire, the only person in the long history of the Tsurani people to hold that title. In saving her house from bitter enemies, she had reformed a nation, freeing suffering millions from lives without hope. As a result of her acts a nation had risen that
now placed as much importance on art, music, and literature as it did on honor, bravery, and sacrifice in war. The Empire was not without its struggles and difficulties, but it had been reborn under the last three emperors despite attempts by traditionalists to steer the Empire back to old values and ways.

All eyes now turned to the Emperor as the Light of Heaven stirred.

Sezu, First of that Name, at last revealed his reaction: he looked deeply troubled. When his great-grandmother had brought reform to the Empire she had also transformed the office of Emperor from an almost entirely ceremonial one to the ultimate seat of power within the Empire, and the weight of his responsibilities had already aged him beyond his thirty-six years. Softly he said, “Dire words, indeed, Lady Miranda. We have been a relatively peaceful nation for more than two generations. Some difficulties with our neighbors in the Thuril Highlands and across the Sea of Blood to the south have kept some of our young men mantled in glory and heaped honors upon their houses. But we have not fought a major war since our invasion of your home world.”

Miranda nodded. The Emperor had Midkemian blood in him: Mara’s Midkemian lover, Kevin, had been acknowledged father of Emperor Justin. And while that fact gave some vague sense of kinship, this young man was entirely Tsurani. Yet there was something else, something almost rehearsed in his next question. “Would it not serve if this Talnoy was removed from our lands and returned to your world?”

Miranda looked at Alenca, eldest of the Great Ones, who said, “Light of Heaven, we have considered that, and we think it pointless. It was the renegade Leso Varen who provided aid to the Dasati in establishing their presence here. They know now how to return, and we are sure they would do so.” He paused as if weighing his words carefully, then said, “There is something about our world…Many of us think these Dasati have marked this world for a reason; we just don’t know what that reason is.” He fell silent for a long moment, then added, “We think the nations need to prepare for invasion.”

The Emperor was silent for a very long time to consider this. Then he spoke in what Miranda could only term a precise manner. She realized this young Emperor was no fool. He
knew
what she and Alenca were going to say before they said it! Her instinct that he had not been shocked was justified. But she wondered how he had known. She was also sure that he had rehearsed his reply!

“Attend me,” said the Light of Heaven formally to the assembled Council, as he stood up. The assembled lords of the Empire stood at once, for it was not permitted for any lesser being to sit in the presence of the monarch when he was not also seated. “Our tradition is ancient, our ways time-honored, but now we face new perils unlike any in memory. We are reminded of hallowed antiquity, of a time of myth, and the arrival of the nations over the golden bridge.

“Our lorekeepers suggest that what we fled from the Home Before Time was too monstrous a thing to even bear accounting, so no word of description, no tale or song even suggests what it was that drove us to this world. It is merely that thing from which the nations fled.” He paused for a moment, then added, “We fear that now such a horror returns to task the nations.” He fell silent to let his words sink in. Miranda knew enough of Tsurani lore to know he had struck a chord with the Lords of the High Council, for the root of Tsurani history was the Myth of Arrival. It was a tale Pug had recounted to her more than once, the image of the majestic golden bridge of light through a massive rift across which thousands of refugees flooded into Kelewan, fleeing the terrors of the Chaos Wars. It was the foundation of every Great One’s training, the birth of those people who later would become the Tsurani, instilling a deep sense of community that was at the heart of every magician’s oath to serve the Empire.

“It is the tradition that when the nations go to war, the Warlord is given the power to conduct the business of war. That office has remained empty for years.” Miranda could see half a dozen ruling nobles looking on eagerly. One of them by rights would be granted the office, the second most powerful position in the Empire, historically at times even more important than
the Golden Throne. It was the ultimate prize for any ambitious Tsurani noble. “It is to our cousin, Tetsu of the Minwanabi, I turn.” He looked toward a grizzled noble, still powerful in bearing despite his heavy physique and grey hair. “Will you don this heavy burden, my lord?”

Tetsu of the Minwanabi bowed his head, barely able to contain his emotions. “Gladly, Majesty. I live to serve: my life and honor are yours.”

The Emperor turned to the assembled lords. “Send word to your commanders, my lords. The nations go to war. Go now and return at the second hour after sunrise tomorrow and we shall ready ourselves.” He turned to his First Advisor, an elderly man named Janain who had previously been his father’s First Advisor. “Send word to the Priests of Jastur. I will arrive at noon tomorrow to break the Holy Seal.”

Miranda glanced at Alenca, uncertain what this particular order meant. The old magician gave a slight shake of his head. But she could tell from the attitude of every man in the room that this announcement was both important and alarming.

The Emperor continued, “I will take counsel with the Lady Miranda, the Great Ones with whom she arrived, and the Warlord.” He paused for a moment, then ended the assembly with the formal dismissal, “Honors to your houses, my lords.”

He stepped down from the dais and everyone in the room bowed, the common servants going to their knees. As the Emperor swept past, he glanced in Miranda’s direction, and indicated that she should follow.

As the newly appointed Warlord fell into step behind the Emperor, Alenca held Miranda back for a moment. Without preamble, he said, “By breaking the seal on the temple of the War God, the Light of Heaven ensures all other matters become moot. No faction struggle, clan feud, or debt of blood may be undertaken until the temple door is again resealed, and that will not happen until final victory is achieved.” He glanced around as if worried about being overheard. “You must understand the gravity of this. He has told them that not only are we preparing for the possibility of war, but that we are going to war.”

Miranda was confused. “Isn’t that what we wanted?”

Alenca said, “It is not what I expected. Moreover, I never believed any emperor would again revive the office of Warlord. To promote a Minwanabi to that position…”

“What does it mean?” asked Miranda, wishing not for the first time but with more fervor than ever before that her husband were here. Pug would understand all of this.

“There is an old saying, one that I am certain you have among your people as well: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The Minwanabi were defeated by the Acoma, the Emperor’s ancestors, and rather than the usual obliteration, with every living member of that family put to the sword or sold into slavery, the great Lady of the Acoma, the Mistress of the Empire, in a gesture of mercy unimaginable to any Tsurani ruling noble, allowed the Minwanabi to survive. That made one of the original five great houses a vassal to a lesser house, an insult to our ancestors despite the generosity of the gesture.”