The Riftwar Saga

by Raymond E. Feist

  Pug and Tomas exchanged questioning looks, and Macros saw he was the object of their scrutiny. With an expression of genuine mirth, he said, ‘It just occurred to me that there’s more than one reason we’re here.’ When their expressions betrayed incomprehension, he said, ‘I cannot imagine even a god to be without vanity, and were I the Ultimate, I’d want an audience for a show like that.’

  Both Pug and Tomas began to laugh. Macros continued his little caper while he hummed a merry tune. ‘Gods, I love a question I can’t answer. It keeps things interesting, even after so many years.’ Macros paused in his dance and his face clouded in concentration. After a moment, he said, ‘Some of my powers return.’

  Pug ceased his laughter. ‘Some?’

  ‘Enough so that I may more effectively manipulate your power when needed.’ He gave a sly nod. ‘And even add something to the total.’

  Pug looked upward and regarded the splendour of a newly born universe spreading across the sky. ‘Compared to that, all our troubles seem pitiful.’

  ‘Well, they may be,’ answered the sorcerer, regaining his usual manner. ‘But there are a few people upon your homeworld who may feel different watching Murmandamus’s army pouring down into the Kingdom. It may be a small planet, but it is the only one they have.’

  Without knowing how, Pug felt them moving forward through time.

  ‘We are free of the time trap,’ confirmed Macros.

  Pug sat in silent wonder. He had felt something spring into being when he had witnessed the Beginning. Now he gave voice to certainty. Looking at Macros, he said, ‘I am like you.’

  Macros nodded, an expression of warm affection upon his face. ‘Yes, Pug, you are like me. I don’t know what fate awaits you, but you are not like others. You are of neither the Lesser nor the Greater Path. You are a sorcerer, one who knows there are no paths, only magic. And magic may be limited only by the limits of one’s gifts.’

  Tomas said, ‘Can you see your future?’

  Pug said, ‘No, I am spared that.’

  Macros said, ‘See, it’s not an entirely unlucky thing, being a power. Compared to others, a minor power, but still one to be reckoned with. Now we must escape.’ He scanned the madness above as the stuff of creation shot outward, filling the heavens with a staggering beauty. Green and blue swirls of gases, red orbs of fiery splendour, white and yellow streaks of light, sped by, obliterating the grey of rift-space, pushing back the boundaries of nothingness. Then Macros suddenly pointed. ‘There!’

  Following his hand, they saw what appeared to be a tiny ribbon stretching away from them, some vast distance off in the heavens. ‘That is where we must go, and quickly. Hurry, mount Ryath and she will take us. Hurry, hurry.’ They mounted upon the dragon’s back, and while she was weakened by the meagre food, she was equal to the task. She took to the skies and they were suddenly speeding through the grey of rift-space. Then they again entered normal space and hung over the narrow strip of matter.

  Macros ordered the dragon to hover and Tomas to lower them to the pathway. They stood upon a yellow-white roadway, marked by shimmering silver rectangles every fifty feet or so. Pug looked at the twenty-foot-wide strip and said, ‘Macros, we may stand here, but there’s the problem of Ryath.’

  The sorcerer looked up and spoke rapidly. ‘Ryath, there is little time. The Hidden Lore. You may either reveal it and trust Pug and Tomas, or perish to hide your race’s secret. I argue for trust. You must decide, but quickly.’

  The dragon’s great ruby eyes narrowed as she regarded the sorcerer while she hovered. ‘Was, then, my father so giving to thee, that the forbidden knowledge was shared with a human?’

  ‘I know all, for I was one he counted friend.’

  The dragon’s eyes focused on Tomas and Pug. ‘From thee and thy companion, Valheru, an oath: never to reveal that which you are about to witness.’

  Tomas said, ‘On my life.’

  Pug nodded. ‘I swear.’

  A golden shimmering encompassed the dragon, faint at first, but growing more pronounced. Soon it was painful to look at. The light grew more intense, until it obscured all details of Ryath’s form. Then the outlines began to move, to melt and flow, and contract down as she descended to the roadway. Rapidly the outlines grew smaller and smaller, until they were man-sized. The glow faded. Where the dragon had been there was a stunning woman with red-gold hair and blue eyes. Her figure was perfection as she stood before them unclothed.

  Pug said, ‘A shapeshifter!’

  Ryath came toward them, and her voice was musical. ‘It is not known to men, that we may come and go in their society at will. And only the greater dragons have the art. That is why thy people count our kind diminished, for we know it is better to look like this when confronting men.’

  Tomas said, ‘While I can appreciate such beauty, she’ll cause quite a stir when we return home unless we find her some clothing.’

  Ryath raised a lovely white arm and suddenly was attired in a yellow and gold travelling gown. ‘I may accoutre myself as I wish, Valheru. My arts are far mightier than thou suspectest.’

  ‘This is true,’ agreed Macros. ‘When I lived with Rhuagh he taught me magics unknown to any other mortal race. Never underestimate the scope of Ryath’s skills. She has more than fang, flame, and talon to meet opposition.’

  Pug regarded the lovely woman and found it difficult to believe that moments before she had bulked larger than the rooftops of buildings. He looked hard at Macros. ‘Gathis once said you were always complaining about so much to learn and so little time to learn it. I think I’m beginning to understand.’

  Macros smiled. ‘Then you are truly beginning your education, Pug.’ Macros glanced about them, an almost triumphant expression upon his face, a fiery spark in his eyes.

  Pug said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘We were trapped, and we had no hope of victory. We still face the possibility of failure, Pug, but now at least we may take a hand – and we have a small chance of victory. Come, we have a long journey ahead.’

  The sorcerer led them down the pathway, passing the shimmering rectangles. Between the rectangles were the rapidly receding stars of the new creation. Slowly the grey of rift-space was creeping about them. ‘Macros,’ said Pug, ‘what is this place?’

  ‘The strangest place of all, even compared to the City Forever. It is called the Universe Hall, the Star Walk, the Gateway Path, or, most often, the Hall of Worlds. To the majority who pass through it, it is simply the Hall. We have plenty of time to discuss many things as we walk. We shall return to Midkemia. But there are a few things I need to tell you first.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Tomas.

  ‘Such as the true nature of the Enemy,’ said Pug.

  ‘Yes, there is that,’ agreed Macros. ‘I’ve spared you some things until the last, for if we couldn’t get free of that trap, why burden you? But now we must ready ourselves for the final confrontation, so you must have the rest of the truth.’

  Both sorcerers looked at Tomas, who said, ‘I don’t understand your meaning.’

  ‘Much of your past life is still hidden from you, Tomas. It is time for those veils to be lifted.’

  He halted their walking and reached out his hand, speaking a strange word as he covered Tomas’s eyes. Tomas stiffened as he felt memories returning.

  A world spun through the void, orbiting a warm, nurturing star. Upon it life flourished in abundance and variety. Two beings straddled the world, each with an assigned task. Rathar took the multitudes of the fibres of life and power, and with care she wove each into the complex latticework of Order, forming a mighty single braided cord. Opposite Rathar stood another, Mythar, who gripped upon the cord, and with terrible wanton frenzy he tore apart the strands, letting them fly about in Chaos, until Rathar seized the strands and again wove them together. Each followed the dictates of his or her nature and to all others was indifferent. They were the Two Blind Gods of the Beginning. Such was the nature of the universe when it was in its i
nfancy. In the endless process of the two deities’ work, tiny strands of the fibres had eluded Rathar, falling to the soil of the world below. From these had come the most wondrous of creation’s magic: life.

  Ashen-Shugar was pulled from his mother’s womb by the ungentle hands of the moredhel midwife. Hali-Marmora drew her sword and slashed the umbilical that tied her son to her. Her face was drawn with the pain of birth as she snarled, ‘That is the last you’ll have from me without a struggle.’ The moredhel ran with the newborn Valheru and handed it over to an elf who waited without the mountain hall.

  The elf knew his duty. No Valheru lived without struggle. It was the way of things. The elf carried the silent baby, who had not uttered a sound since birth. The infant had been born aware, a tiny thing, but not one without power.

  The elf reached the place he had selected and left the baby exposed atop the rocks, facing the setting sun, unclothed and uncovered.

  The infant Ashen-Shugar regarded his surroundings, names and concepts growing with each passing minute. A scavenger came sniffing toward the infant, and with a mental scream of rage the tiny Valheru sent it scurrying.

  Toward evening a creature flew high above, soaring on broad wings. It regarded the thing upon the rocks and wondered if it was food. Circling lower, it was suddenly called upon by the infant.

  Ashen-Shugar saw the giant eagle as it circled and knew it, that it was his creature to command. In primitive images he ordered the giant bird to land, then to hunt. Within minutes the bird returned with a flopping river fish, twice the baby’s size, which it shredded with beak and talon, giving the scraps to the baby. As it was for all his kind, Ashen-Shugar’s first meal was raw, bloody flesh.

  For the first night the great eagle covered the infant with her wings, as she would her own young. Within days a dozen birds cared for the baby.

  The Valheru grew, quickly, far faster than the children of other races. Within a summer’s span the child could run down a deer, killing it with a stunning blast of the mind, and eating its flesh after tearing it from the carcass with bare hands.

  Other minds occasionally touched the infant’s, who would pull back. Instinctively he knew his own kind were the beings to be feared most, until he had sufficient power to carve his own place in their society.

  His first conflict came as he ended his first year with the giant eagles. Another youth, Lowris-Takara, the so-called King of the Bats, arrived in the dead of night, using his servants to locate the youthful Ashen-Shugar. They struggled, each seeking to absorb the power of the other, but Ashen-Shugar finally prevailed. With the powers of Lowris-Takara added to his own, Ashen-Shugar began seeking out fit opponents. He hunted other youths, as Lowris-Takara had hunted him, and seven others fell before him. He grew in strength and power, taking the title Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches, and flew upon the back of a giant bird in the hunt. He tamed the first of the mighty dragons he would ride, and after destroying his mother in battle, he took her hall as his own. For years he grew in stature, and soon he was acknowledged one of the mightiest of his race.

  He hunted and took sport with his moredhel women, and occasionally mated with one of his own kind when the heat came upon her and powerful lusts overrode the battle urge he felt toward his own kind. Of those unions only two offspring survived. His first child was Alma-Lodaka, whom he fathered in his early days, and the second was Draken-Korin, who resulted from his mating with Alma-Lodaka. Matters of relationship meant nothing to the Valheru, save as points of reference.

  He raided across the heavens with his brethren when the need for plunder rose up within them like a thing of mindless want. He took his eldar servants with him, riding behind him on the backs of his dragons, to catalogue and care for his plunder. He knew the universe, and it trembled at the thunder of the Dragon Host when they roared into the skies. Other star-spanning races challenged the Valheru, but none survived. The Contemplators of Per, with their powers to manipulate the stuff of life, were cast down and their secrets lost with them. The Tyrant of the Cormoran Empire sent forth the might of a thousand worlds. Ships the size of cities sped through the void to unleash mighty engines of war upon the invaders. The Dragon Lords obliterated them without hesitation, and the Tyrant died screaming in the lowest basement of his palace while his world was destroyed above him. The Masters of Majinor and their dark magic were swept away by the Dragon Host. The Grand Alliance, the Marshals of Dawn, the Siar Brotherhood, all attempted to resist. All were destroyed. Of all who stood before the Valheru, only the Lorekeepers of the Aal, the supposed first race, managed to avoid destruction, but even the Aal could not oppose the Dragon Host. In the multitudes of universes, the Valheru were supreme.

  For ages Ashen-Shugar lived as his people had always lived, fearing none, and worshipping only Rathar, She who was called Order, and Mythar, He who was called Chaos, the Two Blind Gods of the Beginning.

  Then came the call, and Ashen-Shugar went to meet with his brethren. It was an odd call, one unlike any before, for there was no bloodlust rising in his breast to take them beyond the stars to raid other worlds. Instead it was a call to meeting, where the Valheru would gather, to speak to one another. It was a strange concept.

  Upon the plain, south of the mountains and the great forest, they stood in a circle, the hundreds who were the race. In the centre stood Draken-Korin, who called himself Lord of Tigers. Two of his creatures waited one at each hand, powerful arms crossed, their tiger faces set in fierce snarls. They were as nothing to the Valheru, only posing as a reminder that Draken-Korin was, by commonly held opinion, the strangest of their kind. He had ideas of new things.

  ‘The order of the universe is changing,’ he said, pointing to the heavens. ‘Rathar and Mythar have fled, or have been deposed, but for whatever cause, Order and Chaos have no more meaning. Mythar let loose the strands of power and from them the new gods arise. Without Rathar to knit the strands of power together, these beings will seize that power and establish an order. It is an order we must oppose. These gods are knowing, are aware, and are challenging us.’

  ‘When one appears, kill it,’ answered Ashen-Shugar, unconcerned by Draken-Korin’s words.

  ‘They are our match in power. For the moment they struggle among themselves, seeking each dominion over the others as they strive to gain mastery of that power left by the Two Blind Gods of the Beginning. But that struggle will end and then shall our existence be threatened. They will turn their might upon us.’

  Ashen-Shugar said, ‘What cause for concern? We fight as we have before. That is the answer.’

  ‘No, there needs be more. We must fight in harmony, not each alone, lest they overwhelm us.’

  Of late, an odd voice had come to Ashen-Shugar, a voice with a name. The name was lost upon him now, but the voice spoke. You must be apart.

  The Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches said, ‘Do what you will. I will have none of it.’ He ordered his mighty golden dragon Shuruga into the sky and flew home.

  Time passed, and Ashen-Shugar would occasionally return to the site of his brethren working. A strange thing, like the cities on other worlds, was fashioned by magic arts and the work of slaves. In it the Valheru resided, even as it was being fashioned. As never before in their history, they became for a time a cooperative society of beings, their combative nature stemmed by a compact, a truce. It was alien to Ashen-Shugar.

  Shortly before the city was completed, Ashen-Shugar sat upon his dragon’s back, regarding the work. It was a windy day, bitter cold as winter approached.

  A roar from above caused Shuruga to trumpet a reply. Do we fight? asked the gold dragon.

  ‘No. We wait.’

  Ashen-Shugar ignored the disappointment he sensed in Shuruga. Another dragon, black as coal, landed and cautiously approached Ashen-Shugar.

  ‘Has the Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches finally come to join us?’ asked Draken-Korin, his black and orange striped armour glinting in the harsh light as he dismounted.

  ‘No. I simply watch,�
�� answered Ashen-Shugar, dismounting also.

  ‘You alone have not agreed.’

  ‘Joining to plunder across the cosmos is one thing, Draken-Korin. This … this plan of yours is madness.’

  ‘What is this madness? I know not of what you speak. We are. We do. What more is there?’

  ‘This is not our way.’

  ‘It is not our way to let others stand against our will. These new beings, they contest with us.’

  Ashen-Shugar looked skyward, regarding those signs that indicated Draken-Korin was correct about the struggle for power between the newly aborning gods. ‘Yes, that is so.’ He remembered those other star-faring races they had faced, the mortal beings who had fallen before the Dragon Host. ‘But they are not like others. They also are formed from the very stuff of this world, as are we.’

  ‘What does that matter? How many of our kin have you killed? How much blood has passed your lips? Whoever stands against you must be killed, or kill you. That is all.’

  ‘What of those left behind, the moredhel and the elves?’ He used the terms that had come to differentiate between the slaves of the household and the slaves of the fields and woods.

  ‘What of them? They are nothing.’

  ‘They are ours.’ Ashen-Shugar felt a strange presence within himself and knew the other, the one whose name often eluded him, was causing him to be filled with alien cares.

  ‘You have grown strange under your mountains, Ashen-Shugar. They are our servants. It is not as if they possessed true power. They exist for our pleasure, nothing more. What concerns you?’

  ‘I do not know. There is something’ – he paused, as if hearing a call to some other place – ‘something wrong in the ordering of these events. I think we risk not only ourselves, but the very fabric of the universe.’