Magician: Master

by Raymond E. Feist

  Calin said, “You can move with stealth when you choose, friend Dolgan.”

  Dolgan shrugged and blew a cloud of smoke. “Elvenfolk are not the only ones with the knack of treading lightly. But we were speaking of the lad. If what you say is true, then it is a serious matter indeed. Had I known, I would never have allowed him to take the gift.”

  The Queen smiled at him. “It is not your fault, Dolgan. You could not have known. I have feared this since Tomas came among us in the mantle of the Old Ones. At first I thought the magic of the Valheru would not work for him, being a mortal, but now I can see he is less mortal each year.

  “It was an unfortunate series of events brought this to pass. Our Spellweavers would have discovered that treasure ages ago, but for the dragon’s magic. We spent centuries seeking out and destroying such relics, preventing their use by the moredhel. Now it is too late, for Tomas would never willingly let the armor be destroyed.”

  Dolgan puffed at his pipe. “Each winter he broods in the long halls, awaiting the coming of spring, and the coming of battle. There is little else for him. He sits and drinks, or stands at the door staring out into the snow, seeing what no other can see. He keeps the armor locked away in his room during such times, and when campaigning, he never removes it, even to sleep. He has changed, and it is not a natural changing. No, he would never willingly give up the armor.”

  “We could try to force him,” said the Queen, “but that could prove unwise. There is something coming into being in him, something that may save my people, and I would risk much for them.”

  Dolgan said, “I do not understand, my lady.”

  “I am not sure I do either, Dolgan, but I am Queen of a people at war. A terrible foe savages our lands and each year grows bolder. The outworld magic is strong, perhaps stronger than any since the Old Ones vanished. It may be the magic in the dragon’s gift will save my people.”

  Dolgan shook his head. “It seems strange such power could still reside in metal armor.”

  Aglaranna smiled at the dwarf. “Does it? What of the Hammer of Tholin you carry? Is it not vested with powers from ages past? Powers that mark you once more heir to the throne of the dwarves of the West?”

  Dolgan looked hard at the Queen. “You know much of our ways, lady. I must never forget your girlish countenance masks ages of knowledge.” He then brushed away her comment. “We have been done with kings for many years in the West, since Tholin vanished in the Mac Mordain Cadal. We do as well as those who obey old King Halfdan in Dorgin. But should my people wish the throne restored, we shall meet in moot, though not until this war is over. Now, what of the lad?”

  Aglaranna looked troubled. “He is becoming what he is becoming. We can aid that transformation. Our Spellweavers work to this end already. Should the full power of the Valheru rise up in Tomas untempered, he would be able to brush aside our protective magic much as you would a bothersome twig barring your way upon the trail. But he is not an Old One born. His nature is as alien to the Valheru as their nature was to all others. Aided by our Spellweavers, his human ability to love, to know compassion, to understand, may temper the unchecked power of the Valheru. If so, he may…he may prove a boon to us all.” Dolgan was visited by the certainty the Queen had been about to say something else, but remained silent as she continued. “Should that Valheru power become coupled with a human’s capacity for blind hatred, savagery, and cruelty, then he would become something to fear. Only time will tell us what such a blending will produce.”

  “The Dragon Lords…,” said Dolgan. “We have some mention of the Valheru in our lore, but only scraps here and there. I would understand more, if you’ll permit.”

  The Queen looked off into the distance. “Our lore, eldest of all in the world today, tells of the Valheru, Dolgan. There is much of which I am forbidden to speak, names of power, fearful to invoke, things terrible to recall, but I may tell you this much. Long before man or dwarf came to this world, the Valheru ruled. They were part of this world, fashioned from the very fabric of its creation, nearly godlike in power and unfathomable in purpose. Their nature was chaotic and unpredictable. They were more powerful than any others. Upon the backs of the great dragons they flew, no place in the universe beyond their reach. To other worlds they roamed, bringing back that which pleased them, treasure and knowledge plundered from other beings. They were subject to no law but their own will and whim. They fought among themselves as often as not, and only death resolved conflicts. This world was their dominion. And we were their creatures.

  “We and the moredhel were of one race then, and the Valheru bred us as you would cattle. Some were taken, from both races, for…personal pets, bred for beauty…and other qualities. Others were bred to tend the forests and fields. Those who lived in the wild became the forerunners of the elves, while those who remained with the Valheru were the forerunners of the moredhel.

  “But then came a time of changing. Our masters ceased their internecine struggles and banded together. Why they did so is forgotten, though some among the moredhel may still know, for they were closer to our masters than we elves. We may have known their reasons then, but this was the time of the Chaos Wars, and much was lost. Only this we know: all the servants of the Valheru were given freedom, and the Old Ones were never again seen by elf or moredhel. When the Chaos Wars raged, great rifts in time and space were opened, and it was through these that goblins, men, and dwarves came to this world. Few of our people or of the moredhel survived, but those that did rebuilt our homes. The moredhel longed to inherit the might of their lost masters, rather than seek their own destiny as the elves did, and used their cunning to find tokens of the Valheru, taking to the Dark Path. It is the reason we are so unalike, who once were brothers.

  “The old magic is still powerful. In strength and bravery Tomas matches any. He took the magic unwittingly, and that may prove the difference. The old magic changed the moredhel into the Brotherhood of the Dark Path because they sought the power out of dark longings. Tomas was a boy of good and noble heart, with no taint of evil in his soul. Perchance he will grow to master the dark side of the magic.”

  Dolgan scratched his head. “ ’Tis a grave risk, then, from what you say. I was concerned for the lad, true, and gave little thought to the larger scheme of things. You know the way of it better than I, but I hope we’ll not live to regret letting him keep the armor.”

  The Queen stepped down from her throne. “I also hope there will be no regrets, Dolgan. Here in Elvandar the old magic is softened, and Tomas is of lighter heart. Perhaps that is a sign we do the right thing, tempering the change rather than opposing it.”

  Dolgan made a courtly bow. “I yield to your wisdom, my lady. And I pray you are right.”

  The Queen bade them good night and left. Calin said, “I also pray my Mother-Queen speaks from wisdom, and not from some other feeling.”

  “I don’t take your meaning, Elf Prince.”

  Calin looked down upon the short figure. “Don’t play the fool with me, Dolgan. Your wisdom is widely known and highly respected. You see it as well as I. Between my mother and Tomas there is something growing.”

  Dolgan sighed, the freshening breeze carrying away his pipe’s smoke. “Aye, Calin, I’ve seen it as well. A look, little more, but enough.”

  “She looks upon Tomas as she once looked upon my Father-King, though she still denies it within herself.”

  “And there is something within Tomas,” said the dwarf, watching the Elf Prince closely, “though it is less tender than what your lady feels. Still, he holds it well in check.”

  “Look to your friend, Dolgan. Should he try to press his suit for the Queen, there will be trouble.”

  “So much do you dislike him, Calin?”

  Calin looked thoughtfully at Dolgan. “No, Dolgan. I do not dislike Tomas. I fear him. That is enough.” Calin was silent for a while, then said, “We will never again bend knee before another master, we who live in Elvandar. Should my mother’s hopes of h
ow Tomas will change prove false, we shall have a reckoning.”

  Dolgan shook his head slowly. “That would prove a sorry day, Calin.”

  “That it would, Dolgan.” Calin walked from the council ring, past his mother’s throne, and left the dwarf alone. Dolgan looked out at the fairy lights of Elvandar, praying the Elf Queen’s hopes would not prove unfounded.

  —

  WINDS HOWLED ACROSS the plains. Ashen-Shugar sat astride the broad shoulders of Shuruga. The great golden dragon’s thoughts reached his master. Do we hunt? There was hunger in the dragon’s mind.

  “No. We wait.”

  The Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches waited as the streaming moredhel made their way toward the rising city. Hundreds pulled great blocks of stone mined in quarries half a world away, dragging them toward the city on the plains. Many had died and many more would die, but that was unimportant. Or was it? Ashen-Shugar was troubled by this new and strange thought.

  A roar from above sounded as another great dragon came spiraling down, a magnificent black bellowing challenge. Shuruga raised his head and trumpeted his reply. To his master he said, Do we fight?

  “No.”

  Ashen-Shugar sensed disappointment in his mount, but chose to ignore it. He watched as the other dragon settled gracefully to the ground a short distance away, folding its mighty wings across its back. Black scales reflected the hazy sunlight like polished ebony. The dragon’s rider raised his hand in salute.

  Ashen-Shugar returned the greeting, and the other’s dragon approached cautiously. Shuruga hissed, and Ashen-Shugar absently struck the beast with his fist. Shuruga lapsed into silence.

  “Has the Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches finally come to join us?” asked the newcomer, Draken-Korin, the Lord of Tigers. His black-and-orange-striped armor sparkled as he dismounted from his dragon.

  Out of courtesy Ashen-Shugar dismounted as well. His hand never strayed far from his white-hilted sword of gold, for though times were changing, trust was unknown among the Valheru. In times past they would have fought as likely as not, but now the need for information was more pressing. Ashen-Shugar said, “No. I simply watch.”

  Draken-Korin regarded the Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches, his pale blue eyes revealing no emotion. “You alone have not agreed, Ashen-Shugar.”

  “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 raised his eyes skyward. “Yes, that is so. 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?”

  “What of them? They are nothing.”

  “They are ours.”

  “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….”

  —

  “TOMAS.”

  For an instant Tomas existed in two places. He shook his head and the visions vanished. He turned his head and saw Galain lying in the brush next to him. A force of elves and dwarves waited some distance behind. The young cousin of Prince Calin pointed toward the Tsurani camp across the river. Tomas followed his companion’s gesture and saw the outworld soldiers sitting near their campfires, and smiled. “They hug their camps,” he whispered.

  Galain nodded. “We have stung them enough that they seek the warmth of their campfires.”

  The late spring evening mist shrouded the area, mantling the Tsurani camp in haze. Even the campfires seemed to burn less brightly. Tomas again studied the camp. “I mark thirty, with thirty more in each camp east and west.”

  Galain said nothing, waiting for Tomas’s next command. Though Calin was Warleader of Elvandar, Tomas had assumed command of the forces of elves and dwarves. It was never clear when captaincy had passed to him, but slowly, as he had grown in stature, he had grown in leadership. In battle he would simply shout for something to be done, and elves and dwarves would rush to obey. At first it had been because the commands were logical and obvious. But the pattern had become accepted, and now they obeyed because it was Tomas who commanded.

  Tomas motioned for Galain to follow and moved away from the riverbank, until they were safely out of sight of the Tsurani camp, among those who waited deep within the trees. Dolgan looked at the young man who once had been the boy he saved from the mines of Mac Mordain Cadal.

  Tomas stood six inches past six feet in height, as tall as any elf. He walked with a powerful self-assurance, a warrior born. In the six years he had been with the dwarves, he had become a man…and more. Dolgan watched him, as Tomas surveyed the warriors gathered before him, and knew Tomas could now walk the dark mines of the Grey Towers without fear or danger.

  “Have the other scouts returned?”

  Dolgan nodded, signaling for them to come forward. Three elves and three dwarves approached. “Any sign of the Black Robes?”

  When the scouts indicated no, the man in white and gold frowned. “We would do well to capture one of them and carry him to Elvandar. Their last attack was the deepest yet. I would give much to know the limits of their power.”

  Dolgan took out his pipe, gauging they were far enough from the river for it not to be seen. As he lit it, he said, “The Tsurani guard the Black Robes like a dragon guards its treasure.”

  Tomas laughed at that, and Dolgan caught a glimpse of the boy he had known. “Aye, and it’s a brave dwarf who loots a dragon’s lair.”

  Galain said, “If they follow the pattern of the last three years, they most likely are done with us for the season. It is possible we shall not see another Black Robe until next spring.”

  Tomas looked thoughtful, his pale eyes seemingly aglow with a light of their own. “Their pattern…their pattern is to take, to hold, then to take more. We have been willing to let them do as they wish, so long as they do not cross the river. It is time to change that pattern. And if we trouble them enough, we may have the opportunity to seize one of these Black Robes.”

  Dolgan shook his head at the risk implicit in what Tomas proposed. Then, with a smile, Tomas added, “Besides, if we can’t loosen their hold along the river for a time, the dwarves and I will be forced to winter here, for the outworlders are now deep into the Green Heart.”

  Galain looked at his tall friend. Tomas grew more elf-like each year, and Galain could appreciate the obscure humor that often marked his words. He knew Tomas would welcome staying near the Queen. But in spite of his worries over Tomas’s magic, he had come to like the man. “How?”

  “Send bowmen to the camps on the right and the left and beyond. When I call with the honk of a greylag, have them volley across the river, but from beyond those positions as if the main attack were coming from east and west.” He smiled, and there was no humor in his expression. “That should isolate this camp long enough for us to do some bloody work.”

  Galain nodded, and sent ten bowmen to each camp. The others made ready for the attack, and after sufficient time Tomas raised his hands to his mouth. Cupping them, he made the sound of a wild goose. A moment later he could hear shouting coming from east and west of the position across the river. The soldiers in the Tsurani camp stood and looked both ways, with several coming to the edge of the water, peering into the dark forest. Tomas raised his hand and dropped it with a chopping motion.

  Suddenly it was raining elven arrows on the camp across the river, and Tsurani soldiers were diving for their shields.
Before they could fully recover, Tomas led a charge of dwarves across the shallow sandbar ford. Another flight of arrows passed overhead, then the elves shouldered bows, drew swords, and charged after the dwarves, all save a dozen who would stay to offer covering fire should it be needed.

  Tomas was first ashore and struck down a Tsurani guard who met him at the river’s edge. Quickly he was among them, wreaking mayhem. Tsurani blood exploded off his golden blade, and the screams of wounded and dying men filled the damp night.

  Dolgan slew a guard and found none to stand against him. He turned and saw Galain standing over another dead Tsurani, but staring at something beyond. The dwarf followed his gaze to where Tomas was standing over a wounded Tsurani soldier who lay with blood running down his face from a scalp wound, an arm upraised in a plea for mercy. Over him stood Tomas, his face an alien mask of rage. With a strange and terrible cry, in a voice cruel and harsh, he brought down his golden sword and ended the Tsurani’s life. He turned quickly, seeking more foes. When none presented themselves, he seemed to go blank for a moment, then his eyes refocused.

  Galain heard a dwarf call, “They come.” Shouts came from the other Tsurani camps as they discovered the ruse and quickly approached the true battle site.

  Without a word Tomas’s party hurried across the water. They reached the other side as Tsurani bowmen fired upon them, to be answered by elves on the opposite shore. The attacking group quickly fell back deeply into the trees, until they were a safe distance away.

  When they stopped, the elves and dwarves sat down to catch their wind, and to rest from the battle surge still in their blood. Galain looked to Tomas and said, “We did well. No one lost, and only a few slightly wounded, and thirty outworlders slain.”

  Tomas didn’t smile, but looked thoughtfully for a moment, as if hearing something. He turned to look at Galain, as if the elf’s words were finally registering. “Aye, we did well, but we must strike again, tomorrow and the next day and the next, until they act.”

  Night after night they crossed the river. They would attack a camp, and the next night strike miles away. A night would pass without attack, then the same camp would be raided three nights running. Sometimes a single arrow would take a guard from the opposite shore, then nothing, while his companions stood waiting for an attack that never came. Once they struck through the lines at dawn, after the defenders had decided that no attack was coming. They overran a camp, ranging miles into the south forest, and took a baggage train, even slaughtering the strange six-legged beasts who pulled the wagons. Five separate fights were fought as they turned from that raid, and two dwarves and three elves were lost.