Wrath of a Mad God

by Raymond E. Feist

  He had read every document in Krondor’s royal archives pertaining to the elves, from some very ancient nonsense that predated the Riftwar to every official report concerning the activities of Warleader Tomas and his wife, the Elf Queen Aglaranna. The Kingdom might have many allies, but he was certain they had none more dependable than the royal court in Elvandar.

  Which led him back to not knowing what to make of this 1 0 9

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  band of elves. He spoke enough of their language to have puzzled out some of what they said, but only enough to make him even more curious and frustrated.

  Now, Jim Dasher paused and listened to the rhythm of the night. The breeze stirred the branches, and night birds and noc-turnal animals scurried. Most went to ground as he approached, for their senses far outmatched his ability to move stealthily. But those just outside the area he disturbed in passing continued their activities, and they provided tiny clues as to how much danger lay nearby. Absolute silence was as deadly as the sound of armed men crashing through the brush behind him.

  There were just the right amount of night birds’ calls and the hooting that might have been an owl he had not encountered before to tell him that trouble was not hard on his heels, but he knew it would be coming soon.

  He judged he had less than an hour’s lead over his pursuers, and while he might have some tricks to slow them down they’d never come across, eventually they would overtake him.

  While keeping his attention on the task at hand, moving along the route he had mentally marked out on the way up to the elves’

  stronghold, he also kept looking out for likely spots to set up an ambush. There was going to be a confrontation, so it might as well be on his terms.

  Jim Dasher waited. He knew that at least one, or possibly two, elves were coming fast. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. His grandfather had spoken of his own grandfather, the nearly legendary Jimmy the Hand, and had once mentioned his claim to possess a “bump of trouble,” an intuition that allowed him to anticipate pitfalls before actually coming upon them. Jim Dasher had no name for this gut feeling but he knew that on more than one occasion an anticipation of trouble had saved him from disaster.

  “The itch,” as his grandfather had called it, had begun a few minutes before, and Jim had stopped to listen. There was nothing he could hear, but somehow he had sensed a change out there, behind him, and he knew his pursuers were close.

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  He had no doubt he could ambush one elf and stand a fair chance—well, an unfair one, really—to best him. But a second bow or sword would almost undoubtedly mean his death or capture. Just in case there were two of them, he reached down to his belt and removed it. He had five secret pouches sewn inside it, which is why he had chosen a big rock as a weapon when facing the wolf-riders rather than use his belt as Kaspar had instructed.

  He deftly tore at the threads with his thumbnail, parting the fastenings used to secure two of the small compartments and set aside the vials he had secreted there. He then slid a small, thin, and very lethal blade he had fashioned that was inserted into the belt just below the buckle—which also could be used as a cestus, a charming Quegan invention like a battle glove—and set that down next to the vials. He smiled at the image of Kaspar laying about him with his belt and thought that he should really get a special buckle made for the former Duke. Kaspar had been a thorn in the Kingdom’s side for years, though he really had been more of a problem for Roldem and Great Kesh, which meant he was a threat worth enduring for the Kingdom of the Isles, but since his exile and return, he had proved to be a valuable resource for the Conclave. Besides, Jim liked him. He could be a murderous thug, just like Jim, but there was an interesting, complex man there, one who appreciated hunting, good food and wine, and the company of bad women.

  He put his belt back around his waist, took the blade in his right hand, picked up the first vial with his left. He coated his blade with its contents, then tossed the empty container aside.

  Then he picked up the second vial and waited.

  The two elves were upon him without further warning. His instincts told him that it was time to move, and without thought he did, and in just the right direction.

  A sword blade cut into the tree trunk where Jim had crouched just moments before and that was all the opening he needed. He broke the vial between thumb and forefinger and flicked the contents into the elf’s eyes. In seconds the elf was on his knees clutching at his face and screaming in pain.

  The second elf was the one called Sinda. He drew back his 1 1 1

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  bow and let fly with an arrow. Jim didn’t think; he reacted, moving to his left, Sinda’s right, and forcing the elf to traverse his line of fire across his own body. That tiny adjustment saved Jim’s life, for the arrow sped by his neck, close enough for the fletching to slice a shallow cut in his skin. Jim rolled forward, ignoring the rocks and twigs that cut into him, and came up hard, his shoulder driving into Sinda’s stomach.

  In close, the elf’s bow was useless, and before he could get his belt knife unsheathed, Dasher drove him to the ground, drew back his fist and struck him hard on the point of the jaw. The elf’s eyes went vacant for a fraction of a moment, but that was all the time Jim needed. He pinned the elf’s left arm under his knees and reached out and grabbed the other wrist with his left hand. He pressed his small blade hard enough against Sinda’s neck so that the elf could feel it and said, “If you wish to live, do not move!

  There’s poison on my blade and one cut will kill you swiftly.”

  The elf was dazed but understood enough to go limp. After a second Jim said, “Good. Listen. I don’t have much time.

  Your friend has mossback venom in his eyes. You know what that means. You have perhaps an hour or two at most to get him to one of your healers. Now, you must decide what is more important, to kill me and let him die, or to save his life. You cannot do both. And killing me will not be easy. Can your people afford to lose two more warriors?”

  Jim got up quickly, leaving Sinda on his back, confused.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked.

  Jim Dasher reached around his neck and pulled something off. He tossed it to Sinda and said, “I am not your enemy. None of the men you hold is your enemy. If you let us, we will help you survive. But I need to warn my people of what we saw on the beach, for that black sorcery means more pain and death than you want to imagine is coming to these shores. No one else will try to escape. Let them help you while they wait.”

  “Wait for what?” asked Sinda.

  “For your leaders to decide to kill them or let them live.

  Now see to your friend.”

  Almost as quickly as an elf, he vanished into the gloom, 1 1 2

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  leaving the confused Sinda considering what he had just heard.

  The elf looked at the object that had been tossed to him and his eyes widened. In the faint light his elven vision easily made out the design. This was no forgery, but a genuine token given to an elf friend by the Queen of the Elves.

  Sinda helped his companion to his feet. The worst of the pain had passed, but both elves knew that the venom of the mossback lizard would slowly reduce the victim to a vague and listless state, followed quickly by death. It was an effective poison, but easily cured, if one had the antidote. Sinda put his arm around his companion’s waist, pulled the staggering man’s arm over his shoulder, and began to return to Baranor.

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  Chapter 8

  threats

  Miranda ran.

  The alarm had sounded almost instantly accompanied by shouts from the hallway. She had been resting in the suite set aside for her by the Emperor, waiting for a summons to the imperial apartments within the palace for a meeting with the Light of Heaven. Dozens of servants and Imperial Guards ran to answer the clarion. The signal was unique, for only one such rare metal trumpet exis
ted in the Empire, and it was used to warn the Emperor when he was in danger.

  Miranda didn’t need to be told that dark magic was involved: she could feel it making her skin crawl and there was the illusion of a foul stench in the air as she approached the entrance to the imperial apartments.

  wrath of a mad god

  The giant wooden doors were closed, their ancient carved surfaces being hammered at futilely by a dozen guardsmen. “Stand aside!” shouted Miranda.

  Several of the soldiers hesitated, but the servants all moved away. The sight of a black robe, even if it wasn’t truly black but a very dark grey, and the commanding presence of any magic-user, evoked years of conditioning, and several bowed their heads and said, “Your will, Great One.”

  The soldiers followed suit, and Miranda raised her hands.

  Thinking this was not a time for subtlety, she focused her mind on the great hinges and willed the stone in which they were set to become dust. Then with a shout to focus her thoughts, she extended her hand, as if pushing something away, and the air before it rippled as energy coursed through it, striking the massive doors like an invisible battering ram. They fell backward, slamming into the stone floor of the imperial quarters with a thunderous crash. Before the echo diminished, the soldiers were through.

  Miranda turned to the servants. “Stay back. If you are needed you will be called.”

  She hurried after the soldiers and had no trouble discovering their objective. A searing wave of heat washed over her as she entered the long hallway leading to the lush gardens. The soldiers before her faltered as the heat washed over them, then redoubled their efforts. She heard screams and shouts ahead as she hurried toward the conflict.

  This apartment complex was the largest in the palace, a series of interconnecting rooms that allowed for the imperial family and their most loyal retainers to live apart from the rest of the administration of the Empire for long stretches. A lavish garden rested at the entrance to the residence as you approached from the center of the palace. It was an oasis of calm in an otherwise constantly busy and noisy community, complete with a huge pool surrounded by pavilions with hanging curtains of silk in which to evade the heat of the day. Now those precious silks were ablaze as if some wayward magical bolt of energy had ignited them.

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  It took Miranda only a moment to apprehend the situation. A pair of Dasati Deathpriests lay dead next to a fountain.

  Somehow several had materialized inside the Emperor’s garden.

  The evidence of the carnage around them suggested that without considering their situation, they had started casting their death spells in random directions, at any human they spied. The Tsurani magician who had been with the Emperor had answered instantly with a blazing ball of fire, probably to cover the Emperor’s retreat or to forestall the Deathpriests’ easily locating him. Either way, the result was a conflagration that was quickly burning its way through a small fortune in silks and cushions.

  Miranda glanced around, her vision obscured by the smoke and dying flames. From what she could see, many servants and Imperial Guardsmen had died a horrible, painful death. None of the bodies was garbed in imperial fashion, so the Emperor must be in another part of the complex. Miranda felt a sense of relief at the realization.

  The Emperor was young, without a wife, so his life was seen as doubly precious: with no heir to crown should he die in an untimely fashion, the Empire would be without a ruler and the political chaos in such a time of great turmoil would be disastrous.

  As was Tsurani custom, in times of war after the formal breaking of the Red Seal on the great doors of the Temple of the War God, a herald with the imperial clarion was stationed nearby, to signal any danger to the Light of Heaven. A priest of the order of Jastur also stood watch outside the Emperor’s door.

  Miranda arrived just behind the first wave of Imperial Guards who were outside the family complex, and was in time to see the powerful priest of Jastur unleash his magic warham-mer. It flew through the air to strike a Deathpriest in the chest, slamming him backward through the air. A fountain of orange blood exploded from the creature’s chest as he slid half a dozen yards across the stone floor, almost to Miranda’s feet.

  Over the tumult, Miranda tried to be heard. “We need the other one alive!”

  She instantly knew that her cry was in vain, for Tsurani soldiers, pledged to give their life for the Emperor, swarmed over 1 1 6

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  the remaining Deathpriest, bearing him down quickly under their weight, and before she could reach the mass of bodies they had pierced him countless times with sword points and daggers.

  Pushing aside any irritation over things she couldn’t control, she turned to see an officer in the guard standing with his sword drawn, covered in orange blood. “Where is the Light of Heaven?” she demanded.

  “In his bedchamber,” answered the officer.

  Miranda noticed that his skin was beginning to blister where the Dasati blood had touched it, and she said, “Wash that off before you suffer seriously, Strike Leader.”

  “Your will, Great One,” he answered. Even though she had no official position within the Assembly of Magicians, because she was the wife of Milamber and confidante of the Emperor, the tradition-bound Tsurani insisted on addressing her with that honorific. She had stopped correcting people: it was a useless exercise.

  She hurried past servants and guards, to where armed guards protected the entrance to the bedchamber. “The danger is past,”

  she instructed them. “I must see His Majesty.”

  The senior guardsman motioned for her to stay. He moved inside the chamber and a moment later reappeared with word that the Emperor would see her. She was through the door before he had finished and found the young ruler wearing his traditional armor, all gold, holding an ancient metal sword, ready to fight. There was something about his manner and bearing that spared him any appearance of the ridiculous. He looked every inch the Tsurani warrior, despite his sheltered life.

  Standing at his side was a slender magician named Manwa-hat, who nodded once at Miranda. He gave her a questioning look. She returned a curt nod, and could sense that somewhere under that immobile Tsurani exterior, he must be breathing a sigh of relief. He was a young magician, as the Assembly accounted such, but Miranda knew him by reputation: he was levelheaded and powerful.

  Without preamble, she said, “Majesty, you must leave the Holy City.”

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  The Emperor blinked as if he didn’t understand her words, then his manner changed. He took a deep breath and sheathed his ceremonial sword. “May I ask why, Miranda? I rarely receive orders.”

  Miranda understood belatedly that her informality was ill suited to any situation where they weren’t alone. “My apologies, Majesty. In my concern for your welfare, I forgot my place.

  “It must be Varen. Disguised as Wyntakata, he has been through this palace a dozen times, and he’s the only one who would know how to get those Deathpriests into your private garden.”

  “Deathpriests?”

  “Two Dasati Deathpriests materialized within your garden and started killing everyone in sight.” She paused for a moment, then said, “It was a suicide attack, without a doubt. Varen wouldn’t care how many Dasati die and they are fanatics in the service of their Dark God.”

  “Return to the subject of why I must leave my palace,” said the Emperor.

  “As Wyntakata, Varen has enough knowledge of the palace to continue to attack you here. He knows that despite a fierce loyalty to the Empire, the High Council would be thrown into confusion by your death. With no obvious heir—”

  “It becomes a struggle between cousins as to who next sits upon the Golden Throne,” finished Emperor Sezu. “Yes, it makes sense. But where should I go?”

  “Has Wyntakata visited any of your country estates, Majesty?”

  “I cannot be certain,” said t
he Emperor. “Perhaps before I took office . . .”

  “Not that far back,” said Miranda. She considered how long it was since Varen’s last apparent “death” during his attack on Sorcerer’s Isle. “Just in the last year or so.”

  “No, not that I’m aware,” said the Emperor. “I will have my First Advisor consult with the house staff.” Then he brightened.

  “One place I’m certain he has not visited. The ancient Acoma estates, south of Sulan-Qu. No one has lived there since my 1 1 8

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  grandfather took the throne, but we have kept those lands and the buildings in the imperial house as a shrine, a site of veneration for being the birthplace of the Mistress of the Empire. Yes, it is certain he has never been there.”

  She nodded to Mahawat, and the young magician said, “If the Light of Heaven pleases, I can have you and your closest retainers there in a matter of minutes.” The Emperor seemed about to object, but the magic-user added, “Others can ensure that your household follows quickly.” He nodded at Miranda.

  “I’ll pass word back through the Assembly and if we must we’ll move the entire seat of government down there. I can issue orders from there as quickly as here if the Great Ones will aid us.”