Wrath of a Mad God

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Hold!” came the command from above.

  The trainer and Bek both looked up to see who had shouted the command. A man resplendent in black armor edged with gold peered down from the gallery overlooking the arena. Every instructor and trainee in the raymond e. feist

  massive arena halted at his command. The black armor he wore was of the TeKarana’s personal guard, and he sported decorative pauldrons which made his shoulders impossibly wide and came to an upswept point ending in a wicked-looking golden barb.

  His helm was topped by a high metal crest fronted by a stylized serpent twining around a tree. The crest ended in a fall that dropped at the back between his shoulders. He exuded power.

  Pointing at Bek, he shouted, “Who trained you?”

  Bek laughed, and shouted back, “I trained myself.”

  Nakor stood to one side, eyes down. He winced at the arrogance.

  But the man above returned the laugh. “Can I believe it? I must, for no sane warrior would teach a move such as that. Wait on the sand.”

  It took only a minute for the observer to leave the balcony and work his way to the training floor, but in that brief respite, Nakor came to Bek’s side, offered him water, and whispered,

  “Remember, you are the protégé of Martuch and you were trained by Hirea. Remember!”

  The large warrior in the decorative armor strode across the yard and came to stand before Bek, the only person on the floor who was taller. All eyes turned to witness the exchange. The warrior said, “Attack me.”

  Without hesitation Bek unleashed a furious combination of blows, feints, and thrusts that had all the onlookers gaping. But the warrior in the black armor was obviously no novice to combat, for he moved out of Bek’s line of attack with a nimbleness of foot that was unexpected in someone so large, let alone burdened by heavy armor.

  Then he countered and let loose a blow that came close to crushing the side of Bek’s skull. Bek merely twisted his wrists and brought his blade up to block, and the shock of the blow reverberated across the sand.

  Back and forth the two men dueled, Bek’s ferocity and power matched and countered by the other man’s speed and experience. The onlookers began to form a circle around them because it was becoming clear that something unusual and amazing was 2 0 2

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  taking place, and that should either warrior err, someone would die suddenly.

  Back and forth they moved, exchanging blows and parries, until finally the warrior in black stepped away and shouted,

  “Hold! Enough!”

  Bek hesitated, then put his sword down.

  The warrior in black said, “Again, who trained you?”

  This time Bek looked him in the eye and said, “Hirea of the Scourge.”

  “I know him. Scourge, small society . . . but respected, old house, good man. One of the best on Kosridi.” He removed his helm, and Bek saw a battle-scarred face, an older Dasati warrior, but one still in the height of his power. “I am Marlan, Imperado of the Justicants, First Order of the TeKarana’s guards. I have never seen anyone like you, Bek.”

  Bek was dripping with perspiration. He said, “You’re fast.

  Strong, too. You are very hard to kill.”

  The older warrior grinned. “I will mention your name.

  We shall need replacements, and we shall need them soon. Who knows? You may be the one to take my head someday if I don’t die on some cursed alien world.”

  “I’ll make it quick and salute you,” said Bek, returning the grin.

  With a slap on the shoulder, Marlan turned and departed.

  The instructor said, “You have been honored, young Bek.”

  Nakor was dying to ask questions, but he knew that here, more than most anywhere in the Dasati realm, not acting the part of a Lesser would get him killed in seconds. The instructor turned to him and said, “Clean up this mess. We are done.” To Bek he said, “Retire to the barracks and wait for the midday meal call. You have earned some extra rest.”

  Nakor hurriedly picked up the items belonging to Bek, and turned to see the large warrior grinning at him. “What?” he whispered.

  Bek said, “He got tired and was afraid I was going to kill him.”

  “Who, Marlan?” asked Nakor softly as he bent over to pick up a large, dirty cloth of some woollike material Bek had been using as a towel.

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  Bek laughed. “Him, too. No, I mean the instructor. He was getting tired.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I feel wonderful, Nakor.”

  Nakor said quietly, “Good. I am pleased you feel well. Now, let us return to the barracks and wait.”

  “I like to fight.”

  “I know, but we must do as we are told a little while longer.”

  “Yes, Nakor.”

  They hurried out of the training arena, down a vast corridor that led to the recruits’ barracks. A pair of young warriors was there, resting after their arduous training that morning. One sported a huge welt on the side of his face where the instructor had unceremoniously demonstrated why he needed to keep his guard high, and the other had a slight cut to the thigh that was bandaged. Nakor observed the Dasati constantly, and was astonished that the culture managed to survive, given their murderous ways. Had either of those young warriors sustained a serious wound, they would have been left to die, their lingering agony the source of amusement to the others on the training floor. Since coming to the training floor the day before, Nakor had witnessed one such incident. The jeering Dasati considered watching such a death an entertainment, a respite from training.

  Nakor had traveled throughout the Empire of Great Kesh and down into the client states south of the vast mountains called the Girdle of Kesh—he had been born in the foothills of those great peaks. He had seen many strange things, but nothing as alien and difficult to fathom as the Dasati. He had encountered a traveling troupe of players once, in a small city called Ahar, and remembered a remark made by the company’s leader, the man responsible for writing the skits and songs as well as staging them. Nakor had asked what the key was to making the audience laugh, for while he knew little of performance, he realized that the more the audience laughed, the more money the players earned.

  The two of them had been playing at cards and Nakor hadn’t seriously begun to cheat, so the head of the company of players was winning. He was in a good mood and paused to answer the 2 0 4

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  question. “It’s all about pain, Nakor,” he had said. “If you care for our hero and feel his pain, that’s tragedy. If you laugh at him, that’s comedy. Comedy is other people’s pain.”

  The Dasati carried the concept to an insane length. Since reaching this realm he had seen a number of people in pain or dying, and the general reaction was to laugh at them. Only some of the Lessers seemed inclined to help, and they were despised for it. Empathy was weakness to the Dasati.

  As they reached their place in the barracks—a heavy bunk for Bek and a mat on the stone floor for Nakor—a bell’s deep peal reverberated throughout the building so loud that it felt as though the stones beneath their feet shook. Nakor looked at the two resting young warriors and saw they were as uncertain what to do as he and Bek were.

  A moment later a warrior in black armor strode through the far entrance and shouted, “Stay where you are! That was the muster call for the Palace Guard. You will wait and attend the midday meal when called.”

  The massive bell sounded again, and a third time, then fell silent. From a short distance away, Nakor could hear the sound of running feet, and knew that hundreds of Lessers were scurrying around in anticipation of whatever was required of the Guard by that call. Nakor’s curiosity was piqued, but he knew there was no way he would risk his usual indulgence of that curiosity. Had he been alone, he might have risked being killed out of hand for being in the wrong place—for over the years he had become very adept at staying alive—but he did
not dare to leave Bek alone for even a minute.

  They waited and a few minutes before the midday meal, a dozen recruits entered the barracks, stripped off dripping tunics and trousers, bathed quickly, and donned clean clothing, while their Lessers ran about, trying to anticipate their masters’ needs.

  Nakor sat quietly on the floor at Bek’s feet, watching the almost reflexive manner in which the young warriors kicked or cuffed their Lessers when annoyed. He sighed. He had always been a vagabond, and thought of no place as home, even the village of his birth, but for the first time in his life he felt homesick, wishing 2 0 5

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  he was back on Midkemia, anywhere on Midkemia. The searing heart of the Jal-Pur desert looked attractive to him right now.

  Bek rose without saying anything, and Nakor took a second to realize he was moving to the serving hall where the midday meal would be provided. Nakor and the other Lessers would wait until the warriors had departed, then after a frenzy of cleaning up the barracks, they would scurry off to the room where their food was provided, eat quickly then hurry back to be here waiting for their masters. In so many little ways, it was an existence without joy.

  Nakor grabbed a bowl of something resembling stew and a hunk of coarse-grain bread—he discovered that even with the successful translation to Dasati form the food here was disagreeable: it was one of the many examples he could cite as to what a joyless society the Dasati were. Food was regarded as a necessity and sometimes the excuse for social events, but it was never considered an art form. He remembered with longing a meal he had had at Talwin Hawkins’s River House in Olasko, and wondered if he’d ever have a meal like that one again.

  He heard voices through a door that led to the Imperial Guards’ marshaling yard. Glancing around to see if he was observed, Nakor slipped down the hallway and hung back, just out of sight. A commander stood on a dais and addressed his warriors. “. . . this night! We muster at once, and depart at dawn!

  Worlds to conquer await! Each of you has found favor in His Darkness’s sight and your willingness to serve His will until the last has gained you a special place in his regard. Rejoice in this, for we shall begin a campaign of conquest unmatched in the an-nals of the Dasati Empire! For the Dark One!”

  “His Darkness!” shouted the gathered guards, and Nakor quickly turned and fled back to the room where the other Lessers waited. He darted around the corner and sat down before he was noticed then stood up as if he had finished, put down his dish, and returned to the barracks to wait for Bek. Something important was under way and it began tonight. It could not be the invasion Pug feared, for there were not enough Deathknights gathered, but this mustering of the Imperial Guard was a prelude to something vital.

  He wished he could have heard more.

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  . . .

  Jommy turned to Kaspar and the others. “Now that’s something you don’t see every day. And here we are seeing it for the second time.”

  Kaspar nodded. Captain Stefan said, “But I wager it’s something we’re never going to see again.” The four of them were standing a short distance away from the welcoming elves, Servan hunkered down while Jommy, Stefan, and Kaspar leaned back against the wall of the long hall.

  The massive dragon had been astonishing enough when it had carried Tomas and Jim Dasher into the compound the day before, but now it landed with a party of three on its back. A pair of women, both dressed in long dark dresses, was sitting close behind the white-and-gold-clad figure. They dismounted nimbly and came to where Castdanur and his two advisors waited.

  Tomas announced, “Castdanur, this is Miranda of Sorcerer’s Isle and her student Lettie.”

  The girl with Miranda was young and slender with an upright posture that was almost rigid. She looked from face to face with a calm mask, and nodded. Miranda said, “I am going now,”

  and vanished.

  Castdanur said, “What is this—?”

  Suddenly Miranda appeared again, this time surrounded by a band of elves, dressed in leather of a similar cut to these clothes worn by the Sun Elves. This band of newcomers wore necklaces of stones and rough gems, and two had eagle feathers hanging behind their ears, tied into locks of their hair.

  Jommy glanced at Kaspar who said, “Those are the elves from north of the Teeth of the World.” He dropped his voice.

  “They’re called something like ‘the Mad Ones’ by the other elves, because of something back in history. You don’t have to be told they’re different: you see them in Elvandar and they stand out. Baranor looks more like their kind of place.”

  The leader of the band with Miranda walked straight up to Castdanur and said, “Brother, we hear of your need. We answer it. I am Talandel.”

  The old elf stood with shining eyes, and said, “We welcome our brothers and sisters.” He looked to where Miranda stood 2 0 7

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  and saw that four of those with her were children. “You return life and hope to us, brother.”

  The children stood rooted in astonishment, staring up at the huge red dragon who now crouched peacefully in the courtyard.

  Miranda shooed them away and vanished. Less than a minute later she appeared with another small band of elves, who crossed to stand with the first. This process continued until more than a hundred elves from Elvandar had been transported to Baranor.

  Within minutes the courtyard was filled with the sound of voices, and Jim Dasher turned to Kaspar and said, “I never heard it quite this lively in Elvandar.”

  Kaspar shrugged. “I doubt we’ve ever seen that many happy elves before.” He pointed to where the children who lived in Baranor were already starting to play with those who had newly arrived.

  Castdanur spoke loudly, so that all might hear. “Our new brothers and sisters, there are halls and rooms enough for all! Pick those that you will, for this is your new home. Tonight we feast!”

  Tomas approached Kaspar. “How are your men doing?”

  “The wounded will live. We’ve been helping the elves hunt since Jim vanished to fetch you. All in all, for a band of prisoners we’ve been treated more like guests.”

  Tomas dropped his voice. “Castdanur is like many of the old spellweavers in Elvandar. He adheres to tradition, which can be a trap.” He glanced over. “I remember enough of my human heritage to recall when the elves’ sense of time seemed far more leisurely than good sense dictated. But in this case, it almost lost us something far too dear.”

  “The Sun Elves?” asked Jommy.

  “The Quor,” answered Tomas.

  Kaspar introduced the Captain and the two youngsters to the dragon-rider, and Tomas said, “You’re Caleb’s fosterling.”

  Jommy said, “In a manner of speaking. He and Marie welcomed me like another son.” He grinned. “They’re as good as people can be.”

  Tomas returned the smile and the alien aspect of his heritage dropped away for a minute. “His father was like a brother to me when we were boys; he was my parents’ fosterling.” He looked 2 0 8

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  over at the gathering of elves and said, “I must stay for a while longer, to preside at the feast tonight.” He lowered his voice and said to Kaspar, “This is a far better situation for those who have come here today; they are the most restless among the glamredhel, and they have found kindred spirits among the anoredhel.”

  Miranda came over and nodded to them. “Kaspar, Jommy.”

  Kaspar introduced his captain and Servan, and Miranda said,

  “Where’s Jim Dasher?”

  Kaspar glanced around. “He vanishes like a mist in the morning sun. I have no idea.”

  Tomas said, “He was very concerned over that enclave of creatures he saw up to the north. You don’t think he headed back that way to investigate?”

  “I don’t know him that well—” Kaspar began.

  “You know him better than anyone else here,” interrupted Miranda. “Do
you think he’s out playing hero?”

  Kaspar shook his head. “He’s a lot of things, but he’d never accept being called that. But he can be duty-bound, and that might be cause enough.”

  Tomas looked around. “We’ve got a few hours of light left.

  It shouldn’t be too hard to pick up his trail if he’s heading in that direction.”

  Jommy said, “I’m bored. I’ll go.”

  “If what Jim said is close to accurate, you’ll need me along. Let me settle Lettie in here and then we’ll be off,” Miranda announced.

  Servan and Captain Stefan volunteered as well, but Kaspar declined. “We’re going to be noisy enough with this lot along.”

  He looked to where Miranda was talking to the young female magician and said, “I have no idea what her woodcraft is like.”

  Jommy grinned. “You don’t know her like I do. If those creatures hear her coming and are at all smart, they’ll clear out and head back to where they came from.”

  Kaspar said, “Tomas, it might be better for all of us if you mentioned to Castdanur that we’re going to poke around up north. He and I have come to an . . . understanding, but trust is still a little thin.”

  Tomas inclined his head in agreement and moved away.

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  “I thought you and the chief were thick as thieves,” said Jommy to Kaspar.

  “Remember what Tomas said about elves’ sense of time being ‘leisurely’?”

  “Yes.”

  “For five hundred years they’ve only encountered brigands, pirates, smugglers, and every other stripe of outlaw up here. Their view of humanity is less than positive, you could say.

  It’s going to take a while before they’ll trust any of us, but”—he gestured at the animated conversations taking place among the various elves— “this will go a long way toward convincing them we can be trusted.”

  Jommy recalled what he had heard about Kaspar since he had come to serve the Conclave and found it ironic that he should be talking about trust. Yet he had proven himself as a reliable agent since his return from exile.