In the past few centuries, they had learned the secrets of the translocation magic, opening up tears in the fabric of the universe. No fewer than a dozen magic-users died in mastering the arts, but now they could open stable tears between worlds. And find new worlds they did.
Some were inhospitable, others barely able to support life. A few showed promise and upon them the Clans of the Seven Stars established colonies. Some of those colonies had grown and were flourishing.
The People thrived, and when they encountered others, they tolerated them as long as they did not oppose the will of the People. If they did, they were crushed. All was glorious, until they found the world of demons.
“Those in Elvandar served a queen…” continued the Conjurer.
The Regent Lord’s eyes went wide. “She dares!”
“She outlives her king,” said the Conjurer quickly. “He…may have been of the line.”
The remark hit the Regent Lord like a physical blow. His eyes grew even more shiny with emotion. Among the most ancient, sacred lore of the Taredhel was the story of the first king and queen of the People, a couple who shepherded the people through the early chaos of that horrible war that drove the Taredhel from the Home.
Little was known, save their names, which would never be mentioned aloud, lest their spirits be disturbed, but they had been read in the annals, by every Lorekeeper and Regent Lord. “Her name?”
“They say it is Aglaranna.”
“‘The Gift,’” said the Regent Lord.
The Conjurer said, “It also is ‘Bright Moon,’ for the largest of the three moons is also known by that name, ‘the Gift.’”
The Regent Lord shouted, “Send for the Loremaster!” To the Conjurer, he said, “Continue, but speak not of this or of the Forgotten until I summon the Meeting.
“What of these humans who number like mice? Have they one ruler?”
“The humans live in many nations, with many rulers. They war among themselves on a regular basis, it seems.”
“That is good,” said the Regent Lord calmly. “What else?”
“The dwarves live at peace with their neighbors and are content to do so as long as they are untroubled. There are also goblins and other like creatures.”
“Goblins?”
“Lea Orcha,” said Laromendis.
Shaking his head in near disbelief, Undalyn said, “My father raised me to be a pious man, like all of our line, yet I will confess to having been guilty of doubt.” Lea Orcha, or Goblins, as they were named in various tongues, were nightmare creatures, conjured as bedtime stories to frighten children into being obedient.
“They worship ancient dark gods and spill blood in sacrifice. They consort with trolls and other inferior races.”
“Goblins…how have they never been exterminated?”
The magic-user shrugged, a human gesture he had picked up and which caused the Regent Lord to frown. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “There is so much discord and warfare among the human tribes, they hardly seem to have time to deal with goblins.” The Regent Lord indicated he should continue.
“This world is known by several names in different tongues, but most commonly is called Midkemia, a human word.
“The land I showed you in my vision is a valley in mountains called the Grey Towers. This valley was once home to the Forgotten. A human tribe called Tsurani drove them northward, and to this valley the Forgotten have never returned. To the south live dwarves, but there are natural barriers between that valley and the dwarves’ own; some ancient mines link them, but they are abandoned and are easily defended; to the north there are paths and trails leading up into those northlands where our evil kin abide.
“Once established in this valley, we may range far and wide. To the east, the humans live in a federation called the Free Cities. They are poorly organized and ripe for conquest.
“It is to the west that danger lies, for there is the outpost region of one of the mighty human nations—” He stopped speaking as the Regent Lord raised his hand.
An elderly male in robes entered the room, carrying an ancient tome, in which all history of the People had been recorded since the Time Before. His eyes were dim with age and behind him strode a younger male, his heir, who when not assisting the Loremaster was studying every scribble, every note, preparing himself for the day he would assume the responsibility of that office.
Both bowed before the Regent Lord, who said, “Midkemia. Do we know that world?”
The Loremaster paused a moment, but his assistant leaned over to whisper something. “Speak aloud!” demanded the Regent Lord. “No one dares hide a word from me in my court.”
The younger male looked abashed, and said, “I beg My Lord’s forgiveness. I meant no slight. It is just a case that I have studied some of the earlier passages more recently and recall seeing that name.”
The Loremaster waved away the apology. “His name is Tanderae, Regent Lord. He is young, and perhaps a little rash, but his memory is as mine was in the prime of my youth.” The older historian’s face was wan and his eyes watered. “Soon this office shall be his, and I recommend him to you.”
The younger historian bowed low before his master and the Regent Lord.
“Very well,” Undalyn said to the younger historian. “What of this world?”
“May my student speak, my lord?” said the old Loremaster.
“Yes,” responded the Regent Lord.
“In the time before time,” began Tanderae, using the ritual words signaling they were speaking of the most ancient of myths, “before fleeing the Wrath, the people abided.
“Slaves were we in our Home, ruled by the cruel masters, the Lords of Power, the Dragonriders.
“Then came the Wrath, and the skies were torn, and the Dragonriders rose to contest a great war. Many of the People perished, and many were lost among the stars, left behind when our masters returned to the Home to struggle with the Wrath.
“As the struggle continued,” said the young Lorekeeper closing his eyes as if reading from the ancient text in his memory, “many came to the Home. Dakan Soketa, Dena Orcha, and Dostan Shuli, those lesser beings, came across a golden bridge, feeling the Wrath as it descended on the world.”
He stopped and said, “‘Midkemia’ is a word used by the Dakan Soketa, my lord, which is the ancient word of our people for humans. And the humans called the home world ‘Midkemia.’”
The Regent Lord closed his eyes, as if silently giving a prayer. Then he said, “It is Home!” To Laromendis, he said, “Tell us of this valley, the one you showed me.”
The magic-user nodded. “To the west are the westernmost garrisons of that nation I spoke of, ‘the Kingdom.’ The humans there have three small cities, barely more than large towns: Tulan, Carse, and Crydee. They are well-fortified. We can isolate them by land, but they have a vast navy and can reinforce by sea. We shall need a quick strike at all three fortresses to seize them.”
“At the right time,” said Undalyn. “But first we need a secure bridgehead on the Home world. We must devise a plan to give us time.” He thought of the great Barrier Spell, the sphere that held in check the advancing Demon Legion, weakening to the north. It had been breached three times in the last ten years, and at last report had failed to the far west for a time. The fighting had been brutal and many of the People had paid the ultimate sacrifice while the magicians repaired the breach. It would fail, eventually, so time was not a commodity in abundance. Guile and wit would have to serve until force could be brought to bear. Looking at Laromendis, he said, “The plan for conquest will be considered, and perhaps an accommodation with those already in residence upon Home is in order. But that is for others to consider. Upon you I place different burdens.”
“I serve, my lord,” answered the magic-user.
“We are hard-pressed. Our enemies have driven us out of Thandar Keep, so Modaria has fallen.”
The Conjurer said nothing, but the slight tension around his eyes told the Regen
t Lord what the unasked question was. “No one survived,” he said softly.
Modaria was the last of the outpost worlds, so now the entirety of the People remained on Andcardia. “We made them pay, dearly, but as it has always been, for each of them we spent three warriors.” His deep voice took on an almost plaintive tone as he said, “We need safe haven, Conjurer. Is this such a place?”
There was a moment’s hesitation, and the Regent Lord demanded, “Speak! Is this a safe haven?”
“There are demon signs. Not recent, but…demons have been there.”
The Regent Lord threw back his head in a gesture of rage and torment and let forth a howl of pure barbaric anger and pain. “Is there no refuge?”
“Signs, my lord,” said the magician. “But no demons.”
“How can that be?” said the Regent Lord as he fixed his dark gaze on the magician.
“In my travels I saw many lands, heard many stories. In brief, a century ago, a demon lord reached this land, but without a battle host. He took the guise of a woman, a queen of the humans, and conquered a third of that world before he was finally defeated.
“A magician of vast power, aided by other magicians, and as stout a human army as can be imagined, defeated the demon and threw him down.”
The Regent Lord sat back, his head cocked to one side as he listened, and he shook his head slightly as he said, “Just one. That is unusual.” He was silent a moment, then said, “But even one means more may be coming.”
“I bring hope, my lord. For there are hints and suggestions in the stories that this demon did not come to this realm by conjuration, but rather through…a gate.”
“The Demon Gate!” spat the Regent Lord. “That tale grows old, Conjurer. It is a fantasy to explain free demons among the mortals and absolve those like your brother of blame. Every master of lore since the time before time has avowed no demon can come to this realm unbidden! I will hear no more of this blasphemy, lest you wish to end up with the same fate as your brother!”
At the mention of his brother, the Conjurer’s face went rigid.
Lowering his voice, the Regent Lord’s expression turned to acceptance. “He still lives.”
“In your dungeon, my lord?”
The Regent Lord actually smiled. “He had to content himself with a cage I had placed in a small courtyard. I thought the dungeon overly deleterious to his health, with no sunlight. I wanted him still alive if you returned, as you have. It does get a little uncomfortable in the afternoon heat, but otherwise he is well enough.”
A slight flicker of expression crossed the magician’s face, but he remained silent.
The Regent Lord said, “Your brother’s continued survival depends on your obedience, Conjurer.”
The magician inclined his head. “Gulamendis and I serve at your pleasure, my lord. Thus it has always been.”
The Regent Lord’s mood darkened. “Be not glib with me, Conjurer.” He pointed to the west. “The Plains of Delth-Aran are covered with the bodies of warriors who ‘served at my pleasure,’ and I count each loss as an affront to our people. There are children here in Tandamar who will never know their fathers’ faces.
“Across five worlds we have battled the demon legions, and each world we leave behind is littered with valiant fighters who ‘served at my pleasure.’ And their females and their young.” Behind the anger in the Regent Lord’s eyes, the Conjurer could see the genuine pain. “My grandfather, and his father before, all stood defiant and with resolve, and each warrior serving ‘at their pleasure’ gave full measure and left us lesser for that sacrifice.
“I would not dishonor their memories by forgiving those responsible for this horror visited upon the People. Now they are here, on the World of the Seven Stars, and we have nowhere left to go.” Then his voice went soft and he almost whispered, “Except Home.”
The Conjurer said nothing. It was an old argument, one that he had many times before. Laromendis and his brother were practitioners of the mystic arts, a barely tolerated calling under the best of times, and this was hardly the best of times. Laromendis was a master of illusion, a conjurer, who could kill a warrior with his own belief and imagination, conjuring up an illusion so real to the fighter that an imaginary killing blow would end his life. Gulamendis was a Master of Demons, and like the others of his calling, he was blamed for the terrors visited upon the People. Laro and his brother had been raised in a remote village by a mother who knew they were inheritors of a great and terrible gift, the ability to use magic.
The Regent Lord said, “Now, is this world safe?”
“I think so, my lord.” Laromendis paused as if organizing his thoughts. “As I have said, the story I have pieced together tells me this world has powerful protectors, men and women who serve to stem the comings of those with whom we battle.” He paused again, then carefully said, “We may have found allies.”
“Allies!” shouted the Regent Lord. “Dwarves, lesser elves, humans! Perhaps we should treat with the goblins? Would you have me be the first ruler of our people to treat with those we have warred against since the time before time? Would you have me seek succor from those who are fit only to be conquered and bent to our service?”
Laromendis said nothing. He knew this was an argument that would take weeks, even months of debate, by the leaders of the Regent Lord’s Meet. And Laromendis knew that if he was to save his brother’s life, he must make sure when the Regent Lord’s Meeting was called, the Loremasters and priests were allied with his view: that the fate of the People hung in the balance, and to save what was left of the once proud race, it must come to making accommodations with those who had always been counted as enemies.
The Regent Lord asked questions for an hour, insightfully pulling out details needed for his next plan. Finally he said, “We shall move two clans into this valley, have them occupy the fortress at the north end.” Laro nodded. The dark elves had left everything intact. While overgrown and falling apart after a hundred years, it still would provide a safer place from which to muster, and could quickly be reclaimed as a highly defensible position.
“Have the Solis and Matusic muster,” the Regent Lord ordered, and the herald bowed and departed. Laromendis kept his face expressionless, but inside he smiled. The Solis were under the command of Seboltis, Undalyn’s favorite surviving son. That unexpected decision would give Laromendis a tiny advantage when the time came, for the Regent Lord would be less inclined toward conquest as the only solution if the heir to his throne stood at risk. Like his brother, Laromendis knew the People must change to endure. The Regent Lord would seek conquest, to reclaim Midkemia as the rightful home of the Taredhel. He might reach an accommodation with those living in Elvandar, even acknowledge their queen as the true ruler, giving up his line’s power—though Laromendis counted that unlikely. But he would insist she govern a people who ruled the Home, not shared it with lesser beings.
Laromendis knew that line of thinking had done nothing but destroy the lives of millions of the People over three generations. To survive, the People would need to put aside dreams of conquest and come to terms with the dwarves and humans, and that required planning and luck, for the two brothers were barely tolerated and hardly trusted, yet it came to them to change the mind of the Regent Lord.
A messenger appeared at the door, nearly breathless for the dash up the long flight of stairs from the stable yard below. As he fell to his knees before his ruler, he lowered his head and held out the scroll.
The Regent Lord appeared to know what was in the message before reading it, and his expression darkened as his worst fears were fulfilled. “Garjan-Dar has fallen. The demons are through the breach.”
Laromendis knew two things: the demons would be repulsed, but at great cost, and the Barrier Spell would be reestablished again. But how many more times could the breach be repaired, for warriors needed to hold ground while magic-users spent their lives to maintain the spell? Once more, twice perhaps, but eventually the Barrier Spell would fail
, and soon after this city as well would be besieged. And against the Demon Legion, the walls of this city would prove little obstacle. A week or two, perhaps a month, would the master arts of masonry and magic keep them at bay, then, at last, the city would fall. And with it, the heart of the Seven Stars.
The Regent Lord stood, put his boot against the shoulder of the kneeling messenger and pushed him away. “Get out!” he shouted, and the messenger appeared glad to obey, obviously relieved the Regent Lord’s wrath had been limited to an impolite kick. In days past, his head might have adorned a pike at the entrance to the keep.
The Regent Lord moved toward the window and stared out. He took a deep breath, then he asked, “Which is your birth world, Conjurer?”
Laromendis said, “This one, my lord. Far to the north in the snowlands, at the foot of the Iron Mountains.”
The Regent Lord said, “I was born here, as well, but my eldest son was born on Utameer.” The Conjurer knew this, but if the Regent Lord felt the need to belabor the obvious, the magician was not fool enough to interrupt. “When he was but ten seasons, I took him hunting bovak and longhorn greensnouts in table lands to the east of the city of Akar. It was hot, all day, every day. Rain came rarely in those lands, and when it did it thundered and came down in a deluge. Children and small animals were sometimes washed away in flash floods. Lightning would rip the sky as if the gods themselves were at war.” He turned to look at the magic-user. “We are going to lose this world, Conjurer, as we lost Utameer.” He leaned against the window’s edge, staring off into the distance. “As we lost Katanjara, and Shinbol, and the others.
“In my grandfather’s grandfather’s time, we conquered across the stars, we the People. The Clans of the Seven Stars ruled worlds!” Sadly he added, “Now we come to the end of our reign. Now we must become refugees.”
Turning away from the Loremasters and the magician, he moved back to the chair and said, “We must return Home. It is our only salvation.”
Turning to Laromendis, he said, “Eat, rest, then return at first light. You shall conduct our battlemaster and a company of scouts to Home. We will begin preparing the way.” He glanced at Laromendis and said, “Go!”
Rides a Dread Legion Page 8