To the Warleader, Undalyn said, “Let them begin. I want lookouts in the hills above us, sentries in the passes below. Let the workers build signal towers so the outer villages can be summoned when needed. Send out hunting parties and let it be known: should any member of the Clans be spied by human, elf, or dwarf, I will have his head on a pike before my throne. Any who espy us must die before word can reach others that we have returned. We shall decide when our cousins to the north and the rest who live here discover the true masters of this world have returned.
“The day will come when we will rid this land of our enemies,” he said, looking back at the portal as it ceased its expansion. The first soldiers came through, each wearing the Clans armor: a heavy metal breastplate, pale yellow in hue, with peaked shoulders. The pale golden color came from the metals used to forge them, a mystery of the smiths closely held, giving the Taredhel stronger, lighter shielding than steel. Each was trimmed in the Clan colors, one for each of the Seven Stars, one for each color in the rainbow. Upon the heads of the standard-bearers rested the crested helms, more ornate than functional; each topped with a plume dyed the color of their Clan. The infantry carried their more functional helms tied to their belts.
The first hundred soldiers hurried away from the portal, splitting into squads, each led by a tracker who would lead them to various positions around the valley. Within hours, camps and watch stations would be in position and a secure perimeter would be thrown up around the valley. The Taredhel bridgehead would be established.
Laromendis watched patiently as heavy-bodied horses pulled massive wagons atop which rode females and the young. These were refugees from the outer villages and strongholds that had fallen before the demon horde.
The children were silent, but their eyes were wide with wonder. There was something in the very air of this world that called to each elf as they returned to their ancestral soil; the Conjurer could only liken it to a reawakening of something deep within that had been dormant for generations.
The Regent Lord knelt, removed his gauntlets, and picked up a handful of the soil of this world. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed, and said, “This land is rich with life. We shall reclaim this home, no matter what.” He fell silent in reflection for a moment, his eyes distant as he drank in the sense of this place. Then he turned to Laromendis. “This is our world,” whispered the Regent Lord. “Our world.” He looked at the ragged elves who were the first to come to this land, and shook his head. Those in the city would be the last, with the defenders who held the demons at bay giving their lives to save their kin. A play of emotions crossed over the ruler’s face, then he again showed only a mask. He said, “We must rest, recover, and grow, for we have lost too much in recent years.”
Removing his fur mantle, as the day’s heat grew, he took a deep breath. “The air here is sweet, despite the dwarves and others using it.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Coming to his ruler’s side, the Conjurer lowered his voice so that those coming through the portal would not hear him over the wagons’ rumble, “Sire, there is but one other troubling thing.”
“Tell me,” said the Regent Lord.
“As I said before, there have been rumors of demons…”
The Regent Lord’s eyes closed as if he was in pain. Softly, almost as if he could hardly bear to say the words, he uttered, “I put that out of my mind.” He regarded Laromendis and asked, “Here, as well?”
“Rumors only, and I have seen no demon sign personally. And as you know, I have diligently searched for any hint they are here. Still, I lack certain arts others have, which would ensure the demons’ absence.”
The Regent Lord looked at the wagons as they continued to rumble through the portal, more warriors now appearing as well, flanking the caravan of Taredhel females and young. There was hardly one fighter without a wound or damage to his armor. At one time the Taredhel ruled across the stars, traveling by magic gates from world to world. But for almost a hundred years the People had been battling the Demon Legion, from world to world, as millions of the People perished.
The demons had reduced millions to thousands, and now the last of their kind sought refuge on a world known only through ancient lore, a world where the People had abided in hallowed antiquity, before the time the gods warred and all was in chaos.
The Conjurer smiled. “Yes, my lord. It is rich with life. Much of it familiar. There are deer and bear, lions and wyverns; game is plentiful. The corn tastes odd, but not unpleasant—sweeter than what we know—and the dwarves, for all their despicable flaws, sell their brewing to any and all. The humans and dwarves have herds of cattle and sheep, and the seas are abundant as well. There are riches beyond what we’ve known in a century.” Then he fell silent.
The Regent Lord stood and said, “You have something to say. Say it.”
“My lord,” said the Conjurer, “should I offend you, take my head, but as I am sworn to serve, I must speak only truth. If the rumors of demons reaching here are true, and they do follow us, we are left with two choices: to flee while the humans, dwarves, and our primitive cousins battle the Demon Legion, yet again seeking another world…”
“Where?” injected the Regent Lord. “I read every report. You have found no alternative, only harsh places where life scarcely survives, or barren rock…no, there is nowhere else to go.”
“We stay and fight.”
The Regent Lord said, “When my father was a boy, the Seven Clans numbered two million swords, Conjurer.” He looked on as more wagons and beasts of burden emerged from the portal. Livestock was now coming through, a herd of razor-spine hogs, being herded by a wolflike dire dog. An especially large dog loped through the portal and came to the Regent Lord’s side, licking the monarch’s hand while wagging a bushy tail.
Roughly patting the beast’s massive neck, the Regent Lord almost crooned as he said, “Sanshem, my good companion.” He looked fondly upon the animal, perhaps the only being in all Creation for whom the Regent Lord felt genuine affection.
Looking back at the Conjurer, the Regent Lord said, “When my father took the throne, but four hundred twenty thousand swords could answer the call of the Taredhel battle horn.
“When I took the crown from my father’s brow, after demons had ripped his still beating heart from his chest”—he almost shouted—“I had less than a third that number of warriors!” He stood up, patting the dog on its massive head. “Since our last battle, we have less than half that serving, with some youth training.” He shook his head in open regret. “We have children learning to fight, barely more than babes, who have only smelled our own blood and the stench of demons since their birth!”
He gazed down into the lush forest below and said, “I am torn, Conjurer. The Demon Legion seems endless. No matter how many we kill, more appear soon after. How could we stand here in this valley, behind wooden walls caulked with mud, when we could not hold from behind the massive walls of Starwell, or keep them at bay with the death towers along the Gap of Doom? The Pamalan Dome collapsed and their fliers descended on the city like an evil hailstorm. Every magic known to the Taredhel defends Tarendamar, and the defenses are unmatched in our history. Yet the demons keep coming.
“So, I thought perhaps we might linger awhile here, while we seek another refuge, and then I came.” He looked around at the valley as tree leaves rustled in the breeze, birds darted across the sky, and the only sound was the rumbling of wagons and the tread of boots on the soil. He took a deep breath. “No, this is where we shall stand; we have no other choice. And here we shall live or die as the Goddess will it, should the demons come.”
The Conjurer nodded. It was not the time to say what he must say. Soon, but not today. Not after fleeing the Demon Legion across the tundra of Mistalik, hounded for months by creatures so foul and powerful that only the mightiest warriors could delay them, and only the most powerful magic could destroy them.
As the line of refugees continued to issue from the portal, the Conjurer knew
one thing above all else: for the People to survive in this new land, no matter how abundant and hospitable, they would need allies. Which meant generations of making war on all who were not of the People would need be forgotten and aggression as a way of life need be set aside.
The Regent Lord nodded once to one of his heralds, standing near the portal, and the servant bowed slightly and darted through the magic opening. A moment later he returned, followed by a dozen older elves, dressed in the guild cloth of the geomancers.
Laromendis knew that they were much needed to repair the damage to the city defenses on Andcardia. He knew what this sight meant: these few remaining masters of earth magic would begin building a new city in the heart of this valley, and the repairs of the last bastion of defense for those behind would be left to lesser masters and apprentices to repair. It was an admission of a choice the Regent Lord had yet to voice.
A group of elders made their way through and came to stand before their Regent Lord, bowing as one. To the oldest of them the Regent Lord said, “Oversee the creation of our new home, my lords. Begin at once. Defend the valley and start down there.” He pointed to a rise that overlooked the distant small lake that was the center of this valley. “Around that lake we shall plant the Seven Stars. On that rise build a new palace.” He looked around, as if fixing the sights of Home in his mind. “Within the month, all who can be brought here shall come, and we shall seal this portal behind us.
“I return to Andcardia to oversee the fighting. We shall hold the demons at bay as long as possible.” To the Conjurer he said, “What do you need, to find out the truth about demons here?”
Taking a breath, he simply answered, “My brother. No one among the People knows more of demon lore than he, my lord—” As the Regent Lord was about to object, Laromendis hurried to cut off the objection, “I know there are many who see him as the cause of the demon invasion—”
“If that were true,” said the Regent Lord, “he already would be dead. I am not so gullible as to believe that he personally summoned the Demon Horde, Conjurer. But I do believe it was the meddling of those like him—and yourself—into realms prohibited by the Spellcrafters that somehow caused the magic barriers to be breached.” The Conjurer almost winced at that, for he knew there was no breach of any “magic barrier,” but rather somewhere a gate had been opened, a portal between the realms, and if that could be found…He turned his mind back to the Regent Lord, who said, “I simply hold him against your good behavior.”
“You have my pledge, my lord.”
The Regent Lord looked around once more, breathing deeply, as if to fix the sights, smells, and sounds of the place in his memory as he returned to the struggle.
“Very well. Return with me and change places, Laromendis. You shall be his guarantee.”
“Ah—” began the Conjurer.
Smiling, the Regent Lord said, “When the last of the People are through the translocation portal, then shall I free you to be with your brother. For then no one on Andcardia will be alive. Until then, you are going to use your talents to defend against the Demon Legion.”
“Ah,” said Laromendis, nodding. No dungeon or cage in the courtyard for him; he would be at the battlements, sending demons back to whatever hell they came from. “Very well, my lord. It is as I would wish it, to serve in whatever way you judge right.”
The Regent Lord stepped around a wagon rumbling through the portal, and through the magic curtain. Keeping his features set, the magic-user followed, satisfied that his plan was now under way. He had to make sure he had one minute, no more, with his brother, then he would gladly go and give his life if needed to save the People, but he prayed to an ancient goddess that that wouldn’t be necessary. For to save the People, his arts and his brother’s, and those of many more, who were considered less than elven by the Regent Lord, those would need to band together to save Midkemia.
And to do that, changes needed to be instituted, and quickly.
And that required a little treason.
He stepped through the portal and vanished.
CHAPTER 6
PREMONITION
Pug cast his spell.
The assembled students watched in rapt attention as a column of energy rose above the master sorcerer, a column of power speeding upward, unseen. They could sense the energy, though, and some, more attuned to the magic arts than others, almost felt it radiating on their skin. It was a basic skill he was teaching, usually left to those whose time was less valuable than that of ones in the Conclave of Shadows, but Pug felt the need to be with students from time to time. The lesson was simple: how to feel the presence of magic, to detect it when it was employed nearby. He had been astonished to discover over the years how many magicians and magical clerics couldn’t tell a fireball had been cast until the flames singed their hair.
The young men and women, from many nations and a few alien worlds, were gathered to study under the tutelage of the greatest practitioner of the arcane arts on Midkemia. The lesson today was on perception and reaction to change in magic, and the first step in that was to recognize magic was being deployed. The lesson might seem fundamental to most of the students, but the three people who observed from a short distance away knew better: it was the first step in learning how to react to hostile magic directed at a magic-user by another, and it was that first instant of recognition of changing magic that kept a magician alive.
Magnus turned to his brother and mother, and said, “He seems to be fine.”
Miranda shook her head. “‘Seems’ is the word. It’s another bout of melancholia.”
“Nakor?” asked Caleb.
Miranda said, “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been nearly ten years, and he hides it well when he thinks someone is watching, but those black moods come upon him still.”
Caleb, Pug and Miranda’s younger son, said, “Marie notices it, too.” His wife was a woman of keen perception, and in the ten years since she had come to Sorcerer’s Isle, she had become something of the mistress of the household, a position Miranda was more than happy to cede to her, as she had her own magical studies to conduct.
Magnus said, “I was there, and no one could have done more than Father did. Nakor chose his fate.” Letting his voice drop a little, as if speaking to himself, he added, “As much as any of us can choose.”
Miranda’s dark eyes showed a mixture of hurt for her husband’s pain, and impatience, an expression both sons knew well. A tenderhearted woman at times, at other times she could be as unwilling to wait as any child.
“Nakor?” asked Caleb again.
“He misses him,” agreed Miranda. “More than he’d like anyone to know. That bandy-legged little vagabond had a unique mind, and even when I was furious with him he could make me laugh.” She paused and turned away, motioning for her sons to follow her down the hill from where her husband conducted his instruction, leading them back toward the main villa. “But in the ten years since his death, Nakor’s name usually comes up once or twice a month. Your father has mentioned him a half-dozen times in the last week. Something is on his mind, something new and troubling.”
Villa Beata, “the beautiful home,” had grown over the years. The single large square main house still commanded the heart of the vale in which it was nestled, but along the ridge line other buildings had been constructed, providing housing and study space for the students that Pug recruited to Sorcerer’s Isle. They made their way down a long winding path toward what had once been the rearmost garden on the original property; now it was flanked on the north and south with low, barracks-like student housing.
Magnus said, “If Father is anticipating some new trouble, he’s not mentioned it to me or anyone else, as far as I can tell.”
Caleb said, “I’ve seen or heard nothing to suggest the present tranquility we enjoy is in peril.”
Miranda said, “There’s always peril. Just sometimes we don’t see it coming.”
Caleb smiled and said nothing. He had been given the r
esponsibility, along with his brother and a pair of younger magicians, for coordinating all the intelligence gathered by the Conclave of Shadows’ numerous agents, many placed in high office in the major nations on Midkemia. There was political rumbling in the Kingdom of the Isles, but then there always had been, so it wasn’t seen as a major concern. Kesh was unusually tranquil, and Roldem’s nobility continued their history of sitting comfortably on their island, secure in their own sense of superiority.
Once inside the house, they walked to the family’s quarters, occupied only by Pug and Miranda since their sons had grown to manhood. Caleb lived with his wife in a small house close by, which Miranda had built for them when Marie had first come to Sorcerer’s Isle with her son. Magnus still lived in the heart of the students’ wing of the large estate, to be on hand should the need arise when his father was absent.
Sitting in her favorite chair, a large wooden one with upholstered seat and back, Miranda said, “Something more than Nakor’s death has been haunting your father for years.” She glanced at both “boys,” as she thought of her sons; only Caleb looked his age, well into his middle years, while Magnus still looked much as he had in his twenties, despite his snow-white hair and being the elder. Neither son betrayed any hint they knew of what she spoke.
“No one knows your father like I do,” said Miranda. “He’s a man of deep feelings and convictions, as you both know.” She pointed first at Magnus then at Caleb. “But what you don’t know is something happened to him before you were born, during the war with the Emerald Queen’s army. He nearly died from the demon’s magic that took him by surprise.” She looked off to the left, into space, for a moment as she remembered. “I can’t get him to admit anything about that time, as he lay near death and every healer we could find worked frantically to save him, but something in him changed after that.
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