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  Rides a Dread Legion

  Book One of the Demonwar Saga

  Raymond E. Feist

  Another one for my mom,

  who is still my biggest fan after all these years

  Contents

  Map

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Warlock

  Chapter 2

  Knight-Adamant

  Chapter 3

  Taredhel

  Chapter 4

  Harbinger

  Chapter 5

  Exodus

  Chapter 6

  Premonition

  Chapter 7

  Prophesy

  Chapter 8

  Demon Master

  Chapter 9

  Warning

  Chapter 10

  Threat

  Chapter 11

  Upheaval

  Chapter 12

  Survival

  Chapter 13

  Conclave

  Chapter 14

  Bargains

  Chapter 15

  Plotting

  Chapter 16

  Allies

  Chapter 17

  Determination

  Chapter 18

  Exploration

  Chapter 19

  Onslaught

  Epilogue

  Epitaph

  Excerpt from At the Gates of Darkness

  About the Author

  Other Books by Raymond E. Feist

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I am in debt to those who created Midkemia so many years ago, where paper, pencils, funny-looking dice, and cheap beer were excuses to hang out and develop lifelong friendships. We may not always be in touch as we used to be, but each time I tell a story in this world I’m reminded of some wonderful times.

  To my editors—Jane Johnson, Jennifer Brehl, Katherine Nintzel, and Emma Coode—who helped with a difficult project, many thanks. I rarely ask for help but when I do you’re there with great suggestions. You make me look good.

  Thanks to Jonathan Matson, as always, for being far more than a business associate but a real friend who brings value to my life.

  And to the many readers, old friends and new, who take the time to let me know you’re enjoying the work; without you, I’d be doing something else.

  Raymond E. Feist

  San Diego, California 2008

  CHAPTER 1

  WARLOCK

  The demon howled its outrage.

  Amirantha, Warlock of the Satumbria, reeled back from the explosion of mystic energies unexpectedly hurled at him. Had his protective wards not been firmly established, he would have instantly died; the demon was powerful enough to send sufficient force through the barrier to slam the magic-user hard against the cave wall behind him. The blow he took on the back of the head was going to raise a nasty bump in quick order.

  Demons always brought with them a large amount of mystic energies, enough to destroy any unprepared mortal standing nearby as they entered this plane of reality. It was one of the reasons for erecting wards, beyond merely confining the demon to a specific location. This one had arrived with a much more impressive explosion than the Warlock anticipated, and that surprised him.

  Amirantha incanted a single word, a collection of otherwise meaningless syllables that together formed a key, a word of power that activated a much more complicated enchantment. It was a trick taught him years before, which often had been the difference between effective control of a summoned demon or dismemberment at his hands. This word strengthened the ward spell that confined the creature.

  Amirantha regained his feet as the demon continued to howl at discovering himself summoned to this realm and confined. Experience had taught the Warlock that demons rarely objected to being summoned, as they found this world easily plundered. They just hated being confined and controlled. It was the one thing that made Amirantha’s chosen area of study problematic: that which he studied kept trying to kill him.

  Amirantha took a deep breath to calm himself and studied the enraged conjuration. The demon was not one he recognized; this was obviously a battle demon of some sort. Amirantha knew more, perhaps, than any man living on Midkemia about demons and their nature, but he knew only a tenth of what he wished to know. This particular one was new to him—though he conceded he hardly had an exhaustive knowledge of every demon in the Fifth Circle. He recognized the basic type: massive upper torso, roughly human in build, with a bull’s head, or at least something that resembled a bovine. Long horns arched down and forward, giving weight to the Minotaurlike appearance. Absently, while beginning to conjure a spell designed to immobilize the demon, Amirantha wondered if such a monster had been the basis for the ancient myth of the Minotaur.

  The legs were, if anything, goatlike, and there anything remotely familiar about the creature ended. The eyes burned like hot coals, and the body was covered in something like black fur up to the waist, though it was not wool, hair, or fur as Amirantha recognized such. The upper body was black leather, but slicker, shinier, as if leather had been tanned, dyed, and polished, and his horns were blood-red. Amirantha also observed from the howls shaking the cave that the demon’s disposition was getting nastier by the second.

  More to the point, the demon looked on the verge of rending his way through wards that should be impenetrable. Amirantha knew better than to ever place too much stock in the word “should” when a demon was involved.

  He finished strengthening his spell of confinement and saw the demon step back a moment, shudder, then return to his attempt to rend the wards, accompanying his effort with an even louder bellow.

  Amirantha’s eyes widened slightly, his only outward concession to surprise. The demon just shrugged off a spell designed to immobilize any conjured entity. Or at least Amirantha’s idea of “any” until this very moment.

  Looking at the railing demon, Amirantha, Warlock of the Satumbria, stroked his chin whiskers as he considered what he observed. A vain man by any measure, he affected purple robes with silver needlework at the collar and sleeves and had his servant trim his beard and hair weekly, knowing exactly how it should look each time. His receding hairline had caused him to let his dark hair fall to his shoulders, and his dark brows and pointed chin beard gave him a look to match his calling in life: a summoner of demons. Or at least look the part to those who were willing to pay gold for the summoning or banishment of demons.

  He muttered a very reliable invocation and watched. The demon should have instantly knelt before his master in abject obedience, but he could sense the summoned creature’s rage growing at the command. Amirantha sighed in a mixture of frustration and confusion, and wondered what he had conjured this time.

  Ignoring the ringing in his ears, the Warlock reached into a large belt pouch. He had personally sewn this pouch years ago, patiently weaving magic into the threads as he labored under the supervision of a master artificer named Leychona, in the great City of the Serpent River, his one and only attempt at fabricating magic cloth. He had been pleased with the results, this confining bag that let him gather together many stones of power without disastrous consequences. He was especially proud of the needlework, but found the entire process so tedious and exasperating he now paid artificers and tailors to fashion what he needed in exchange for his own skills or his gold.

  His finger rubbed lightly against a series of embroidered knots inside, which indicated each pocket he had fashioned. He found the one he sought in less time than it took to think on it and withdrew a stone prepared against a time such as this. Holding it aloft, he incanted a spell that drew power stored in the stone and he directed it to the hast
ily reinforced barrier. He felt, almost physically, the shock reverberating through the ward as the demon hurled himself against the mystic defense.

  Then the creature paused, looking at the space in the air where the barrier stood, as if he could see it, and pulled back his massive right fist. He unleashed a blow that might shatter a bull-hide shield, and Amirantha could swear he felt the shock from it travel through the air to strike him. At least that’s what he told himself when he flinched.

  Then the demon struck even harder, and Amirantha raised his hand to reinforce the barrier with more energy. To his astonishment, this time he did feel the energy translated into a blow that ran up his arm, as if he had struck a massive boulder with a sword or scythe. He stepped back, until he stood hard against the wall. “What do I do now?” he muttered absently.

  Again the demon hurled himself at the barrier and Amirantha, Warlock of the Satumbria, knew he was going to get through. Pushing aside a sudden urge to laugh—the unexpected and dangerous often affected him this way—he drew out another object from his large belt pouch and smashed it on the floor.

  A noxious gas erupted from it and Amirantha fled from the deep cave in which he had conjured the monster. It was a summoning area he had especially prepared for this ritual, protected by multiple wards and other safeguards he had erected against such a mishap. He hurried along a narrow tunnel, muttering, “What next?”

  Reaching a larger open area closer to the entrance of the cave warren, he cursed himself for a fool. All his real items of power were still in the cave where he had summoned the demon. He had been so surprised by the unexpected conjuration, he had left them on the floor. He had thought himself ready for any eventuality with the demons he usually summoned; it never occurred to him one he hadn’t summoned might appear unexpectedly.

  Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he stopped. At least he had left another lantern here, more to indicate which way he needed to go rather than any anticipation he might be fleeing this way for his life, having abandoned his other lantern. Muttering to himself, he said, “Sometimes I wish I was as clever as I claim to be.”

  He turned toward the tunnel through which he had just passed, realizing that if he didn’t stop the demon here, the creature was free to choose another exit from the caves. Not only would that be bad for anyone living within the demon’s reach, say ten thousand people by last census, it would also be disastrous for Amirantha’s reputation.

  The Governor of Lanada was waiting near a particular cave mouth, with a fairly sizeable retinue of soldiers but nothing that could stop this monster should it come their way, and not only would the Maharaja’s Court look with disfavor upon any itinerant Warlock getting one of their regional governors disemboweled, he was almost certainly not going to be paid for banishing this demon.

  He readied himself, pulling a long wand of ash from his belt. The device had been a commission made by the finest wand-maker in the Kingdom of Muboya, and was capable of seven very effective theatrical effects, each designed to elicit “oohs” and “aahs” of wonder from onlookers. But it also had four really powerful enchantments that could inflict significant damage if the need arose. Amirantha was fairly certain the need had arisen.

  He was greeted by the stench of the gas he had released; designed to weaken and finally incapacitate demons, it was not all that pleasant for humans to inhale. He knew that meant the demon was through the wards and coming toward him. Then Amirantha winced.

  It wasn’t the odor that made him shudder but the cave-rattling sound, a combination of tones and vibrations that made his heart jump at the same instant he felt the need to cringe. It was a shriek of anger that made his skin crawl, as if he were listening to a smith sharpen a sword on a turning wheel—there were moments when the scream of metal sounded just like that. If nothing else, the Governor of Lanada was getting a better performance than the one Amirantha had originally planned.

  Then the demon was coming straight at him.

  A voice from behind said, “Need help?”

  “It would be appreciated,” the Warlock said to Brandos. His companion had been outside the cave mouth, reinforcement for just such a moment as this, ensuring the Governor didn’t get curious and send in some guards to “help” the Warlock banish the demon.

  Amirantha pulled out his ornately carved wooden wand and spoke a single word in a language known to very few living men. A searing burst of heat washed over the two men as a massive ball of fire exploded through the tunnel, sweeping over the demon, forcing him back a dozen steps.

  “I’m going to need a few moments to banish it.”

  The old fighter was still powerful, though nearing fifty years of age, and had more experience than he wished to have confronting demonic opponents. This one looked to be the most dangerous so far. “Where are the rest of your toys?”

  “Back in the summoning cave.”

  “In the cave?”

  “Yes,” said Amirantha quietly. “I realized that myself, just a moment ago.”

  “Well, then, we’ll have to do this the difficult way, won’t we?” He had a buckler, a small round shield, on his left arm, and he pulled a broadsword from its scabbard. “It’s times like this I wish I had taken up baking.”

  Brandos knew he did not need to defeat the demon, only delay it long enough for Amirantha to banish it back to the demon realm. It was only a matter of a minute or two, but the experienced old fighter knew that even a few seconds could be a very long time. “Let’s go in before he gets here. I don’t welcome trying to keep him from those side tunnels. Best to keep him confined.”

  Amirantha took up a close position behind his friend, and Brandos moved forward a few yards, up the tunnel from where the demon had retreated from the flames. The stench of the gas filling the cave was nearly overwhelming, but it had the desired effect. The demon approached down the tunnel cautiously, halted, then stood motionless a moment, regarding the two humans.

  The demon opened his mouth, and sounds issued, not the inarticulate sounds of rage and anger but something meaningful, with rhythm and distinct pronunciation.

  Brandos said, “Is he casting a spell?”

  Amirantha hesitated, his curiosity overcoming his need to rid this realm of the demonic visitor, and with haste. He spent only an instant listening before he realized Brandos was correct: the demon was a spellcaster!

  “We should interrupt that, I think,” said Amirantha. He hastily uttered a single word, another cantrip release that he had prepared against such encounters. The single word acted as a mystic placeholder for a long, involved spell, and instantly the full force of the enchantment was released. The result was rendering the raging demon suddenly unable to speak. The efficacy of the spell was dependent on several things; most important, how powerful a magic-user the target was compared to Amirantha. The average village enchanter would remain silent until Amirantha lifted the spell. A powerful magician would be silenced only for a minute or two. A more powerful magician would shrug the spell off with little effort. This demon was an unknown quantity.

  Amirantha began the spell of banishment and was halfway through the incantation when the demon again found his voice, resuming his own incantation.

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Brandos, as he darted forward, starting a slow looping overhand blow at the demon’s head, then, at the last moment, moved his blade aside as he knelt and unleashed an efficient and punishing blow at the demon’s left leg. Shock ran up his arm as if he had struck a trunk of a massive tree, but the demon howled in pain and retreated back up the tunnel, his spellcasting interrupted. The demon was injured, as often is the case with cold metal, especially iron or steel, and knelt for a moment, nursing the injured leg. Beyond that, years before Amirantha had the old fighter’s sword enchanted by a magician down in Maharta to inflict additional pain on demons. Now he wished he had paid the man for the spell to cause injury instead of mere distraction.

  Amirantha finished his own spell and the air seemed to come alive with hissin
g energies. The demon screamed defiance, and then the very stones beneath their feet vibrated for a moment.

  “He’s still here,” observed Brandos.

  “I can see that,” countered the Warlock. “He’s using his own magic to remain here.”

  “What next?” asked Brandos.

  “A more powerful spell of banishment, obviously. But we’re going to have to wear him out.”

  “Wonderful,” said Brandos, shaking his head. “So I bleed and you chatter.”

  “Try not to bleed too much.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Brandos as Amirantha withdrew a large, gem-like object and smashed it on the floor.

  A curtain of hazy ruby energy sprang up, bisecting the tunnel. “Back through the wards!” commanded Amirantha, and Brandos did not hesitate. He had been through too many of these confrontations to ignore the Warlock’s instructions.

  The magic-user had a deep voice, which resonated even more in the narrow confines of this tunnel, and as he quickly went through a cantrip to strengthen the new wards, he reached into his pouch once more. A tiny point of light pulsed on the palm of his hand as he held it out, cradling it, quickly growing into an orb of throbbing crimson light. He threw the orb at the demon as the creature moved purposely toward the two men.

  Instantly the demon was engulfed in a scintillating web of crimson threads, exploding in tiny lights of white heat as they touched his skin. He howled and the stones of the tunnel shook from the sound, dislodging fine soil and rocks, which fell on Amirantha and Brandos. Brandos took a quick look above and behind, as if checking whether the entire hillside was about to come down on them. Seeing things were relatively stable, he returned his attention to the enraged demon.