Rides a Dread Legion Page 10

  “But flee the home world we did. Great tears in the heavens above and earth below opened, swallowing up those nearby. Some, it is said, went to other worlds, by chance and happenstance, whim of the gods, or luck. But most of us hunkered down and resisted the forces of chaos on all sides.

  “There were races of men on our home world, along with the Great Goblins and our people. It was they, these masters of magic, who constructed bridges to flee from the destruction visited upon us during the Chaos Wars.

  “Much was lost, but this much remained: that in the ancient times many others ranged across these lands, kin to those we chased, but not those in Elvandar, with whom we were at peace. He told a tale of a time when the wars on the ancient birth-world forced dwarves, humans, even the magic-users of the Dena Orcha—”

  “Orcs!” spat Dolgan, as if the very word was an insult.

  The Ranger looked at the old man.

  “Dena Orcha in the old tongue,” said Malachi. “The true enemy of our blood. The Great Goblins. None live on this world.”

  “But they live in our memory,” said the Dwarf King.

  Malachi waved away the comment. “All the magic-users of many races banded together to save worlds in the time of the Mad Gods and raging Dragon Riders. They formed the Golden Bridge and many of our ancestors came to Midkemia.

  “But there were already living here the elves and some others, the serpent men and the tiger men, and we were met with war and magic.

  “Fighting on both sides of the Golden Bridge went on for a time without time, for the very nature of the universe was twisted and fluid.

  “Then it was over,” said the ancient dwarf quietly. “In days after the Crossing, but before the line of Kings was named, in the dim mists of memory, this was told by the elves to our ancestors. Many of their people fled this world as we had fled our own, and to the elves they would be known as the Lost Elves.”

  The old dwarf sat silently for a minute and said, “I can only guess, but it may be one such as that has returned to this world, for never have I heard of such a one before. You’d best ask the elves, for this much I know: of elven magic many things can be said, but nothing I have heard in my long life speaks of illusion as guise.” He said, “If I may leave, King?”

  His tone left no doubt the request was only for form, as he turned and started to get up as the King waved permission.

  As the old man was about to leave, Dolgan said, “Malachi, one question. Why did my father not speak of this to me?”

  Malachi shrugged. “You would have to be able to ask him. Your father was a quiet, thoughtful leader. He spoke very little.” Dolgan nodded. “My father liked to tell stories.” Again Dolgan nodded.

  “I remember one more thing,” said Malachi. “Three great bridges were built, on our birth world, or so my father said his grandfather told him. Two were built by humans and dwarves, and one by the Orcs. One bridge led to the Tsurani world, or so I believe from what we learned from those Tsurani who came to our world. If any of our people crossed, no memory of them remains with the Tsurani. The other came here, and it was over that bridge that humans and dwarves came to Midkemia.

  “The Orc bridge went to another world, and from the time of the Chaos Wars we have no longer been plagued by that ancient hate. Some humans and dwarves crossed with them, it is said. Perhaps,” posed the old dwarf, “those Lost Elves built their own bridge to escape their masters?” Without waiting for an answer, Malachi left the hall.

  Dolgan and the others remained silent for a long while, then Dolgan said, “What if the Lost Elves built their own bridge to escape their masters, indeed.”

  “But now one returns,” said Alystan.

  “Apparently,” said Dolgan.

  “Know this, welder of Tholin’s hammer,” said a voice from behind. Dolgan and the others turned to see Malachi returned from the hallway. “One last thing,” he added, pointing a frail finger at the Dwarf King. “It was your ancestor who led our people here, making these mountains our home. It was his brothers who led other bands to Stone Mountain and Dorgin. But our people were once as numerous as the leaves on trees. Where one dwarf crossed the bridge from our home world, five remained to fight the madness that came to destroy our home.

  “No one knows what that madness was, save it shattered worlds.” The old dwarf seemed fatigued from telling his story. Then, as if catching his breath, he raised his voice. “If Lost Elves are coming to this world, you must call the Meet and counsel against the possibility of war! Since we’ve come to this world we’ve found enemies, Dolgan, King, and while these Lost Elves, if that is who they are, are kin to our friends in Elvandar, they are also kin to the dark elves.” Malachi nodded to the boy Toddy to take Malachi back to his quarters.

  As the boy led away the ancient dwarf, several of the dwarves in the room nodded, and Hogni, Dolgan’s grandson, said, “When the Tsurani came, and we first heard of them that night in the cave where you and Father and Uncle Udell found Lord Borric huddled against the raiding goblins, Father told me he felt a cold in the pit of his stomach.”

  Dolgan nodded. “I, as well, and I feel it again.”

  The Ranger said, “I can only tell you what I saw. I could put no name to that creature until this very hour. I have never heard of these Lost Elves until this day.”

  Dolgan said, “It could be some type of coincidence. The creature might have been some other being that merely looks like our own elves. After all, don’t the Tsurani look like other humans? Or perhaps it was a human you saw, and he put a magic guise on for whatever need he might have on the other side of the rift through which he traveled.” He puffed on his pipe and was silent for a moment. “Still, if it is the return of an ancient race of elves…”

  “Caution urges you prepare as if they are coming,” said the Ranger. “I’m for Elvandar and the Queen and Lord Tomas.”

  Dolgan fixed the Ranger with a stare for a moment, then said, “And I’m with you. For if anyone has any memory of those days, it will be Tomas. He often doesn’t recall his Dragon Lord past until prodded by events, and if there was a time for prodding, it’s now.”

  “You’ll ride?” asked the Ranger.

  Dolgan grinned. “I’m old, but I’m not dead. It’s thick woodlands between here and the River Crydee, and I’ve yet to see a horse I couldn’t run down. I’ll keep up, have no fear.”

  Hogni fidgeted and cleared his throat.

  His grandfather fixed him with a barely hidden amused expression and said, “What is it, boy?”

  “You said when next you went to Elvandar, I could come as well, Grandfather.”

  Dolgan feigned a scowl, then said, “That I did. Get ready. And tell your father he gets to play King for a while until I return. We leave in an hour.”

  Hogni grinned, and hurried to gather his travel gear. Dolgan sighed. To Alystan, he said, “He’s young. Not quite forty years yet.”

  The Ranger, who was only a few years older, suppressed a chuckle. The moment of mirth passed, and the grim aspect of what they were facing returned. Despite the brisk fire nearby, the room seemed colder.

  CHAPTER 5

  EXODUS

  Laromendis began his spell.

  Across the vast courtyard sat a huge iron cage in which his brother rested, as best he could in the blistering afternoon heat. The guard who stood before the cage hadn’t glanced at the Conjurer, so that when Laromendis finished his spell and approached, the guard saw two figures: the Conjurer and a guard captain.

  The guard looked quizzically at the pair, unaware that one of them was a figment of his own imagination, and when they stopped before him, he heard the officer instruct him to draw away and give the brothers a moment of privacy. The guard nodded once, then moved away.

  Gulamendis looked up at his brother and smiled, though it obviously pained him to do such, his lips cracked and bleeding from the heat. “How fare you, Brother?”

  Laromendis shook his head as he thrust a small water skin through the bars of the c
age. “Drink slowly.” He said, “I’m faring better than you, by all appearances. What happened?”

  “Our master the Regent Lord became vexed by news we had lost the outpost at Starwell and turned his wrath upon me. As he already had me in the dungeon, and he couldn’t rightly kill me and keep your service, he decided a little torment might serve to show his wrath.” He glanced at the sun, which was now lowering toward the Keep. “In an hour the shadows will cover me and I’ll be all right.”

  Pointing to the skin, Laromendis said, “Hide and nurse that. If you do, it should last for a few days.” He glanced over his shoulder at the distant guard. “I don’t think they’ll completely forget to feed you and give you water, but they may decide to let you suffer a bit. It’s the mood of the times.”

  “Not a lot of joy to be found,” said the demon master. Gulamendis moved aside the stale straw that was his bedding and hid the remaining water. “I’m better than I look. I send Choyal into the kitchen at night to fetch me extra food and drink.” He chuckled but it came out a dry, rasping sound. “But imps are so stupid. One night it will be a delicacy from the Regent Lord’s own larder, another night it will be rotten vegetables.”

  “I’ll do what I can to get you out.” Laromendis paused, looked his brother in the eye, and said, “I found Home.”

  His brother’s expression was fixed. The resemblance between them was staggering, as they were almost twins, but Gulamendis was slightly shorter, a little thinner, and had hair of a lighter, almost orange, red.

  “What?” asked Laromendis.

  “If you have found Home, what need has the Regent Lord for us?”

  “There are problems,” said Laromendis, standing. “I must leave, as the guard is returning and I can’t be here if a true officer arrives. Just know that the Regent Lord needs me for a while longer, and because of that, you will be safe, if not comfortable.

  “And I have a plan.”

  The younger brother smiled. “You always do.”

  “We need to get you to Home, because not only will you be safer there, the People will have need of your knowledge.”

  “Demons?”

  “Perhaps; I can say no more. If you are questioned, ignorance is your ally.”

  He turned and hurried away from the cage, nodding once at the guard, who returned to watching over Gulamendis. As quickly as he could, he got out of the courtyard and made his way to the small quarters set aside for his use. The Regent Lord had grudgingly admitted to the Conjurer’s usefulness by providing him with a modest suite of two rooms, one for sleeping and the other for study.

  There was little of value here, save a volume of notes the Conjurer had prepared before departing on his latest exploration, the one that had taken him to Home. He sat for a moment on his bed and thumbed through the journal. When he got to the last page, he reached over to a small table, expecting to find his quill and ink there. He glanced over and recognized instantly they were out of place; someone had been in his quarters, reading his journal.

  He withheld a smile, as he expected no less from the Regent Lord. He wrestled with what he had heard of his distant kin on Midkemia and what his own people had become. There was much to admire about the achievements of the Taredhel, but, in truth, there was much apparently lost.

  A trapper from Yabon had told long stories about the elven forests to the west of his homeland, so long as Laromendis paid for the ale in the tavern in Hawk’s Hollow. The stories he told painted a picture of a people at one with the forest, content if not happy with their lives, able to come and go effortlessly through the woodland. He spoke of elven magic, but what he said in hints and suggestions told Laromendis volumes.

  The great Spellweavers and the older Eldar endured! That fact had been purposefully left out of his report to the Regent Lord, for two reasons. First, he had no proof that what the trapper had said was remotely accurate, even if he felt in his bones that it was. Second, he needed to discover for himself how many magic-users of the elves of Elvandar there were, and what capabilities they had. A great deal of the ancient lore had been lost with the crossing of the Starbridge, as his people called their route from Midkemia to this world.

  So much of it had been rooted in their spiritual links to the very soil of that world, the energies that rose from the heart and soul of the planet, to be coaxed and finessed into serving the Edhel, the People. This world had different magic, and it had been a difficult blending of that which had been brought with them and that which they found already here. The seven great trees—the Seven Stars, as they were called—had been their anchor to the old magic from Home. But the soil had been alien soil, from a world with its own rules and nature, and from that blending had come the majestic force that the Taredhel had first struggled to control, then come to master.

  The Taredhel Spellmasters were most likely the equals of all but the best the humans and elves had to offer on Midkemia, but there were so few of them left; many had paid for the survival of the People with their blood. They were honored and remembered in the annals, but each loss weakened the People beyond measure.

  More students were sent to fight the Demon Legion every year, less ready, less practiced, and less able to withstand demon magic. If there had been any other way for the Regent Lord to find Home without utilizing rogue magic-users like Laromendis and Gulamendis, he would have put them to death years ago.

  The relationship between magic-users in the Star Guild—the legatees of the original Spellweavers who fled from Home—and those outside that organization had always been strained at best, and outright hostile at worst. Wild magic, or broken magic, or any number of other terms had been used to describe those with the gifts who came into their power without the training of the Star Guild.

  The Star Guild had labored for generations to tend the Seven Stars, to bring the wild magic of Andcardia under control, and to prevent the destruction of the People. Their labors had earned them a place at the tables of power and the most gifted among them, the Chief Magister of the Guild, sat second only to the Regent Lord in prestige and power.

  In times past, those like Laromendis and his brother were hunted down and murdered, or captured and indentured to the Guild as “dirt magicians,” or some other demeaning epithet. But now “dirt magicians” like Laromendis, and “demon lovers” like his brother, were too valuable a commodity to be squandered away by bigotry. This Regent Lord wasn’t a great deal more forgiving of “deviant” practices than his forebears, but he was a great deal more pragmatic about using talent whatever its origins.

  Laromendis put away his journal, certain it would be read as soon as he left the city and making sure nothing he had written would be inconsistent with what he had told the Regent Lord.

  He stood up and looked out the window. He was unable to see that portion of the courtyard where his brother sat imprisoned, but knew that by now the shadows were covering the cage. Silently, he said, Just a while longer, Little Brother. The Regent will be reading my journal within an hour after I depart, and no matter what he may think of us and our arts, he needs us. You will be free soon.

  Putting away his pen and ink, he placed the journal on the small table and sat back on the bed, thinking. He should rest, but his mind was racing.

  So much he hadn’t told the Regent Lord, so much he wished to share with Gulamendis. And a handful of others, for this world was Home and, moreover, he sensed down to the fiber of his being that somewhere to the north of that valley he had scouted, there lay all the answers the People sought. If they were but wise enough to recognize those answers.

  He knew that he was working toward his own purposes, though he believed his purpose was as dedicated to saving the People as was the Regent Lord’s. But he also knew that the Regent Lord suspected him of having a different agenda. So, glancing at the journal once again, he resisted the urge to smile; let the Regent Lord and the Chief Magister and the other members of the Regent’s Meeting suspect his purposes, even conclude what those purposes were, just as lon
g as they didn’t suspect what his real goals were. Let them think his ambitions were personal: power, glory, wealth, freedom for his brother; those were goals they understood. His real purpose and goals would be as alien to them as the nature of their terrible enemies to the north.

  Sighing despite his iron resolve, Laromendis stood up and left his quarters. He must eat something, he knew, then be about his business, for by dawn tomorrow a thousand Taredhel warriors, magicians, and scholars would be moving through the translocation gate to that lovely valley long ago abandoned by the Forgotten, and once more the Clans of the Seven Stars would return to their ancient homeland on the world humans called Midkemia.

  Laromendis stood next to his ruler, as the leader of the Clans of the Seven Stars surveyed the valley below. His face was a fixed mask, but the slight sheen in his eyes and the softening around them told the Conjurer all he needed to know; the trap was sprung. The thought of somehow saving Andcardia was gone, as the ruler of the Taredhel looked upon the ancient homeland of the race—Midkemia.

  The Regent Lord waved his Warleader to his side and softly said, “Begin.”

  The Warleader, Kumal, stood for a moment beside his ruler, experiencing the emotions that struck every elf like a hammer’s blow when they stepped through the translocation portal. This was Home!

  He nodded once, turned, and walked back through the portal, and the Regent Lord stepped aside. From behind, a humming sound filled the air, resonant, deep, and sounding like nothing so much as heavy stones being dragged across the ground; a vibration in the soles of his boots reinforced that perception to the Conjurer. He knew his brethren on the other side of the portal were employing their arts to widen it so those waiting on this side might pass through.

  Pointing down the game trail that marked the edge of this clearing in the hills, the Conjurer said, “My Lord, in the vale below stands a vacant stockade, of familiar design. I judge the Forgotten once lived within, and with little effort it can be made to serve. Throughout this area are campsites, for the stockade will serve temporarily as your court, but no more than a thousand can occupy the vale until more housing is built. I have marked trails so the trackers can lead bands to those campsites. They will serve as a defensive perimeter until the city walls can be erected.”