Flight of the Nighthawks (6 page)

“Down in Stardock, I believe. He should be delivering some supplies, but no doubt he lingered for the festival.”

Miranda said, “Lingered to spend time with that widow, you mean.”

Pug shrugged. “Let him grab whatever joy he can, beloved. We don't need him back here for anything special, and I expect he's enjoying himself.”

Magnus looked at his mother and asked, “Shall I find him, or return to Kelewan?”

Miranda glanced at her husband. “Which?”

“Neither. Go to Novindus and continue Nakor's work on the Talnoy. The Great Ones of the Assembly of Tsuranuanni can muddle along without you for a while. When Nakor returns from Krondor, I'll send him back to you and you can go back to Kelewan.”

Nakor smiled. “Don't break anything before I get there.”

Magnus glanced with a wry smile at the little gambler, nodded, reached inside his robe, and pulled out a golden orb. He clicked a switch and suddenly vanished.

Miranda came to stand behind her husband and put her arms around him. “You're worried.”

“I'm always worried,” said Pug.

“No, this is something more.” She studied her husband's face. “You sense something?”

Nakor said, “I think I know what you're going to tell her. I will go to Krondor and see that Duke Erik stays alive long enough to help
us.” He glanced at Pug and Miranda and said, “You two really do need to talk to each other more often. Really,” he repeated, picking up his rucksack and staff, then vanishing from before their eyes.

Pug closed his eyes a long moment, then answered his wife's question. “Yes, I do sense something. And it's growing. I don't know what to call it, but it feels more…intense than mere foreboding.”

“A premonition?”

“The dream troubles me, love. I think something is approaching, and when it emerges, the struggle will be more fearful than anything we could ever imagine.”

“Given what we have seen, husband, that's quite a lot.”

“Once, during the time of the Great Uprising, Tomas and I faced a Master of the Dread. We bested the creature, though it took all of our magic and no little guile. Then at the end, in Sethanon, I beheld a Dreadlord—a Greater Dragon, with all her magic and might, could barely contain it.”

“But the Dread come from one of the lower planes, while these Dasati are from the second. Surely they are only slightly more dangerous than men?”

Pug held his wife's hand. “You know more than I do on many subjects, Miranda, but scholarship has never been your first love.” She furrowed her brow but said nothing, acknowledging the truth in his words.

He sighed and lowered his voice. “It's the nature of beings from the lower levels of creation to absorb the life force from those from the higher. Think of it as water running downhill; just the touch of a Dasati would cause damage after only a few moments.

“The Dread are the most fearful beings able to reach this level of reality and survive; creatures from the depths below them draw so much energy to themselves so fast that they are destroyed when they reach our plane, unless they employ powerful magic to keep themselves alive. No, it's the fact the Dasati are from but one level below us that makes them so fearful to contemplate, my love.” He sighed as if fatigued. “Nakor understands, for he has spent more time studying the Talnoy than anyone else.” He glanced at the mouth of the cave. “The others will discover what I'm telling you; no need to create any risk of panic.

“The Dasati are mortal like ourselves, but if they reach this level of reality, they will slowly draw life force from around them, from the very grass they tread upon, so that even should we establish a military stalemate, as we did with the Tsurani during the first Riftwar, they would eventually wither us to defeat. Also, the flow of life force toward them makes them harder to kill and ourselves weaker. The longer we are locked in struggle, the more difficult victory will be. And we must remember the numbers; if Kaspar is correct and he saw a true vision of that world, they would not send thousands of warriors, but tens of thousands. If they find us, we must react and react quickly. We can't have the monarchs of Midkemia fully understanding what we must face, at least for a while, else fear might overwhelm their resolve.”

Miranda studied her husband's face for a while, then said, “We shall do everything we can.”

“I know,” he said. “Now, we both have work to do.”

“How are you going to return?”

He smiled. “I'll walk. The fresh air clears my head and helps me think.”

She kissed his cheek. “I'll see you at home.”

Before she could vanish, he said, “Wait a minute! Did you see Nakor use an orb to leave?”

“Not that I noticed.”

He smiled. “Another of his ‘tricks,' I expect.”

She smiled in return and then was gone. No one could transport herself better than Miranda. She had been trying to teach Pug and some of the others how to do it without the aid of patterns or the Tsurani orbs, but few achieved it through mind alone, and then only to very familiar locations. To himself he concluded that Nakor must have studied with her. The wily little man was right. Pug, he and his wife did need to talk more.

Pug left the cavern and stopped at its mouth. It was late afternoon on Sorcerer's Isle and by the time he reached the villa it would be almost suppertime. He took one more look around the cave and then started his walk home.

 

The Royal Chirurgeon shook his head and spoke softly to the attending squire. “I fear he will not make it through the night.” The two figures were dwarfed by the enormous chamber in which the Duke of Krondor lay dying. A single candle burned on the table next to the bed.

“Shall I inform the senior squire, sir?” asked the young man, a blond-headed rail of a lad no more than fifteen years old. The senior squire served Prince Robert, ruler of Krondor these last eight years, and heir apparent to the Kingdom of the Isles.

“The hour is late. I shall check on the Duke again very soon. If his condition worsens, there should be time enough to wake the Prince.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I stay?”

“No need,” said the old healer, his face drawn with worry and fatigue. “He'll not rouse and I have other patients to care for; the stomach flux has struck the royal nursery, and though it may not be fatal, the wrath of the Princess is sure to be if I can't get the children to rest through the night.”

The healer snuffed out the single candle next to the bed and he and the boy left the Duke's large sleeping chamber, closing the door quietly behind them.

A moment later a figure stepped out of the shadow behind a large curtain. He crossed the room to the bed and touched his fingertip to the still-warm candle wick, and the flame instantly reappeared. Glancing down at the recumbent figure, he softly said, “Oh, Erik, you don't look so good.”

Nakor had known Duke Erik when he had been a boy, fresh from the smith's forge, tall, with huge shoulders and the strength of three men. He had also been born with a temper, which had almost got him hung for murder, but in the end he had served the Kingdom of the Isles well and had risen in rank to Knight-Marshal of the West, and held the title of Duke of Krondor under young Prince Robert.

Nakor now looked down on an old man, past eighty years of age. His skin was like old parchment drawn tightly across his skull. His shoulders showed none of the massive strength of his youth, and were lost beneath the voluminous nightshirt he wore.

Nakor retrieved a vial from his rucksack and pulled out the stopper. He administered a single drop on the dying man's lips and waited. Erik's mouth moved, slightly, and Nakor poured in another drop. He repeated this application for almost fifteen minutes, a drop at a time, then sat back on the side of the bed and waited.

After a few more minutes, the Duke's eyes fluttered, then opened completely. He blinked, then said in a soft, hoarse whisper, “Nakor?”

The little man grinned. “You remember me?”

With a deep intake of breath followed by a long sigh, Erik von Darkmoor—once a sergeant in Calis's Crimson Eagles, veteran of the Serpentwar, hero of the Battle of Nightmare Ridge, and now Duke of Krondor and Knight-Marshal of the Western Realm—sat up and said, “You're damned hard to forget, old friend.”

“You look better,” said Nakor.

Erik moved his arms and said, “I feel better. What did you do?”

Nakor held up the vial. “I bought you some time. I need to talk to you.”

“Then hurry,” said the Duke, sitting back. He chuckled, a dry raspy laugh. “By all accounts, I don't have much time—wait, how did you get in here?”

Nakor waved the question away. “I just waited until no one was looking then came in through the window.”

Erik smiled. “Like old Duke James when he was a boy, then?”

“Something like that.”

“So why are you troubling a dying man?”

“I need you not to die for a while, Erik.”

“I'd be pleased to accommodate you, but I believe fate has other plans.”

“How do you feel?”

The Duke stretched out his hands before his face and said, “Surprisingly good, all things considered. I'll ask again, what did you do?”

“It's a potion, which I got from a priest who lives a great distance from here. It will…restore you.”

“Restore me?”

“It'll keep you alive for a while longer, or if you drink a lot, for a lot longer.”

The Duke shifted himself higher in the bed, so he could sit up. “I'm not sure I'd like that, Nakor. My body has betrayed me and, to put it bluntly, it vexes me to be so dependent on others. It's hard not to be able to walk to the jakes and take a piss. Nothing humbles a man as much as waking in the morning, sopping wet like a baby. I think I'd rather die than have to spend more days in bed.”

“Well, you don't have to do either,” said Nakor with a grin. “The potion will make you stronger, too.”

Erik's gaze fixed upon Nakor. “I can see better; I've just realized.”

“Yes,” said Nakor. “It's a pretty nice potion.”

“Is that how you've remained unchanged over the last fifty to sixty years?”

“No. I know some other tricks.”

“Very well, if you can get me out of this bed so I can protect the Kingdom a while longer, I'll stay around, but what is your reason for this?”

“Well, first of all, I like you.”

“Thank you, Nakor; I like you, too.”

“You are the last of the Desperate Men who went south with Calis and Bobby.”

“I was there; I remember. Now, I appreciate nostalgia as much as the next man, Nakor, but what's the real reason?”

“We need someone who is close to the Crown to listen and help when the time comes.”

“We?” asked the Duke. “You mean the Black Sorcerer?”

“Yes, Pug.”

Erik sat back with a long exhalation of breath, shaking his head slightly. After the Serpentwar, Kesh had moved against and almost destroyed Krondor, seeking to advantage itself in its seemingly never-ending struggle with its northern neighbor. Pug, who was Duke of Stardock at that time, and vassal to the Crown of the Kingdom of the Isles, had refused to use his powerful magic to destroy the invaders, but rather had ordered the Keshians home, while at the same time
publicly humiliating Patrick, who was then the Prince of Krondor and later King of the Isles.

Erik said, “Pug's been persona non grata since he defied Prince Patrick, after the Serpentwar. Robbie may be related to Patrick in name only—he's as thoughtful as Patrick was rash—but the collective royal memory is a long one. Pug pulled Stardock out of the Kingdom and set it up as an independent state; that looks like treason from the throne's point of view.”

“That's why we need you to persuade them otherwise. Something bad is coming, Erik.”

“How bad?”

“Very bad,” said Nakor.

“As bad as the Emerald Queen?”

“Worse,” said the short gambler.

Erik sat motionless for a moment, then said, “Go over to that table, Nakor.” He pointed to a long table set against the wall. “Open that box.”

Nakor did as requested and found the simple wooden box with a small brass hasp and ring latch. Inside it he found a black amulet. He pulled it out, letting it hang from the chain. “Nighthawks?”

“We received that from one of our agents in Great Kesh. I suspect you and your companions have as many agents down there as we do.”

Nakor turned to regard the old duke. Erik's blue eyes were now alight with energy and his voice was growing stronger by the moment. “Oh, I have no problem with your…what do you call it? Your Conclave?”

Nakor said nothing, but smiled slightly.

“But you're not the only ones out there paying for information, my old friend,” said the Duke. “I served with you and Calis long enough to have no doubt you only intend good, no matter what the Crown's official position on your activities may be. Truth to tell, Patrick needed the public spanking that Pug gave him when the Keshian army was outside the city walls. Just as much as the Keshians needed to be sent home with their tails between their legs.

“But if it ever comes down to choosing between your vision of a larger good and my duty to the Crown, you know what I will do.”

“I know, Erik.” Nakor understood if it ever came to a choice, Erik would put his oath and duty to the Crown ahead of anything Pug asked. He put the amulet back. “How long have you had it?”

“A week. Some minor court officials and influential merchants are starting to turn up dead in the City of Kesh. It's a big place and the dead men are of marginal importance, so the Keshians don't appear to be taking note of it yet.”

Nakor was thoughtful. “Or someone highly placed is ensuring they don't.”

“My thought, as well,” said the Duke. He looked at the window, and said, “How long before dawn?”