Rage of a Demon King (24 page)

“It’s huge,” said Miranda.

“More than six hundred ships,” said Macros. “Close to seven hundred.”

“They must have been building somewhere we didn’t know about,” offered Pug. He, like Miranda, had stayed abreast of the intelligence coming from Calis’s agents in Novindus.

“We need a plan,” said Miranda.

Pug said, “Here’s the plan: I will swoop down to confront the Emerald Queen and her Pantathian servants. When they spring whatever trap they have waiting for me, you two come in and catch them by surprise.”

Macros said, “No, I’ll come in. Alone.”

As Miranda stated to object, Macros said, “Your job is to get us out of there if this doesn’t work.”

She considered a moment, and while the wind sent her hair streaming out behind her, Pug thought he had never seen her looking more beautiful. “Very well,” she said.

Pug quickly kissed her and said, “Place a spell of recall upon us all.”

Miranda said, “Where do we travel if we have to leave in a hurry?”

Pug had already considered the question. “Elvandar,” he said. “The elves have the best healers in the world, and we may need them. They also have the best magic wards if something tries to follow us.”

She nodded. “Telling you to be careful would be the height of foolishness.” She kissed her father’s cheek. “Be careful.”

Then she kissed Pug passionately. “Stay alive.”

Pug and Macros lowered toward the fleet and Macros said, “Am I going to be a father-in-law?”

Pug said, “If we somehow live through this.”

Macros said, “Then I’ll see you do.”

“I’m counting on it,” said Pug, and Macros laughed. “What do you propose to do?” he asked.

“I think a direct approach is best.” Pug considered a moment. “I’m certain they expect me to come at them sometime between now and when they reach the Straits.”

“They might expect you at the Straits.”

“That is too late. If I fail, there is no time to regroup, but if l come now . . .”

“What should I do?”

“Be ready to provide me with a distraction. They have no knowledge you’re back.” Then he muttered, “At least, I hope they don’t.” He spoke up: “If I get into trouble, do something to give me a chance to escape, but don’t put yourself at risk; rely on Miranda to get us both out.”

“I’ll do what I must,” said Macros.

“Then let us begin,” said Pug.

He faded from Macros’s sight, and the sorcerer knew he was attempting to get as close as possible to the ship upon which the Emerald Queen rode before revealing himself. Macros let his own enhanced senses reach out and locate Pug, following him as he approached the fleet.

Pug swooped down over the vanguard of the flotilla. A full score of warships formed a V at the head of the fleet. On either flank another twenty ships guarded the bulk of the armada. At the rear came a squadron of faster warships, tacking back and forth, ready to race forward and give support on either side if the need arose.

Pug saw the Emerald Queen’s ship, dead center of a huge cluster of transport ships. Pug used his magic vision, attempting to locate his quarry.

As if watching through a crystal, he saw her with the lens of his magic perception: she rested upon a throne, set amidships, upon a wallowing galley rowed by three banks of oars. Surrounding her were an honor guard of some of the most evil-looking creatures Pug had ever spied. Each exuded a miasma of foulness like a cloud of smoke, trailing along behind him.

Two men stood on either side of the Queen. To her right was a human whom Pug took to be General Fadawah. There was nothing soft in his features or demeanor. He looked as if carved from unyielding stone. His head was shaved, save for a single topknot of hair gathered together and allowed to fall down his back. His face was scarred, and Pug recognized the marks; they had been described to him by those who had faced the moredhel outlaw chieftain Murad, when Prince Arutha had quested after the Silverthorn plant that he needed to save his betrothed’s life.

At the Queen’s other hand a robed figure stood, a Pantathian to outward appearance. Pug could detect no features beneath the creature’s hood. Pug gently sent energies down to the ship, attempting to detect any countermeasures. There was a flow of communication between the ship and other agents, near and far away. And there were detection spells, which he easily avoided.

That made him suspicious and he sought to investigate behind those spells. As he suspected, there was a second array of wards, cleverly masked by the clumsy detection spells, and he had been close to activating them.

He studied his enemy’s defenses and made ready his attack.

Pug gathered his energies, determined to blast this ship from existence. He would deal with the other ships and the serpent priests who rode them after disposing of the Queen. As energy gathered around him, Pug sensed probing energies of an alien nature, from an unknown source.

Suddenly those on the ship below were running and pointing. A handful of robed figures appeared upon the decks and began incanting wards of protection.

But they were too late, as Pug unleashed a tremendous blast of mystic energy, enough to ignite the entire ship in a funeral pyre. A crimson ball of fire exploded from his fingertips, hurling like a comet of death at the Emerald Queen’s ship. The explosion was deafening and blinding, and as it ignited, Pug suddenly sensed his mistake.

“Flee!” he sent to Macros and Miranda. “It’s a trap!”

The bolt of energy encountered a counterspell, one woven into the very fabric of the ship itself. Weeks of execution had been involved in this, the most subtle thing the Pantathians had undertaken since Pug’s first encounter with them years before. The cloth in the sails, the tar in the deck, the nails in the hull, and the wood of the spars—all had been imbued with this counter-magic. And the wards of detection and the incanting of the Pantathian priests had been nothing more than masks to hide the telltale traces of this subtle magic.

Pug’s defenses were hardly in place when his own magic was turned back upon him. The fireball ran
back up its previous course, seeking its source. Furious energies exploded around him, blinding and deafening him, rendering him near-senseless. Reflexes took over, and he attempted to put distance between himself and the ship. Red flames consumed Pug, and only his own incredible power and instinct kept him from being incinerated in an instant.

Then those upon the ship unleashed their own attacks, and Pug suffered.

A presence manifested itself to Pug as he struggled to avoid the next wave of pain. “Puny mage! Do you think we were unaware of your pitiful scheming? You are but a pawn in a game so much more vast than any you can imagine. Now die!”

At that instant, Pug saw the face of his true enemy. Where the Emerald Queen had sat, the illusion was pierced. A demon crouched upon the golden throne under the canopy athwart the galley. Mystic chains went from his taloned hand to magic collars around the necks of the Pantathian and General Fadawah. They were clearly under the demon’s control and both looked upward helplessly.

“I am Jakan, and I shall rule here!”

Agony raced through every fiber of Pug’s being as his protective wards were stripped away from him. The robes on his body burst into flames and his hair and skin began to burn. A scream erupted from lungs scorched and blistered and his eyes shriveled in his head. He struggled to escape, but the pain was overwhelming, and he lost all control. His mind fled from the pain, and as he felt darkness closing around him, he also felt himself tumbling through the air.

Then a pair of arms grabbed him, and a groan of agony came from Pug as he was carried aloft, every
movement an agony for him. Macros sent word to Miranda: “Get us out of here now!”

Even the chilled air burned his flaming skin as Pug lapsed into darkness.

“Will he live?” asked Miranda, fear etched into her features.

“I don’t know,” answered Tathar.

Dominic and Nathan looked on in horror at the thing that had been Pug. His body was smoking and charred, and in several places white bone showed through. Acaila said, “It’s a miracle he lives still.”

Nakor pushed through and said, “Life is strong in this man. It holds strongly here. We must help it.”

Nakor put his hands above his head a moment, then incanted. He placed his hands upon Pug’s chest, over his beat, and said, “I need whatever strength you can spare.”

Instantly the Spellweavers of Elvandar began to spin their magic. Dominic lent his skills, using a spell of healing, the most powerful he knew.

Nakor felt the energy course through him, down his arms and into Pug’s chest. Faintly, under the palm of Nakor’s right hand, he could feel the fluttering beat of Pug’s heat. Slowly it strengthened, as if drinking the energy from Nakor and the others like a dry sponge in water.

Nakor felt himself tingle with the flow, but he focused, and attempted to see the energy sites in Pug’s body. “One of you, put hands over his head,” he said.

Acaila did as he was bid and Nakor closed his eyes a moment.

In the elven glade more and more came to witness the healing. Tomas strode into the ring of watchers,
who stepped aside to let him approach his friend. Nakor opened his eyes and said, “Good. Put your hands over his throat. He burned his lungs, and I need help.”

Nakor closed his eyes and directed the energies flowing into Pug.

Time passed and night gave way to day, and still they labored, kneeling for hours letting the healing energies of their own bodies as well as the ancient magic of Elvandar flow into the injured magician.

Near noon, Nakor faltered and found familiar hands gripping his arm. “Master?” came Sho Pi’s inquiry.

“I’ll be fine,” said Nakor. “I just need rest.”

“I’ll take over,” said Nakor’s student, and he stepped into the position his master had occupied, placing his hands upon Pug’s chest.

Miranda came over, and from her drawn expression and red eyes Nakor could see she had been weeping. “Will he live?”

Nakor said, “I don’t know. A lesser man would have died instantly. Most greater men would be dead now, but there’s something in him that hangs on.” He looked at the man lying on the floor of the glade, upon the grass, and said, “He looks very small and vulnerable now, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Miranda, her voice heavy with emotion.

Nakor sighed. It was obvious he was exhausted from his efforts. “The longer he hangs on, the better his chances that he will survive. We are all channeling healing energies to him, and as long as he has a will to live, he continues to live. I told Nicholas once that in some men life is weak and in others it is strong. For one such
as myself, your father, or yourself, it must be strong for us to abide all the years we continue to exist, but for Pug it’s something more.” Trying to be reassuring, he added, “I think he will live.”

Miranda looked into Nakor’s eyes. “You don’t think that, do you?”

Nakor tried to force a grin, but it failed. “No, I don’t. We will do all we can, but he is injured far beyond what I’ve seen any man endure.” His eyes revealed a hint of deep regret, then he forced back that doubt and assumed his usual cheerful mantle. “But what do I know? I’m just a gambler who has some tricks, and Tathar and the other Spellweavers are working vigorously.” He patted her hand in a fatherly fashion. “He will be all right, I’m sure.”

She looked into Nakor’s face and saw the words were empty, but she appreciated the gesture and nodded, walking over to stand beside her father.

Nakor watched her move away, then looked at Pug’s face, the oozing, cracked skin, the blackened arms and legs. “But if he does, it will be a very long time before he fights again.”

Days passed, and Pug’s condition remained unchanged. The Spellweavers, Nakor, and Sho Pi worked in shifts, pouring as much healing magic as possible into the unconscious magician. Only exhaustion forced them from his side.

Nakor returned from another half day spent healing Pug, and sat down heavily next to Macros and Miranda, who were eating their supper next to a fire.

“How is he?” asked Miranda.

“The same,” said Nakor, shaking his head slightly. “I fear he grows weaker.”

Miranda’s grief was openly revealed as tears gathered in her eyes. “He’s not going to live, is he?”

Nakor shrugged. “I do not know. It may be a long time before we do know.”

Macros placed his hands upon his daughter’s shoulders. “And we don’t have a long time, do we?”

Nakor shook his head. “No. And again we find another mystery.”

Macros said, “Yes.”

Nakor said, “I’m going to sleep awhile; then I think we need hold council with the Queen and Tomas.”

“I agree,” said Macros.

The three of them rose to find places to sleep and parted company. Nakor couldn’t help returning to the clearing a moment and looking at Pug. The magician remained motionless, the only sign of his still being alive the slight rise and fall of his chest as Sho Pi continued to keep his hands upon Pug’s charred chest. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Nakor thought Pug’s breathing might be slightly deeper and more regular than before. Again he wondered at the small magician’s strength and will to live.

Aglaranna looked around the circle and said, “Tathar says Pug will live. It will be a long time before he regains consciousness and longer still before he heals, but with our arts we can restore his damaged skin and hair, heal the broken bones and burned tissue.”

The relief was almost tangible in the council, especially on the faces of Tomas and Miranda.

Macros said, “Pug was right and we were not.”

Miranda’s expression showed she felt terrible guilt over her part in Pug’s precipitate attack. “It is
my fault.”

Nakor said, “It is no one’s fault or everyone’s fault. No one forced Pug, your father, and you to attack the Emerald Queen. We thought it risky and it was.”

“They were better prepared than we anticipated,” said Miranda.

“More than that,” said Macros. To Miranda he said, “You were too far removed from the battle to see what Pug and I saw, and you have no way of knowing.”

“What?”

“The woman who was your mother is but a shell, an illusion. I suspect she is long dead. The creature at the head of this army is a demon. He identified himself to Pug as Jakan.”