Rage of a Demon King (3 page)

Flexing talons, and then arms that seemed suddenly too long, the creature wondered about the third race who lay dead upon the floor. Was it ally or foe to the Pantathians and their dupes, the Saaur?

The creature put aside such considerations. As the new mind, made up of the little demon and the captured soul, melded into one, knowledge unfolded. It sensed at least one mindless demon wandering these halls and galleries of stone. It knew that the wards had protected the little demon as he rode the back of the captain through the rift, and that the captain had been stunned, robbed of wit and rendered animal-like, no matter how powerful. But this new creature that had once been a demon knew that eventually,
as the other demons already here fed and grew in power, cunning, then intelligence would return. And with memory would come the need to return to this cavern and destroy the wards, opening the way.

First the creature must hunt down those demons, ensuring that did not happen. Then would come another search. “Jatuk.” The creature spoke the name softly aloud. The son of the last ruler of the Saaur on the world of Shila would rule here, over the remnants of the last Saaur host, and this creature had much to tell him. As the melding continued, the demon’s nature was controlled and contained, then fused with that other intelligence. The father of Shadu—who now served Jatuk—took control of this false body and moved toward a tunnel. The mind of Hanam, last of the great Loremasters of the Saaur, had found a way to cheat death and betrayal and would now find the last of his people to warn them of the great deception that would doom another world to destruction if not halted.

Erik signaled.

The soldiers knelt just below his position in the gully, watching as he silently motioned where he wanted each of them. Alfred, now his first corporal, gestured from the far end of the line and Erik nodded. Each man knew what to do.

The enemy had camped in a relatively defensible position on the trail north of Krondor. About three miles up the road was the small town of Eggly, the objective of the invaders. The enemy had stopped their march before sundown, and Erik was certain they would launch an attack just before dawn.

Erik had watched them from his hidden vantage, his men camped a short distance away while he decided his best course of action. He had observed the enemy erect their camp, and saw they had been as disorganized as he had suspected they would be; their pickets were placed poorly, and were undisciplined,
spending as much time looking into the camp to chat with comrades as actually watching for an enemy approach. The constant glances in the direction of the campfires were certainly diminishing their night vision. After gauging the strength and position of the invaders, Erik knew his choices. He had decided to strike first. While outnumbered by at least five to one, his men would have the advantage of surprise and superior training; at least, he hoped the latter was true.

Erik took a moment for one last inspection of the enemy’s position. If anything, the pickets were even more inattentive than they had been when Erik had sent for his company. It was clear the invaders thought their mission one of minor importance, taking a small town off the beaten track, while major conflicts would be raging to the south near the capital city of Krondor. Erik was determined to teach them that there were no minor conflicts in any war.

When his men were in place, Erik slipped down a small defile, until he was almost within touching distance of a bored guard. He tossed a small stone behind the man, who looked without thought. As Erik knew would be the case, the man glanced back into the camp, at the nearest campfire, which blinded him for a moment. A soldier sitting near the fire said, “What is it, Henry?”

The guard said, “Nothing.”

He turned to find Erik standing directly before him, and faster than he could shout alarm, Erik hit him with his balled fist, catching him as he fell.

“Henry?” said the man at the campfire, starting to rise, vainly trying to see into the gloom beyond the campfire light.

Erik attempted to imitate the guard’s voice. “I said, ‘Nothing.’ ”

The attempt failed, for the soldier started to shout alarm and pulled on his sword. But before he could clear the blade from his scabbard, Erik was upon him like a cat on a mouse. Grabbing the man by the back of his tunic, Erik pulled him over backward, slamming him hard into the ground. Putting a dagger at the man’s throat, he said, “You’re dead. No noise.”

The man gave him a sour look, but nodded. Softly he said, “Well, at least I get to finish my supper.” He sat up and returned to his dinner plate, while two other men blinked in incomprehension as Erik circled the campfire and “cut” each of their throats before they realized an attack was under way.

Shouts from around the camp announced that the rest of Erik’s company was now in force among the enemy, cutting throats, knocking down tents, and generally creating havoc. The only prohibition Erik had put on them was no fires. Although tempted, he thought the Baron of Tyr-Sog would not appreciate the damage to his baggage.

Erik hurried through the struggle, dispatching sleeping soldiers as they emerged from tents. He cut a few ropes, trapping soldiers inside as the canvas fell upon them, and heard shouts of outrage from within. Throughout the camp, men cursed as they were “killed,” and Erik could hardly contain his amusement. The strike was fast and he was at the center of the camp within two minutes of the start of the assault. He reached the command tent as the Baron came out, obviously half-asleep as he buckled his sword belt around his nightshirt, and clearly displeased by the disruption. “What have we here?” he demanded of Erik.

“Your company is destroyed, my lord,” said Erik with a light tap of his sword upon the Baron’s chest. “And you are now dead.”

The Baron studied the man who was sheathing his sword: he was tall, unusually broad across the shoulders without being fat, like a young blacksmith, with unremarkable features. His smile was engaging, however, friendly and open. In the firelight his pale blond hair danced with ruby highlights.

“Nonsense,” said the stout Baron. His neatly trimmed beard and fine silk nightshirt said volumes about his campaign experience. “We were to attack Eggly tomorrow. No one said anything about this”—he waved his hand around the campsite—“business of a night attack. Had we known, we would have taken precautions.”

Erik said, “My lord, we are attempting to prove a point.”

A voice came out of the darkness. “And you proved it well.”

Owen Greylock, Knight-Captain of the Prince of Krondor’s Royal Garrison, came into the light. His gaunt features gave him a sinister appearance in the dancing shadows of the firelight. “I judge you’ve killed or incapacitated three-quarters of the soldiers, Erik. How many men did you bring?”

Erik said, “Sixty.”

“But I have three hundred!” said the Baron, clearly disturbed. “With an auxiliary of Hadati warriors.”

Erik glanced about and said, “I don’t see any Hadati.”

From out of the dark came an accented voice. “As it should be.”

A group of men dressed in kilts and plaids entered the camp. They wore their hair tied atop their
heads in a knot, with a long fall of it spilling down their backs. “We heard your men approaching,” said the leader, looking at Erik, who wore an unmarked black tunic, and guessing at his rank, “Captain?”

“Sergeant,” corrected Erik.

“Sergeant,” amended the spokesman, a tall warrior who wore only a simple sleeveless tunic above his kilt. His plaid would provide warmth in the mountains if unrolled and worn around his shoulders. Below night-black hair, his features were even, nothing out of the ordinary, save for dark eyes that reminded Erik of a bird of prey’s. In the campfire light, his sun-darkened skin was almost red. Erik didn’t need to see the man draw the long blade he wore on his back to know him for a seasoned fighter.

“You heard us?” asked Erik.

“Yes. Your men are good, Sergeant, but we Hadati live in the mountains—often sleeping on the ground near our herds—and we know when we’re hearing a group of men approach.”

“What’s your name?” asked Erik.

“Akee, son of Bandur.”

Erik nodded. “We need to talk.”

The Baron said, “I protest, Captain!”

Greylock said, “What, my lord?”

“I protest this unannounced action. We were told to play the role of invaders and expect resistance by local militia and special units from Krondor at the town of Eggly. Nothing was said of a night attack. Had we known, we would have prepared for such!” he repeated.

Erik glanced at Owen, who signaled that Erik should form up his company and depart while the
Prince’s Knight-Captain soothed the ruffled feelings of the Baron of Tyr-Sog. Erik motioned Akee to his side and said, “Have your men gather their kits and find my corporal. He’s an ugly thug named Alfred. Tell him you’ll be coming with us to Krondor in the morning.”

“Will the Baron approve?” asked Akee.

“Probably not,” answered Erik, turning away. “But he doesn’t have much to say about it. I’m the Prince of Krondor’s man.”

The Hadati hillman shrugged and motioned to his companions. “Let those men free.”

“Free?” asked Erik.

Akee smiled. “We captured a few of those you sent to the south, Sergeant. I believe your ugly thug may be among them.”

Erik let fatigue and the pressure of the night’s exercise get the better of his usually calm nature. Swearing softly, he said, “If he is, he’ll regret it.”

Akee shrugged, turning to his companions and saying, “Let’s go see.”

Erik addressed another of his company, a soldier named Shane. “Get the men formed up at the south end of the camp.”

Shane nodded and started shouting orders.

Erik followed the Hadati to a point outside the perimeter of the Baron’s camp and found a pair of Hadati sitting next to Corporal Alfred and a half dozen of Erik’s best men.

“What happened?” Erik asked.

Alfred sighed as he stood. “They’re good, Sergeant.” He pointed to a ridge above them. “They must have moved the second they heard us coming, ’cause we were up there on that ridge, and I would
have wagered everything I own it wasn’t possible they could have come up out of that camp, crossed the ridge, lay low, then come up behind us as we headed down.” He shook his head. “We were being tapped on the shoulder before we heard them.”

Erik turned to Akee. “You’ll have to tell me how you did that.”

Akee shrugged, saying nothing.

To Alfred, Erik said, “These hillmen are coming with us. Take them down to the camp and let’s get back to Krondor.”

Alfred smiled, forgetting the tongue-lashing he was likely to receive from Erik when they were back at the garrison. “A hot meal,” he said.

Erik was forced to agree it would be welcome. They had been out on maneuvers for a week, eating cold rations in the dark, and his men were tired and hungry. “Get moving” was all he said.

Standing in the dark, Erik considered what was at stake in the impending war, and wondered if a hundred such exercises would prepare the men of the Kingdom for what was to come.

Tossing aside such concern, he conceded that probably nothing would prepare them fully, but what other choice did he have? He considered that Calis, Prince Patrick, Knight-Marshal William, and other commanders were operating throughout these mountains, conducting such exercises this week; at the end of the week a council would be held to tally what needed to be done.

Erik said to himself, “Everything, everything needs to be done,” and he realized his black mood was due more to fatigue and hunger than to Alfred’s failing to avoid the Hadati ambush. Then he smiled.
If the hillmen from northern Yabon had gotten up over that ridge that fast, it was a good thing they were going to be on the Kingdom’s side, and even better, thought Erik, under his command.

He turned toward the camp and decided he’d better join Greylock in mollifying the distressed Baron of Tyr-Sog.

The soldiers stood to attention as the courtyard resounded with the echo of their boot heels striking cobbles as one, motionless while the Prince of Krondor made his appearance on the dais.

Roo looked at his friend Erik and said, “Nicely done.”

Erik shook his head, indicating that Roo should keep silent. Roo grinned but stayed quiet while Prince Patrick, ruler of Krondor, accepted a salute from the assembled garrison of the palace. Next to Erik stood Calis, Captain of the Prince’s special guards known as the Crimson Eagles.

Erik shifted his weight slightly, uncomfortable with the attention being drawn to him and the others. The survivors of the most recent expedition to the distant land of Novindus were being presented with awards for bravery, and Erik wasn’t sure what that entailed, but he knew he would prefer being back about his usual duties.

He had returned from the exercises in the mountains expecting a quick council, but Calis had informed Erik and the others that with Prince Erland’s return from a visit to his brother King Borric, a ceremony was scheduled and awards would be conferred, but beyond that, Erik knew little. He glanced sideways and saw his Captain, Calis, also
looking impatient to see the fuss over with. Renaldo, one of the other survivors, turned to look at Micha. Both soldiers had accompanied Calis on their flight from the halls of the Pantathian serpent priests. Renaldo had his chest puffed out as the Prince of Krondor presented him with an award, the White Cord of Courage, which would be sewn to his tunic sleeve, marking him a man who displayed conspicuous bravery for King and Country.

Roo had sailed one of his largest ships to Novindus to bring the Kingdom’s soldiers home. Erik and his companions had rested and healed on the return journey. Their captain, the enigmatic man reputed to be half-elf, was almost completely recovered from injuries that would have killed any other man. Two old companions of his, Praji and Vaja, had died in the magical blast that had caught Calis, and half his body had been burned as if set on fire. Yet he hardly showed the slightest scar, his face and neck only marked by flesh just a little lighter in color than the rest of his sun-browned skin. Erik wondered if he would ever know the full truth about the man he served.

And thinking of enigmas, Erik regarded another of his companions over the last few years, the odd gambler, Nakor. He stood apart from those being honored, a half-mocking grin on his face as he watched the awards ceremony. At his side stood Sho Pi, the former monk who now regarded himself as Nakor’s acolyte. They had been residing in the palace as the guests of the Duke of Krondor for the last month, Nakor showing little motivation to return to his usual occupation, fleecing the unsuspecting in card rooms across the Kingdom.

Erik let his mind wander as the Prince cited each man, and he wondered who would honor those who were left behind, particularly Bobby de Loungville, the iron-tough, unforgiving sergeant who, more than any other, had forged Erik into the soldier he had become. Erik felt a tear gather in his eye as he recalled holding Bobby in the ice cave in the mountains as his lungs filled with blood from a sword wound. Silently Erik said to himself, See, I got him out alive.

Blinking away the tear, Erik once again glanced at Calis and found the Captain watching him. With a barely perceptible nod, Calis seemed to say he knew what Erik was thinking, and was also remembering lost friends.

The ceremony dragged on; then suddenly it was over, the assembled garrison of the palace in Krondor dismissed. Knight-Marshal William, Military Commander of the Principality, motioned for Erik and the others to attend him. To Calis he said, “The Prince asks you all to join him in his private council room.”

Erik glanced at Roo, who shrugged. On the return voyage, the two boyhood friends had caught up with each other’s news. Erik had been half-amused, half-astonished to discover that his best friend had, in less than two years, contrived to become one of Krondor’s preeminent merchants and one of the Kingdom’s richest men. But as he saw the ship’s master and crew snap to every order Roo gave, he realized that Rupert Avery, barely more than a common thief as a child, and hardly more than a boy now, truly owned that ship.