Rage of a Demon King (46 page)

As the window through which they looked closed, a chilling presence appeared. Pug felt fear beyond any he had known so far in his life, a fear that threatened to break his concentration as he attempted to return them to Cibul. The presence was outside the window through which they peered, and beyond it, next to them, and a vast distance away. It was everywhere. It was profoundly evil, and it was aware. Yet it seemed to be speaking from within the rift, from the demon realm. The presence said,
You are mine, at last!

Macros shouted, “Never!” and before Pug and Miranda lost sight of him, he raised his hands high over his head, and for the briefest instant, instead of the plainly dressed sorcerer, clad in his familiar brown homespun robe with his whipcord belt, his cross-gartered sandals, and his plain oak staff, a being of profound wisdom and strength rose up, a godlike being of unknowable mystery. He lashed out with a white ivory staff that appeared out of the air, and, touching the Demon King, he created a blinding flash of white light that filled the closing window. With the dying scream of the Demon King, absent its rage and power, now the wailing cry of a creature reduced to terror and pain, a triumphal sense of victory washed over Pug and Miranda.

Pug did not know how he knew, but in that instant he felt the presence of Sarig, as Macros reached across space and time and reconnected with his god.

Then the rift was closed, and Pug said,
Now!

Using what was left of his strength, he forced his way through the very fabric of the void, dragging himself and Miranda back to the hall of the Saaur in Cibul.

For one brief moment, they witnessed the finality of Hanam’s battle with Tugor, as the two lay on the floor, each too weak to best the other, neither able to escape. When it was obvious that neither would survive, the remaining demons leaped atop the two, rending them limb from limb.

Remembering his promise, Pug withdrew the soul vial he had been given, and smashed it upon the stones.

A brief thought came to Pug,
Thank you
! and then it was gone.

Miranda was half-stunned from the experience, and Pug had to almost push her through the rift to Midkemia.

On the other side, back in the Pantathian mines under the Ratn’gari Mountains, Miranda sank down to sit on the floor, her back against the cool rocks.

Pug sat next to her, his head in his hands, and he said, “We only have a moment. We must close this rift.”

She said, “How?”

“This is different from the first. This must be closed the way one would sew a wound.”

He sat a long moment, then took a deep breath. He waved his hands, and faint energies left his fingers, snaking out toward the rift. Around the edges they flew, and as Miranda found her strength starting to return along with warmth, she saw Pug’s energies forming a lattice work around the edges of the rift.

Then Pug changed the spell, and the binding energies he had cast around the edges of the rift
began to contract. Miranda watched for a minute, then said, “I see.”

She gathered together her strength, watching in fascination as the rift closed slowly. While she rested she considered what she had just witnessed. She had known her father briefly, having spent most of her life tracing him through his legend. He had not visited her since she had turned sixteen or seventeen, she couldn’t remember which, and she had spent most of her life holding the man in contempt.

But as she had discovered her mother’s part in the destruction of hundreds of thousands of lives, she reassessed her father’s role in things. She was discovering that even at her advanced age, she still felt like a child in some ways.

She thought she would have grown to like her father, perhaps even love him someday, but now that day would never come. For that she felt regret.

But for the loss of his life compared to the deaths of thousands she had already seen, she couldn’t find a means to compare; perhaps someday she’d mourn him, or at least mourn the loss of an opportunity, later, when she had time. If she had time.

Suddenly a face appeared on the other side of the rift, looking like a cow’s skull stretched over with black hide, topped by a stag’s rack of antlers. Coals for eyes burned in it, and they regarded the two humans.

With a howl of glee the demon, obviously the final victor in the carnage that had just finished in the great chamber in Cibul, flushed with a feeding of tremendous scope, stated to leap through the rift.

“Stop it!” shouted Pug, and Miranda lashed out with all her remaining strength. It was enough to
knock the demon back into the other world, and stun it.

Miranda almost fainted from the effort. In a hoarse voice she said, “Hurry. I have nothing left.”

Pug concentrated his entire focus on continuing to close the rift. Miranda could see that as the rift became smaller the rate of closing was accelerating.

Then the demon was back, cautious in its approach. It feinted toward the rift, then ducked back, pausing a moment.

When no further attack came from Miranda, it tried to climb through, much as a human climbs through a window.

First the creature’s head poked through, then one arm. It reached for Pug, but found him still too far away. The creature turned sideways, and started to put one leg through, but found its large wings a hindrance. It shifted position, and tried another angle, not noticing that the aperture was closing by the second.

Unable to pass, the creature became enraged with frustration, and tried to force his way through the rift. A headlong dive managed to get it wedged within the rift.

Then pressure began to exert as Pug continued closing the rift.

Rage turned to panic, then to pain and terror as the rift closed on the creature. Howling as it was being cut in two, the demon thrashed like a fish on the deck of a boat.

Miranda took a breath, tried to add her energy to Pug’s, and felt the rift closing even more quickly. The demon’s cries echoed through the Pantathian halls, resounding off the rocks and shaking the very mountains.

Dust rained down on Miranda and Pug as the creature’s thrashing increased, then suddenly it went limp. A moment later, the rift closed, and the upper half of the demon fell into the cave.

Miranda looked at it and said, “We did it?” Then she passed out.

Pug said, “Yes,” and he, too, collapsed on the floor, unconscious as the last reserve of his strength was paid out.

Erik watched.

In the fields below the foothills, a huge mobilization was beginning. He had just enjoyed a week of relative calm, but now that was obviously coming to an end.

For a month they had been relatively successful in forcing the invaders along the route they had designed for them. There had been reports of hard fighting to the north and south, but the Kingdom lines had held on both flanks as the middle had slowly retreated, drawing the invaders after.

Twice they had come close to disaster, narrowly escaping along the retreat route, and at each new position along the way fresh reserves were waiting. Erik was still far from optimistic about the success of the plan, but he was inching closer.

Since the fall of Krondor they had regained a week of the lost time; they had held here for ten days
instead of seven. Now they had to fight a delaying action as they withdrew, slowing the enemy down by making them think there was going to be strong resistance in Wilhelmsburg. If they could keep the enemy cautious, they might be where they wished to be when the fighting reached Darkmoor. Every time Erik thought of the plan to hold the enemy on this side of the mountains, he wondered if they were going to be cursed with a late winter.

One advantage had been the arrival of a man named Robert d’ Lyes, a magician who had several useful spells. He could send messages up the line quickly to another magician who was staying with Greylock, and he could tell what the weather was going to be like the next day. He also could see things better than a man with a spyglass, though he could do so only for a limited duration; and he lacked Erik’s knowledge of what to look for, but he seemed to be catching on.

Other magicians were now scattered throughout the defenders’ army, helping in whatever fashion they could. For this Erik was grateful. He didn’t understand why the Pantathians were so conspicuous by their absence. Eventually they would take a hand, and when they did, Erik hoped the Kingdom magicians could counteract some of their advantage.

D’ Lyes came to Erik’s side and said, “General Greylock wants to know if you expect an attack today.”

Erik said, “Almost certainly.”

Erik glanced around. To the north the hills faded quickly into the late afternoon haze. They were entering the hilly vineyards and groves he had known as a boy. To the uninitiated, the terrain looked less severe than
the low hills to the west, but it wasn’t. Unexpected ridges and gullies could trap an enemy, slowing an advance. In the fervent hope this was going to be the case, Erik had positioned his most seasoned soldiers in key locations to the limit of his area. He would have to rely on Captain Subai and his Pathfinders and Hadati—what Greylock called the Krondorian Mixed Command—to hold beyond that point.

To the south, Erik threw his larger contingency, fresh replacements who were as yet untried. They would have an easier time of it because of the terrain, but they were also less ready to fight. Many of those carrying arms were town boys who had drilled less than two months and had never smelled blood.

Erik said, “Ask Greylock to be ready to support me to the south. I think my north flank is secure.”

The magician closed his eyes, and his brow knitted in concentration; he said, “The message is understood.” Then he sat down, obviously dizzy.

“Are you all right?” asked Erik.

The magician nodded. “It’s just that I don’t usually do this sort of thing more than once or twice a month. Once or twice a day is a bit much.”

“Well, I’ll try to keep message traffic to a minimum.” He smiled. “I just wish I had more like you in a dozen locations.”

The magician nodded. “As long as we’re useful.”

“More than useful,” said Erik. “You may prove vital.”

“Thank you,” said the magician. “I am willing to help in whatever way I can.”

Erik waited, and as the enemy staged below he found himself wondering aloud, “What is this, then?”

“Captain?” asked the magician.

“Just curious. They are staging for an assault, but it looks badly coordinated.”

“How can you tell?”

Erik said, “This army we face is made up mostly of mercenaries: good fighters individually, but possessing almost no skills for large-scale fighting; they’re used to winning by overwhelming whomever they face.” He pointed to a small patch of uniformed men with green banners flying overhead. “That’s what’s left of the regular army of Maharta, which surrendered pretty much intact after the city fell. It’s the only trained heavy infantry they possess. The other soldiers on foot are men whose horses were left behind or whose animals died along the way. They’re useless for anything except swarming over a breach.” Erik scratched his chin and felt four days’ growth.

“I think I understand, but I may not. Are you saying they should have placed their men in a different arrangement?” asked the magician.

“Yes,” said Erik. “The cavalry has to charge over hilly terrain, while the heavy infantry is being directed at the most heavily defended area of the line. The rest of the army looks poised to charge right across open territory where our catapults and archers will carve them up.”

“I see.”

Erik grinned. “You’re being polite. Let’s say that if I were on the other side, I’d use my cavalry in the middle, to screen and deliver cover fire, while I brought up my heavy infantry to attack just north of here.” He pointed to a problem point in his defensive line, a modest gully where he hadn’t had enough time or matériel to build a proper defensive position.
“If I could punch through there, then that motley army down there could pour through and wreak havoc.”

“Let’s hope they don’t think of it.”

“They should,” Erik said softly. “What I can’t fathom is why they don’t.” Suddenly he said, “Send a message to Greylock, if you can. Tell him I think this massing here is possibly a feint to get us to concentrate our efforts, then spring an attack somewhere else along the line.”

The magician smiled, though he looked fatigued. “I’ll try.”

Erik didn’t wait to see if the magician was successful, but sent runners to the north, south, and east. After a few minutes, the magician shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, but I just can’t focus my will anymore.”

“You’ve done enough. We’re pulling out tomorrow. I think it would be wise if you started toward the next defensive position to the east. If you leave now, you should reach a safe camp by sundown. Tell the quartermaster I authorized you be given a horse.”

“I can’t ride, Captain.”

Erik looked over his shoulder. “Some sort of magic means to move quickly?”

“No, I’m sorry to say.”

As trumpets blew down at the bottom of the hill, Erik said, “Then I suggest you start walking and get as far as you can on foot. If you’re not near a friendly campfire, find someplace sheltered to hunker down. Sometime in the morning the wagon carrying the wounded will come past you; flag it down and get a ride. I’ll pass word to pick you up.”

“Can’t I stay?”

Another trumpet blew and Erik drew his sword. “I wouldn’t advise it.” As he turned away he said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

An arrow sped by overhead, a wild shot from someone below who was overanxious. Erik glanced over his shoulder and saw the magician running to the east with surprisingly renewed strength. Erik took the moment to indulge himself in a chuckle at the sight, then turned his attention to the bloody work ahead.

“All right,” he shouted. “Archers, pick your targets and wait until I give the order.”

A familiar voice came from behind as Sergeant Harper said, “Captain von Darkmoor, you’re forgetting yourself. If you don’t mind, sir?” He turned and said, “First one of you mother-lovers who lets fly an arrow before I give the word’s going to have to run down there and fetch it back to me! Understood?”

Erik smiled again. He had never gotten the knack of being a proper bully sergeant and was pleased to have men like Harper, Alfred, and the others under his command.

Then the enemy came.

Erik welcomed the darkness. The enemy was retreating down the hillside, but had left their men in tatters. He had been wrong about the feint. The only reason he still held his position had been the enemy’s ineptitude. They had charged straight up the hill, into first the withering missile fire of the Kingdom’s archers, then a rain of the short, soft iron spears Erik’s commands had been training with since he had first come to serve Calis. Hundreds of the enemy had died for each yard traveled, and they had still reached the first trench.

The defense had been a series of trenches and breastworks cut along the contours of the hillsides, and whatever natural slope of the landscape concentrated the attackers, there they found overlapping fields of missile fire waiting for them. When the survivors of the first wave reached the first breast-work, they found a highly banked, hard-packed earthen barrier, studded with sharp wooden spikes. The spikes caused little damage but forced the attackers to move slowly, making them easy targets for the defenders.

But they had come and kept coming. After the first hour, Erik felt as if he would never be able to raise his arms again, but still he had to fight on. During the fighting, someone—a squire or town boy, he didn’t know which—had come by with a bucket of water and handed him a tin ladle during a tiny lull. He had drunk it quickly, handing the ladle back to the boy, and resumed fighting a moment later.

For what seemed an eternity, Erik fought, striking down any head that appeared on the other side of the redoubt. Then the enemy was fleeing, unwilling to continue pressing the attack as the sun began to sink beyond the western horizon.

Torches were lit, as much for reassurance as for the need—the twilight this time of year was lengthy—and those designated as hopitalers—local boys, old men and women, and court squires and pages—all started carrying water and food to the living, then carrying away the wounded and dead.

Erik turned and sat where he had been fighting, ignoring the dead soldier from Novindus who lay in the dirt next to him. When a boy with water came by,
Erik took a single drink, passing along the rest of the water to the men nearby.

Soon a runner arrived with a note. He opened and read it, then, feeling so fatigued he didn’t know if he could will himself to move, he shouted, “Fall back!”

As if by magic, Sergeant Harper appeared. “We’re pulling out, sir?”

“That’s it.”

“Then we’re making for the next defensive position?”

“We are.”

The wily old Sergeant said, “Then we’ll not be seeing much sleep tonight, will we?”

Erik said, “I expect not. What is your point, Sergeant?”

“Oh, none, Captain. I just wanted to make sure I understood everything.”

Erik fixed the Sergeant with a baleful eye. “I think you understand just fine, Sergeant.”

“Well, then, just so as it’s clear I’m not the one making lads who’ve spent a half day fighting pick up and move without a drop to drink or a bite to eat.”

Erik realized the men were ready to drop. “I think we can hold off, then, until we’ve eaten.”

“That’s lovely, sir. It’ll give us a bit of time to haul away the dead and get the wounded out in the wagons. A wise choice, sir.”

Erik sat down again. As Harper moved along, Erik said to himself, “And I had the presumption to call myself a sergeant.”

*   *   *

The withdrawal was more difficult than Erik would have liked. Despite the food and rest for two hours, the men were still bone-tired when they were turned to march to the east.

Erik inventoried his assets and realized he was beginning to see elements of those men he had trained over the last two years, two companies of men who knew how to handle themselves, who had arrived from a position to the north.

Word came down that the enemy had broken through up north, but the gap had been closed. The bad news was that a contingent, numbering at least three hundred, possibly more, was loose on the wrong side of this current line of march. Erik sent his best scouts to the north, and hoped that if the invaders were coming this way, they would blunder into one of the heavier elements. Three hundred raiders could do quite a bit of damage to one of the smaller companies on the march before reinforcements could be summoned.

Just before sunrise, Erik found a solitary figure marching next to him, the magician Robert d’ Lyes. “Hello, magician.”

“Hello, Captain. I found a small rock under which to hide,” he said with dry humor, “but instead of a wagon I find an army marching my way.”

“I told you we were leaving,” Erik said dryly. “I just didn’t think we’d be leaving so quickly.”

“So I see. How goes the war?”

Erik said, “I wish I knew. So far we’ve done well, but that last attack showed me we’re still seriously outmanned.”

“Can you hold them?”

“We will,” said Erik. “We have no choice.”

Ahead they saw lights as the village of Wilhelmsburg came into view. Entering the town they saw that it was completely taken over as a military site. The townspeople had been evacuated days
earlier, and Erik knew that once his men had rested for a day, eaten and tended wounds, they would abandon this town, after putting every building in it to the torch.

A small figure ran toward Erik, shouting, “Captain von Darkmoor!”

Erik recognized him, despite the filth that clung to the tabard of a page of the royal court in Krondor. “Yes . . . what is your name?”

“Samuel, sir. A lady asked me to give this to you.”

Erik took the note and sent the boy on his way. Erik opened the note. Inside, in simple handwriting, it said: “Gone to Ravensburg to find your mother. I love you. Kitty.”

Erik felt relief that Kitty had reached here safely and was probably now staying at the Inn of the Pintail, where Erik had grown up. He turned to where the exhausted magician stood and said, “Let’s get something to eat.”

“An excellent idea,” said the fatigued conjurer.

They reached the Sign of the Plowshare, the inn where he had first met Corporal Alfred and Roo’s cousin Duncan. That caused Erik to wonder where his boyhood friend might be.