The Chaoswar Saga: A Kingdom Besieged, A Crown Imperilled, Magician’s End

‘I was not mocking you, Child,’ he said, taking a moment’s rest upon a rock. The long trek was taking its toll. He knew his intelligence was beginning to decline. It would take weeks, perhaps as much as a month of not eating, but eventually he would devolve to a near-animal state and attack Child, even though it would be death for him to do so.

He gazed up into her face and was again astonished at how she was evolving, becoming finer-featured and even more alluring. She must have been a succubus in her previous incarnation, he was almost certain of it now. From the way she was beginning to appear, he was sure she had spent a great deal of time on the mortal planes. Softly he said, ‘I think you have already decided where we are going, Child.’

She smiled and then laughed aloud. It was a musical, beautiful sound. Then her expression turned sombre. She pointed to the east. ‘How long before the Darkness gets here?’

‘I do not know, Child. It appears to keep growing no matter what is done; fire, steel, magic have been brought against it, yet it happily embraces whatever it touches. A sharpened steel arrow, a falling shard of masonry, the cowering figure of a child, all are welcomed to oblivion by its touch. It is relentless, but unhurried.’ He paused and calculated. ‘I judge a few years, maybe five.’

‘But it will come?’

‘If we have learned anything of the Darkness it is that it is inevitable.’

‘Then we can not stop,’ she said. ‘If we travel for another five years, then in ten it will overtake us. Nothing can stop it.’

‘Everything the Darkness touches it dissolves, and even the stones scream in pain as they are rendered into nothing, yet the Darkness itself is silent, making no sound whatever. It is without substance, yet it consumes all. Yet no matter how much it consumes, it remains without substance. Nothing appeases it, nothing stops it. It just is.’

‘What do you think it wants?’ asked Child, still staring into the distance.

‘I can not pretend to know,’ said the old teacher with a sigh. ‘It is something of a speculation in itself that the Darkness may even be capable of wanting, which would require awareness. Does the wind want anything? Or the rain that falls? Or the fire that burns? Does the sand want as we tread upon it?’

Fixing Belog with a strange expression, Child said, ‘The wind wants balance, the rain wants to seep as far down as possible, and the fire wants to breathe and grow’ Then she smiled a tiny smile and added, ‘I must confess I have no idea what the sand wants.’

He was silent for a long while as he considered her words, then said, ‘Yet those are mere explanations of their nature and their reason for existence, not any concession to will and consciousness.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I will not be here when the Darkness arrives, no matter how far I must travel.’

‘Where will you go?’ asked Belog.

‘Tell me of Datum’s war on Maarg in the mortal realm,’ she demanded.

He was surprised by the question, and a little annoyed that she had ignored his. Yet it was clear it was time to start moving again, heading into the now-ravaged former Kingdom of Maarg, looking for only she knew what, and along the way he would be expected to educate and, to a lesser degree, entertain her. And Child would hunt for and feed him.

As existences went, outside the comfort of working on behalf of the King with the other archivists, this wasn’t a particularly unpleasant one, save for all the walking, he amended silently.

As they continued, he told of the summoning of all the King’s forces, how his army was marshalled and every magic at his disposal was used to transport them to a world in the mortal realm, where the armies of Maarg, along with Sebran, Chatak, and other kings of the Second Kingdoms as well as chieftains and warlords of the Savage Lands had been fighting with a race known as the Star Elves. They were physically weak, mortal beings, but they had been cunning and used powerful magic effectively. Their soldiers could not stand against the combined might of five demon armies, but each demon had faced a dozen swords, and the demon legion had paid a price for their victories. More than a million demons had been returned to the breeding crèches, it was estimated, and had the demons been mortal, the war would have been over. But each time a demon died, it returned to the world of its birth, and quickly it was fed and nurtured to fighting strength, then returned to the struggle.

Then Dahun had struck, when Maarg’s force had inexplicably turned on their own allies, then Dahun had descended on the remnants, and in the end had fought his way across the mortal realm.

Then nothing more had been heard from the great Demon King or his generals. His army and all his retainers had vanished, as if they had never lived.

And Dahun’s kingdom had been left to defend itself against the Darkness.

She began asking questions, and he attempted to answer them as best he could.

‘Why are all rulers male?’ she asked at one point.

‘They aren’t. All kings are male. Female rulers are called queens.’

She nodded, and said nothing and they went on their way, leaving behind a horror even two demons could not understand.

• CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_fa79e878-cbbf-5c12-a34e-4b556ce352ba) •

Sailor (#ulink_fa79e878-cbbf-5c12-a34e-4b556ce352ba)

THE STORM ROILED.

The Suja slammed through heavy combers as it rounded the headlands before making the long run into Caralyan Bay. The crew had proven as ignorant as Jim expected, dock dregs hired at the last minute against the presence of someone such as himself, a Kingdom spy. All they knew was that every ship in Kesh seemed to have been gathered at Hansulé and all of them needed able-bodied sailors.

Jim knew where the ship was by the simple expedient of being able to calculate speed and position in his head. It had been something of a surprise when he had overheard an officer ask the captain where they were headed and he had discovered they were bound for Caralyan and not the deep-water harbour at Elarial.

Still, at the moment, Jim was too busy keeping a grip on wet sheets while reefing sails to wonder about the logic behind that choice. It was the dead of night and the only way Jim and the other men aloft could find their way around the rigging was by the light of a single shuttered oil lantern on each mast and by touch. The ropes were rough enough that he could keep a grip on them with his toes and haul in canvas. But it was the most dangerous task a sailor had to face, working aloft in a gale at night.

Jim was certain that when the storm broke several ships would be lost along the way. The storm had blown for over a day now, and the only good of it was that they would reach their destination two days ahead of schedule.

Jim lashed the sails furiously and then made his way to the relative safety of the mast. There he clambered down to the top of the shroud and from there scampered down to the deck. The captain was apparently happy with the timing of things, since the storm seemed to be lessening and he would run for another hour on those sails left up.

Jim made his way below to the relative dryness and warmth of the crew deck. The deck was almost empty as most of the watch was still aloft. Jim went to the hammock he had claimed when he had first gone below and ran his hand absently over the edge closest to the ship’s bulkhead. A satisfying lump greeted his passing touch: his concealed transport orb snuggled away in the fabric where the support rope was sewn into place. He threw himself into the canvas, content to dry off as best he could in the cold, damp air. There had been a supply of rough linen rags to dry off with when the storm began, but they were now in a heap by the companionway, soaked and probably growing a heroic infection of mildew, Jim thought. Still, what he would give for one hot dry towel right now.

On the other hand, he could still be aloft. He didn’t have to feign fatigue. He knew two or three others would come stumbling below in minutes as more top-riggers were sent below. He wanted them to find a soundly sleeping sailor, not someone to engage in idle chatter. Had they any information worth gleaning, he’d have been happy to be gossiping like a woman at market, but as he knew as much about this voyage as they did, he’d rather sleep.

Of all the roles Jim had undertaken during his career, he despised being a sailor above all others. He’d rather wrangle angry camels across the summer heat of the Jal-Pur Desert or fight his way out of a bandit fortress than spend one more night aboard this ship.

Yet duty called. He had to know what this fleet was about, for while he lacked specificity, he had no doubt whatever the truth turned out to be it was ill news for the Kingdom. As he let sleep take him, he wondered not for the first time what role the Pantathian Serpent Priests had in all this.

Sleep was brief as the order for all hands on deck came at dawn. Jim arose amid the usual grumbling of the men, adding a brief invective directed towards whatever lunatic had decreed this expedition, in keeping with his character, then headed up on deck.

Rather than be sent aloft to unfurl sails, he was directed towards the bow where a gang manned the capstan that lowered the anchor. It was a grey dawn, but the storm had blown out, leaving them on a choppy sea of slate and metallic green, under a hazy sky. But what had Jim’s attention was that they were being directed towards a spot near shore, where the ship would drop anchor.

As he expected, those not aloft already were told to man the lee side and watch for rocks. He went to the railing and glanced over, seeing nothing but deep choppy water and the occasional foam cap. He glanced towards shore and saw they were less than a quarter of a mile off the breakers. He calculated they were still a half-day’s sail from the city, and wondered just how many ships had already arrived.

As the dawn grew lighter and the weather became more clement, he got his answer: more ships than he had dreamed possible. As if to endorse his worst fear a squadron of Brijaner longships hove into view, moving to a location somehow communicated to them by whoever was in charge of this impossible fleet.

Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, Jim scrambled up a shroud to the mainmast, then quickly climbed to the top spar and looked towards the distant port. They were still far enough away that there was no sign of land where he knew the city would be. They were anchored in a vast curving bay, only serving as decent harbourage up in the top of the arch, where the mass of land to the north sheltered it from the worst weather coming in from the north-west. At least now Jim understood why they were here instead of up at Elarial. This many ships would clog even the vast entrance to that harbour.

Then another certainty struck him: Kaseem abu Hazara-Khan must have spotted his agents in Caralyan and was having them shadowed. No ship in this flotilla would be close enough to the city to be observed, unless by magic, or by one of Jim’s agents hiring a boat for a lovely day’s sailing.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he slithered down a sheet and dropped nimbly to the deck. He had wondered why all his agents south of here had gone silent, and those from here and to the north were untouched. Now he realized that Hazara-Khan didn’t care. Whatever he was planning, it would be in full play before word of this massive fleet reached the Kingdom.

Jim knew two things: he had to find out where this massive navy was heading, the Far Coast or Krondor; then he had to get off this ship and return to Krondor. He calculated. Logic dictated that the Empire of Great Kesh was going to attempt to reclaim all the land lost hundreds of years ago in one crushing assault. If those Brijaner longships were the first through the Straits of Darkness and could provide a screen against Quegan raiders, the rest of this fleet could make straight along the southern coast of the Bitter Sea and a three-pronged assault on Land’s End, Port Vykor, and Krondor could be undertaken.

Calvary could be on its way north from the Keshian cities of Jonril and Nar Ayab to come at the Vale of Dreams from the south-east, while the garrison of Durbin would be in support of the Keshian forces already in Shamata. Kesh would control the Vale within a week: Land’s End would fall in days, and if the King’s Western Fleet was caught at anchor at Port Vykor, Kesh would control the Bitter Sea.

If he were conducting this assault he would set a blockade of Krondor and then a raid up to Sarth, ensuring that help from Yabon would not be forthcoming. The forces on the Far Coast would be insignificant and if brought east through the passes in the Grey Towers, they’d be backed up behind those forces from Yabon halted north of Sarth.

Then Jim stopped. The only part of this that made no sense whatsoever is what Hazara-Khan would do in the South. He did not need to see the Keshian general’s orders and plans to know that every garrison south of the Overn Deep had been marshalled and was now aboard these ships. By conventional logic, hordes of very angry tribesmen should be pouring though the Girdle of Kesh into the lush farmlands of the Southern Empire.

Is this where the Pantathians played a part? he wondered. For something had to convince them to keep the peace without the heel of Kesh’s boot on their necks.

Suddenly Jim was as near panic as he was inclined to get. He had discovered everything possible to discover on this ship, but getting off was problematic. He could use his secret orb to return to his office in Krondor, which was his plan as soon as he knew more. The problem was in learning more. He was anchored near enough off the coast that swimming through the breakers to reach the beach was not a terrible danger. But once on the coast, then what? He would have more than twenty miles on foot before he reached any portion of the bay that would give him any more useful information, or faster transportation, and he would still have no idea what the plan was. There had to be another way.