Raymond Feist - Rides A Dread Legion

‘A magician of vast power, aided by other magicians and a human army, defeated the demon and threw him down.’

The Regent Lord sat back, his head cocked to one side as he listened, and he shook his head slightly as he said, ‘Just one demon. That is unusual.’ He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘But even one means more may follow.’

‘I bring hope too, my lord. For there are hints in the stories that the demon did not come to that realm by conjuration, but rather through … a gate.’

‘The demon gate!’ spat the Regent Lord. ‘That tale grows old, Conjurer. It is but a fantasy to explain the demons’ presence among the mortals and absolve those like your brother. Every Master of Lore since the time before time has avowed that demons cannot come to this realm unbidden! I will hear no more of this blasphemy, lest you wish to end up with the same fate as your brother!’

At the mention of a brother, the Conjurer’s face went rigid.

Lowering his voice, the Regent Lord’s expression calmed. ‘He still lives.’

‘In your dungeon, my lord?’

The Regent Lord actually smiled. ‘In a cage I had placed in a small courtyard. I thought the dungeon overly deleterious to his health, with no sunlight. I wanted him still alive if you returned, as you have. It must become a little uncomfortable in the afternoon heat, but otherwise he is well enough.’

A slight flicker of anger crossed the magician’s face, but he remained silent.

The Regent Lord said, ‘Your brother’s continued survival depends on your obedience, Conjurer.’

The magician inclined his head. ‘Gulamendis and I serve at your pleasure, my lord. It has always been thus.’

The Regent Lord’s mood darkened. ‘Do not be glib with me, Conjurer.’ He pointed to the west. ‘The Plains of Delth-Aran are covered with the bodies of warriors who “served at my pleasure”, and I count each loss as an affront to our people. There are children here in Tandamar who will never know their fathers’ faces.

‘Across five worlds we have battled the Demon Legions, and each world we leave behind is littered with valiant fighters who “served at my pleasure”; and their females, and their young.’ Behind the anger in the Regent Lord’s eyes, the Conjurer could see genuine pain. ‘My grandfather, and his father before, all stood with defiant resolve, and each warrior serving “at their pleasure” gave their full measure and left us poorer for their sacrifice.

‘I would not dishonour their memory by forgiving those responsible for this horror. Now they are here, on the World of the Seven Stars, and we have nowhere left to go.’ Then his voice softened and he almost whispered, ‘Except Home.’

The Conjurer said nothing. It was an old argument, one that he had experienced many times before. Laromendis and his brother were practitioners of the mystic arts, a calling barely tolerated at the best of times, and this was hardly the best of times. Laro was a Master of Illusion, a Conjurer, who could kill a warrior using his will and imagination, conjuring up illusions so real to the opposing fighter that a killing blow would even end his life. Gulamendis was a Master of Demons, and among those who were blamed for the terrors now visited upon the People. Laro and his brother had been raised by their mother in a remote village; she had known her sons had inherited great and terrible gifts, the ability to use magic.

The Regent Lord said, ‘Now, is this world safe?’

‘I think so, my lord.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘As I have said, the knowledge I have gathered tells me that this world has powerful protectors, men and women who could serve to stem the coming of those with whom we battle.’ He paused again, then carefully said, ‘We may have found allies.’

‘Allies!’ shouted the Regent Lord. ‘Dwarves, lesser elves, humans! Perhaps we should treat with the goblins as well? Would you have me be the first ruler of our people to parley with those we have warred against since time immemorial? Would you have me seek succour from those who are fit only to be conquered and bent to our service?’

Laromendis said nothing. He knew this was an argument that would take the leaders of the Regent Lord’s Meeting weeks, even months to debate. And he also knew that if he was to save his brother’s life, he must ensure that when the Regent Lord’s Meeting was called, the Loremasters and priests were his allies; the fate of the People hung in the balance, and in order to save itself, this once proud race had to start making accommodations with those who had always been counted as enemies.

The Regent Lord asked further questions for an hour, insightfully pulling out details needed for his next plan. Finally he said, ‘We shall move two clans into this valley, have them occupy the fortress at the north end.’ Laromendis nodded. The dark elves had left everything intact. While overgrown and falling apart after a hundred years, it still would provide a safer place from which to muster, and could quickly be reclaimed as a highly defensible position.

‘Have the Solis and Matusic ready themselves,’ the Regent Lord ordered, and the herald bowed and departed. Laromendis kept his face expressionless, but inside he smiled. The Solis were under the command of Seboltis, Undalyn’s favourite surviving son. That unexpected decision gave Laromendis a tiny advantage, for when the time came the Regent Lord would be less inclined towards conquest as the only solution if the heir to his throne stood at risk. Like his brother, Laromendis knew the People had to change to endure. Undalyn would favour conquest to reclaim Midkemia as the rightful home of the taredhel. He might reach an accommodation with those living in Elvandar, could even acknowledge their Queen as the true ruler, giving up his line’s power – though Laromendis counted that unlikely. But he would insist that she govern a people who ruled the Home, not shared it with lesser beings.

Laromendis knew that such thinking had done nothing but destroy the lives of millions of the People over three generations. To survive, the People would need to put aside dreams of conquest and come to terms with the dwarves and humans. His way required planning and luck, for the two brothers were barely tolerated and hardly trusted, yet it fell to them to change the mind of the Regent Lord.

A messenger appeared at the door, breathless from the dash up the long flight of stairs from the stable yard below. As he fell to his knees before his ruler, he lowered his head and held out the scroll.

The Regent Lord’s expression darkened as his worst fears were fulfilled. ‘Garjan-Dar has fallen. The demons are through the breach.’

Laromendis knew two things; the demons would be repulsed and the Barrier Spell would be re-established, but at great cost. But how many more times could they repair the barrier, for each time warriors were needed to hold the ground while magic users spent their lives to maintain the spell. Once more, twice perhaps, but eventually the Barrier Spell would fail entirely, and soon after the city would be besieged. The walls of Tarendamar would prove little obstacle for the Demon Legion. Masonry and magic might keep them at bay for a week or two, perhaps a month, but the city would fall and with it, the heart of the Seven Stars.

The Regent Lord put his boot against the shoulder of the kneeling messenger and pushed him away. ‘Get out!’ he shouted, and the messenger appeared glad to obey, obviously relieved the Regent Lord’s wrath had been limited to an impolite kick. In days past his head might have adorned a pike at the entrance to the keep.

The Regent Lord moved back towards the window and stared out. He took a deep breath then he asked, ‘Which is your birth world, Conjurer?’