Raymond Feist - A Darkness at Sethanon

The wind swept northward until it struck a forest where little apelike beings, gentle and shy, huddled in the branches, seeking a warmth that only close physical contact can provide. Below, on the floor of the forest, a man sat in meditative pose. His legs were crossed and he rested the backs of his wrists upon his knees, thumbs and forefingers forming circles that represent the Wheel of Life to which all creatures are bound. His eyes snapped open at the first caress of the darkling wind and he regarded the being who sat facing him. An old elf, showing but the faint signs of age native to his race, contemplated the human for a moment, seeing the unspoken question. He nodded his head slightly. The human picked up the two weapons that lay at his side. The long sword and half-sword he placed in his belt sash, and with only a gesture of farewell he was off, moving through the trees of the forest as he began his journey to the sea. There he would seek out another man, one who was also counted friend to the elves, and prepare for the final confrontation that would soon begin. As the warrior made his way toward the ocean the leaves rustled in the branches over his head.

In another forest, leaves also trembled, in sympathy with those troubled by the passing darkwind. Across an enormous gulf of stars, around a greenish yellow sun spun a hot planet. Upon that world, below the cap of ice at the north pole, lay a forest twin to that left behind by the travelling warrior. Deep within that second forest sat a circle of beings steeped in timeless lore. They wove magic. A soft, warm glow of light formed a sphere about them, as each sat upon the bare earth, richly coloured robes unblemished by stain of soil. All eyes were closed, but each saw what he or she needed to see. One, ancient beyond the memory of the others, sat above the circle, suspended in the air by the strength of the spell they all wove together. His white hair hung below his shoulders, held back by a simple wire of copper set with a single jade stone upon his forehead. His palms were held up and forward, and his eyes were fixed upon another, a black-robed human, who floated opposite him. That other rode the currents of arcane energy forming a matrix about him, sending his consciousness along those lines, mastering this alien magic. The black-robed one sat in mirror pose, his hands held palm out, but his eyes were closed as he learned. He mentally caressed the fabric of this ancient elven sorcery and felt the intertwined energies of every living thing in this forest, taken and lightly turned, never forced, toward the needs of the community. Thus the Spellweavers used their powers: gently, but persistently, spinning the fibre of these ever present natural energies into a thread of magic that could be used. He touched the magic with his mind and he knew. He knew his powers were growing beyond human understanding, becoming godlike in comparison to what he had once thought were the limits of his talents. He had mastered much in the passing year, yet he knew there was much more to learn. Still, with his tutoring he now had the means to find other sources of knowledge. The secrets known to few but the greatest masters – to pass between worlds by strength of will, to move through time, and even to cheat death – he now understood were possible. And with that understanding, he knew he would someday discover the means of mastering those secrets. If he was granted enough time. And time was at a premium. The leaves of the trees echoed the rustle of the distant darkwind. The man in black set dark eyes upon the ancient being floating before him, as both withdrew their minds from the matrix. Speaking by strength of mind, the man in black said, So soon, Acaila?

The other smiled, and pale blue eyes shone forth with a light of their own, a light which when first seen had startled the man in black. Now he knew that light came from a deep power beyond any he had known in any mortal save one. But this was a different power, not the astonishing might of that other but the soothing, healing power of life, love, and serenity. This being was truly one with all around him. To gaze into the glowing eyes was to be made whole, and his smile was a comfort to see. But the thoughts that crossed the distance between the two as they gently floated earthward were troubled. It has been a year. It would have served us all had we more time, but time passes as it will, and it may be that you are ready . Then with a texture of thought the black-robed man had come to understand was humour, he added aloud, ‘But ready or unready, it is time.’

The others rose as one and for a silent moment the black-clad one felt their minds join with his, in a final farewell. They were sending him back to where a struggle was under way, a struggle in which he was to play a vital part. But they were sending him with much more than he had possessed when he had come to them. He felt the last contact, and said, ‘Thank you. I will return to where I can travel quickly home.’ Without further words he closed his eyes and vanished. Those in the circle were silent a moment, then each turned to undertake whatever task awaited him or her. In the branches the leaves remained restless and the echo of the darkwind was slow in fading.

The darkwind blew until it reached a ridge trail above a distant vale, where a band of men crouched in hiding. For a brief moment they faced the south, as if seeking the source of this oddly disquieting wind, then they returned to observing the plains below. The two closest to the edge had ridden long and hard in response to a report by an out-riding patrol. Below, an army gathered under banners of ill-aspect. The leader, a greying tall man with a black patch over his right eye hunkered down below the ridge. ‘It’s as bad as we feared,’ he said in hushed tones.

The other man, not as tall but stouter, scratched at a grey-shot black beard as he squatted beside his companion. ‘No, it’s worse,’ he whispered. ‘By the number of campfires, there’s one hell of a storm brewing down there.’

The man with the eye-patch sat silently for a long moment, then said, ‘Well, we’ve somehow gained a year. I expected them to hit us last summer. It is well we prepared, for now they’ll surely come.’ He moved in a crouch as he returned to where a tall, blond man held his horse. ‘Are you coming?’

The second man said, ‘No, I think I’ll watch for a while. By seeing how many arrive and at what rate, I may hazard a good guess at how many he’s bringing.’

The first man mounted. The blond man said, ‘What matter? When he comes, he’ll bring all he has.’

‘I just don’t like surprises, I suppose.’

‘How long?’ asked the leader.

‘Two, three days at most, then it will get too crowded hereabouts.’

‘They’re certain to have patrols out. Two days at the most.’ With a grim smile, he said, ‘You’re not much as company goes, but after two years I’ve grown used to having you around. Be careful.’

The second man flashed a broad grin. ‘That cuts two ways. You’ve stung them enough for the last two years they’d love to throw a net over you. It wouldn’t do to have them show up at the city gates with your head on a battle pike.’

The blond man said, ‘That will not happen.’ His open smile was in contrast to his tone, one of determination the other two knew well.

‘Well, just see it doesn’t. Now, get along.’

The company moved out, with one rider staying behind to accompany the stout man in his watch. After a long minute of observing he muttered softly, ‘What are you up to this time, you misbegotten son of a motherless whoremonger? Just what are you going to throw at us this summer, Murmandamus?’

J IMMY RACED DOWN THE HALL.