‘The dream troubles me, love. I think something is approaching and when it emerges, the struggle will be more fearful than anything we could ever imagine.’
‘Given what we have seen, husband, that’s quite a lot.’
‘Once, during the time of the Great Uprising, Tomas and I faced a Master of the Dread. We bested the creature, though it took all of our magic and no little guile. Then at the end, in Sethanon, I beheld a Dreadlord – a Greater Dragon, with all her magic and might, could barely contain it.’
‘But the Dread come from one of the lower planes, while these Dasati are from the second. Surely they are only slightly more dangerous than men?’
Pug held his wife’s hand. ‘You know more than I do on many subjects, Miranda, but scholarship has never been your first love.’ She furrowed her brow but said nothing, acknowledging the truth in his words.
He sighed and lowered his voice. ‘It’s the nature of beings from the lower levels of creation to absorb the life force from those from the higher. Think of it as water running downhill; just the touch of a Dasati would cause damage after only a few moments.
‘The Dread are the most fearful beings able to reach this level of reality and survive; creatures from the depths below them draw so much energy to themselves so fast that they are destroyed when they reach our plane, unless they employ powerful magic to keep themselves alive. No, it’s the fact the Dasati are from but one level below us that makes them so fearful to contemplate, my love.’ He sighed as if fatigued. ‘Nakor understands, for he has spent more time studying the Talnoy than anyone else.’ He glanced at the mouth of the cave. ‘The others will discover what I’m telling you; no need to create any risk of panic.
‘The Dasati are mortal like ourselves, but if they reach this level of reality, they will slowly draw life force from around them, from the very grass they tread upon, so that even should we establish a military stalemate, as we did with the Tsurani during the first Riftwar, they would eventually wither us to defeat. Also, the flow of life force towards them makes them harder to kill and ourselves weaker. The longer we are locked in struggle, the more difficult victory will be. And we must remember the numbers; if Kaspar is correct and he saw a true vision of that world, they would not send thousands of warriors, but tens of thousands. If they find us, we must react and react quickly. We can’t have the monarchs of Midkemia fully understanding what we must face, at least for a while, else fear might overwhelm their resolve.’
Miranda studied her husband’s face for a while, then said, ‘We shall do everything we can.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Now, we both have work to do.’
‘How are you going to return?’
He smiled. ‘I’ll walk. The fresh air clears my head and helps me think.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘I’ll see you at home.’
Before she could vanish, he said, ‘Wait a minute! Did you see Nakor use an orb to leave?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
He smiled. ‘Another of his “tricks”, I expect.’
She smiled in return and then was gone. No one could transport herself better than Miranda. She had been trying to teach Pug and some of the others how to do it without the aid of patterns or the Tsurani orbs, but few achieved it through mind alone, and then only to very familiar locations.
Pug concluded that Nakor must have studied with her. The wily little man was right, he and his wife did need to talk more.
Pug left the cavern and stopped at its mouth. It was late afternoon on Sorcerer’s Isle and by the time he reached the Villa it would be almost suppertime. He took one more look around the cave and then started his walk home.
The Royal Chirurgeon shook his head and spoke softly to the attending squire. ‘I fear he will not make it through the night.’ The two figures were dwarfed by the enormous chamber in which the Duke of Krondor lay dying. A single candle burned on the table next to the bed.
‘Shall I inform the senior squire, sir?’ asked the young man, a blond-headed rail of a lad no more than fifteen years old. The senior squire served Prince Robert, ruler of Krondor these last eight years, and heir apparent to the Kingdom of the Isles.
‘The hour is late. I shall check on the Duke again very soon. If his condition worsens, there should be time enough to wake the Prince.’
‘Yes, sir. Shall I stay?’
‘No need,’ said the old healer, his face drawn with worry and fatigue. ‘He’ll not rouse and I have other patients to care for; the stomach flux has struck the royal nursery, and though it may not be fatal, the wrath of the Princess is sure to be if I can’t get the children to rest through the night.’
The healer snuffed out the single candle next to the bed and he and the boy left the Duke’s large sleeping chamber, closing the door quietly behind them.
A moment later a figure stepped out of the shadow behind a large curtain. He crossed the room to the bed and touched his fingertip to the still-warm candle wick, and the flame instantly reappeared. Glancing down at the recumbent figure, he softly said, ‘Oh, Erik, you don’t look so good.’
Nakor had known Duke Erik when he had been a boy, fresh from the smith’s forge, tall, with huge shoulders and the strength of three men. He had also been born with a temper, which had almost got him hung for murder, but in the end he had served the Kingdom of the Isles well and had risen in rank to Knight-Marshal of the West, and held the title of the Duke of Krondor under young Prince Robert.
Nakor now looked down on an old man, past eighty years of age. His skin was like old parchment drawn tightly across his skull. His shoulders showed none of the massive strength of his youth, and were lost beneath the voluminous nightshirt he wore.
Nakor retrieved a vial from his rucksack and pulled out the stopper. He administered a single drop on the dying man’s lips and waited. Erik’s mouth moved, slightly, and Nakor poured in another drop. He repeated this application for almost fifteen minutes, a drop at a time, then sat back on the side of the bed and waited.
After a few more minutes, the Duke’s eyes fluttered, then opened completely. He blinked, then said in a soft, hoarse whisper, ‘Nakor?’
The little man grinned. ‘You remember me?’
With a deep intake of breath followed by a long sigh, Erik von Darkmoor – once a sergeant in Calis’ Crimson Eagles, veteran of the Serpentwar, hero of the Battle of Nightmare Ridge and now Duke of Krondor and Knight-Marshal of the Western Realm – sat up and said, ‘You’re damned hard to forget, old friend.’
‘You look better,’ said Nakor.
Erik moved his arms and said, ‘I feel better. What did you do?’
Nakor held up the vial. ‘I bought you some time. I need to talk to you.’
‘Then hurry,’ said the Duke sitting back. He chucked, a dry raspy laugh. ‘By all accounts I don’t have much time – wait, how did you get in here?’
Nakor waved the question away. ‘I just waited until no one was looking then came in through the window.’
Erik
