Magician's End

  The old woman smiled a sad smile. ‘I didn’t force her. I persuaded her that your cause was good.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Miranda, ‘is how you can have a memory if you’re dead?’

  Arch-Indar’s image laughed. ‘I am not a memory of Arch-Indar’s.’

  Lims-Kragma said, ‘She is my memory of Arch-Indar.’ She moved her pale hand in a circle, palm up. ‘When any of us need to remember “good”, she appears.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Nakor.

  Kalkin said, ‘We have an investment here: that should be obvious to you.’

  Pug said, ‘For a very long time we assumed the Nameless One was at the root of this.’

  ‘Nalar – you can say his name without fear here – is as much invested in your success as any of us,’ said Kalkin. ‘If this world perishes, we all perish with it. And there will be no one left to worship us, or even to remember us or dream of us.’

  Suddenly the gods were gone, and the room was as silent as a tomb.

  Macros said, ‘Pug, what did you mean when you said the Controller Gods were the forces that defined the universe?’

  Pug blinked. ‘My head is swimming.’

  ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’ Miranda asked Macros.

  ‘I do,’ answered the Black Sorcerer.

  ‘Then tell us.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Macros. ‘I didn’t make the rules here. I think you must discover certain things for yourselves, so that you really understand them.’ He frowned. ‘Damn! If I’m only going to be alive a while longer, why give me a headache?’

  ‘True learning,’ said Nakor. Then he grinned. ‘I know! Abram-Sev, the Forger of Action, is the force that exploded out of creation, driving everything.’ He made waving motions, wiggling his fingers. ‘Crazy things all over the place, just scattering here and there!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pug. ‘He is that outward wave of things, but within a confined set of rules. But not his rules!’

  ‘Rules beyond mortal knowledge,’ supplied Magnus.

  ‘Yes, good,’ said Macros.

  Miranda looked around. ‘Are we still in the Pavilion?’

  ‘We are wherever you’d like to be,’ said Macros. ‘But stay here a while longer, for I can guarantee we will not be disturbed here, and here time will not rush us.’

  ‘Time?’ asked Nakor. ‘You’ve touched on time before.’

  Macros nodded. ‘We’ll get there. Let Pug continue.’

  Pug said, ‘So if Abram-Sev is the outward force, Ev-Dem is the inward force, the one that tempers Abram-Sev’s chaotic, seemingly random outward burst. That’s where the rules begin.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Macros. He waved his hand and a large chair appeared, on which he sat. ‘I’m feeling old.’

  Pug continued, ‘Then Graff is … how our minds interact with that energy, how dreams come to be, or how gods are formed by human perceptions of natural forces, or how you think of a thing, and it suddenly happens.’

  ‘A simple way to put it, but essentially correct,’ said Macros, obviously delighted with the flow of the conversation.

  ‘Helbinor?’ asked Magnus. ‘The god who does nothing? How does he fit in?’

  Pug said, ‘I do not know.’

  Nakor beamed. ‘I do.’

  Macros leaned forward. ‘I must hear this.’

  ‘He only seems to do nothing,’ said Nakor. ‘But if the gods are personifications of natural forces, he’s the personification of things we cannot see, things we do not understand. He is the god of true mystery, things yet undiscovered.’

  ‘Say on,’ said Macros with a grin matching Nakor’s.

  ‘What we have said about forces of creation and the forces that oppose them, and forces created by the mind – that’s too simple. There must be other forces also at play. Forces not only not understood, but not even perceived or suspected. That’s Helbinor. Remember the City Forever. It’s a plan, like a set of drawings laid out by an architect. We were seeing things of wonder, but what were we seeing?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Pug.

  ‘All those things we’ve discussed: the critical importance of mathematics, our limited perceptions, our need for perspective, and most of all, our need to remember the central, important things about being human …’ He paused, and smiled ruefully, and moisture gathered in his eyes. ‘Being human.’ He looked at Miranda. ‘That is our lesson.’

  She nodded.

  ‘We have come to understand that the gods are merely how we see the universe, and that our perspective is limited, incomplete, and flawed – yet it is all we have. It is how we understand,’ Nakor went on.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Macros.

  ‘And Ishap, the Balancer, is the most important of all,’ Nakor added. ‘Without him, everything else is chaos.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Miranda.

  ‘So are a lot of the gods,’ said Nakor. ‘Eortis, God of the Sea; the God of Love, the God of Night, the God of Healing, but other gods take on some of their roles, or remember them, so their influences linger, even if their aspects do not. Ishap, he’s gone, but the others remember him, so that’s why he’s still important. It’s why his impact is still felt.’

  ‘And why the Ishapians work to make him supreme among the gods,’ said Magnus. ‘To bring him back in order to ensure the balance.’

  ‘It’s not my nature to ponder such things,’ said Miranda. ‘But what you’ve shown is so extraordinary that even I’m intrigued. Still, I must ask, what has this to do with the Dread and saving the universe?’

  Macros stood up. ‘Now we get to the hard part.’ He waved his hand and suddenly the five of them were gone from the pavilion.

  A faint breeze blew a curtain and a shadow appeared. Then a second, then a third.

  ‘Can they do it?’ asked the first shadow. It spoke with the voice of a kindly old woman.

  A voice, muffled as if speaking from beneath a mile of a distant planet’s soil, said, ‘We can only hope, old enemy.’

  The third shadow balanced what the Goddess of Good and the God of Evil had said and remained silent.

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE •

  Unveiling

  DRAGONS SCREAMED.

  Tomas awoke. His wife, Queen Aglaranna, rose up at his side and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Another dream?’

  Tomas sat up and swung his legs out of the bed they had shared for more than a century. ‘I dreamed of dragons again.’ He, the human son of a common cook, had been given the armour of the ancient Dragon Lord Ashen-Shugar, and in donning it had started a process of creating a being that was neither human nor Valheru.

  As a youth in the war with the Tsurani, he had come to Elvandar with Dolgan, now the ancient King of the Dwarves, then the Warleader of the Grey Tower Mountains, and had wintered with the elves. A love had grown between the widowed Queen Aglaranna and the changing man from Crydee. At the end of the war they had wed, and against any possible logic they had had a child, Calis.

  Softly he said, ‘I must go.’

  Aglaranna placed her cheek against his back. ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘You sense what is coming,’ he said. ‘It is in the hands of the gods.’

  The elves did not have gods in the human sense, though they venerated Killian, the human goddess of nature, but the elf-queen understood that he was speaking of fate. ‘You are my heart,’ she whispered.

  ‘And you mine,’ he said. He rose and went to the wardrobe which had been carved into the bole of the massive tree in which the royal apartment was situated. He opened the curtain and there waiting was his armour of white and gold.

  Minutes later, he was dressed in battle armour he had not donned since flying down to greet the taredhel, and hadn’t worn in combat for what seemed ages. As fierce a warrior as existed on this world, Tomas was by nature a man of peace who enjoyed nothing more than the small, quiet moments he spent with his wife, his son and his friends in Elvandar.

  He turned and saw that A
glaranna had removed her sleeping gown, and was now wearing one of the simpler robes she preferred when not at court. He smiled. ‘That shade of green is my favourite on you.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  Ages of life and loss, wisdom beyond that of mortals, experiences few could imagine: the queen was wise beyond all but a very few in the world. She held herself poised and showed nothing of the pain she was feeling, but he was her husband and could read the small signs. All life ends, they knew, and loss was inevitable, but now was the moment of parting, and this perhaps was the last parting.

  ‘If I can, I will return,’ he whispered as he gathered her into his arms, kissing her head lightly.

  She rose up on her toes and kissed him on the mouth, holding him close as if unwilling to let him leave. They lingered long in this embrace, parting at the same moment, knowing it was time.

  Aglaranna led him out of their apartment and found Calin and the most senior members of the council waiting there. Janil said, ‘I felt it too, Tomas. The dragons are crying out.’

  Calin added, ‘And I bring word of the moredhel.’

  Tomas looked at his wife’s eldest son. ‘What of the moredhel?’

  ‘Liallan sent us word that the Snow Leopards and their allies are moving to E’bar to aid the taredhel and will pass within our traditional boundaries. They are entering the woodlands to the north-east now.’

  Tomas nodded. The woods around Elvandar were considered part of the eledhel’s territory and for any moredhel to enter would be considered a hostile act at any other time. ‘What is their disposition?’ he asked.

  ‘As they promised, riding with weapons sheathed and on a direct route to the south. They make no threatening moves or gestures.’

  Queen Aglaranna spoke softly. ‘So many things to wish for, born out of greater threat: that the dark elves enter our woodlands without violent intent, that we allow them safe passage, and no blood spilled.’ She looked up at Tomas and said, ‘I fear for us all.’

  ‘I will do all that I must, to the end, to ensure that you are safe,’ said Tomas.

  Janil said, ‘I would speak with Cetswaya.’

  ‘You have no need to ask permission,’ said the queen.

  ‘I will send an escort,’ said Calin. ‘But you need to move quickly, for they will be across the river before you can reach them on foot.’

  ‘There will be no need,’ said Aglaranna. She turned and raised her voice. ‘Belegroch! Belegroch! Attend us.’ She turned back to Calin. ‘They will bear you willingly, for I know you will go with Janil.’

  ‘Mother,’ he said, bowing. Turning to Tomas, he said, ‘If this be farewell, I can only say how honoured I have been to know you.’

  ‘Let us hope it is not farewell,’ said Tomas. He gripped Calin’s hand. ‘You bear my love, Calin, as you bear my son’s.’ They embraced briefly, then Tomas said, ‘We must all depart.’

  ‘Will you summon a dragon?’ asked the queen.

  ‘None will answer,’ said Janil. ‘They are singing and crying, and foretelling the end of time as we know it.’

  ‘I have no need,’ said Tomas. He raised his arms and took to the sky using his own magic. ‘Farewell all of you!’ he cried.

  Arching high above the canopy of trees, he looked to the north-east, and in the distance could see the might of the northlands – Liallan’s Snow Leopards and their allies, followed by other clans, moving across lands traditionally claimed by the eledhel. He felt the wind blowing in his face and for a moment rejoiced in his own power.

  The Valheru had always been creatures of incredible might. Their name in the ancient tongue meant ‘Lord of Power’, and many arts were theirs at whim. Flying on the backs of mighty dragons was both a vanity and a useful practicality; for while the Valheru were capable of many feats, the dragons possessed one skill no Dragon Lord could duplicate: they could navigate the void.

  Tomas extended his sense and felt instantly that all the dragons were gathering in an isolated region to the south-west of the Empire of Great Kesh, called Dragon’s Eyre, where a ring of mountains, called the Watchmen by those who lived nearby, surrounded the Great Lake.

  Tomas sped south and turned in the direction of E’bar, the better to judge what was occurring there on his way to find the dragons. The gold-and-white figure sped across the sky high above the trees of the place he loved most in the world, the place he might never see again.

  The tiger-men prostrated themselves as their master emerged at last from the throne room in the heart of the Great South Forest. More than a century past, another Ancient One had passed this way with a black-robed human, but this was the first time in countless ages their master had been among them.

  Draken-Korin, Lord of Tigers, emerged from his palace which was now covered in millennia of dirt, lianas, ferns and shrubs. His body had once belonged to a human named Braden – a mercenary, bandit, smuggler, and murderer. Memories of that mortal life lingered, but to his soul he was the remaining Dragon Rider who had dared to take to the skies and confront the new gods.

  But there was another of his kind out there somewhere, and he sensed him. It was a presence as familiar to him as any of his kindred: Ashen-Shugar, Ruler of the Eagle’s Reaches, his Father-Brother and mortal enemy.

  Much of the time during which Draken-Korin had lingered deep within the hall below the surface of this world had been devoted to the mere act of survival, as ancient magic possessed the mortal body, healing wounds that would otherwise prove lethal, and integrating ancient powers and knowledge.

  Memories that were oddly distant also came to him, memories of a time when the sky tore open and he descended into a dark chamber wherein resided a glowing green gem of impossible power. The Lifestone. He remembered …

  The gods had been too powerful and the Valheru had served only to turn them one against the other, or else they would have perished. They had thought themselves so clever, giving up all their life essences to the Lifestone, that engine of power that was to have propelled them to godhood, holding back only a tiny part to maintain their corporeal bodies during the last battle of the Chaos Wars.

  Instead, Draken-Korin had found himself facing his most feared rival: his own father, Ashen-Shugar.

  Fleeing the conflict within the void, Draken-Korin had been no match for Ashen-Shugar and his last memories were of lying broken on the hard soil of this world, his father standing over him.

  Draken-Korin had looked up at his attacker and whispered, ‘Why?

  Pointing with his golden sword at the chaos seen through the massive tear in the sky, Ashen-Shugar said, ‘This obscenity should never have been allowed. You bring an end to all we knew.’

  Draken-Korin looked skyward to where his brethren battled the gods. ‘They were so strong. We could never have dreamed …’ His face revealed his terror and hate as Ashen-Shugar raised his golden blade to end it. ‘But I had the right!’ he screamed.

  Ashen-Shugar severed Draken-Korin’s head from his shoulders, and suddenly all was darkness.

  Now, Draken-Korin took a deep breath, for the memories were painful. Primal rage and bitterness rose up within him, but in his mind there was another voice that found his feelings repellent. A low intelligence, a weak soul, yet still Braden abided, a voice of flawed humanity.

  Draken-Korin looked at the prostrating tiger-men and said, ‘Rise.’

  They did so. He motioned for their leader – Tuan, as every leader of these people was named. ‘I must depart.’

  ‘Will you return, Ancient One?’

  In a gesture never seen before in the history of the tiger-men, Draken-Korin put his hand on Tuan’s shoulder, and smiled. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Tuan.

  ‘As you did after I last departed, and before I returned. Live.’

  Draken-Korin closed his eyes and heard dragon song in his mind, punctuated by screams and cries. He remembered …

  Their haven had been turned into a trap. Below the deepest dungeon in the
city of Sethanon lay a chamber constructed by the Valheru before the coming of man to Midkemia.

  Odd voices had whispered to Draken-Korin and he had felt power surge through him such as he had never possessed before.

  The Lifestone.

  And when the skies tore and madness engulfed the universe, the Valheru had battled the new gods, realms far apart in nature crashing together in violent upheaval. Barriers had tumbled and re-established themselves by the moment, dividing the Dragon Host and weakening their resolve.

  Draken-Korin had known fear. Dreams of conquest, ascension to godhood fled before the spectre of complete annihilation. This was more than two Valheru in a contest for power and territory in which one would fall and the other emerge victorious: this meant the total obliteration of the race.

  Gods of majestic visage and incredible power had picked up flaming stars and hurled them. Thousands of angels and demons had risen in furious conflict, and time itself became a weapon.

  Draken-Korin commanded his dragon to flee and the terrified mount had wheeled, and the heavens spun as the Dragon Host’s combined might attempted to tear open a wound in the sky above Midkemia, so that they might slip away from this conflict.

  ‘Foolish,’ said a voice.

  Screaming worlds died behind him as Draken-Korin had shouted, ‘Who speaks?’ He had looked behind and seen a presence, a massive black shape, following him. It was a thing of hopelessness and anger, and it had reached for him as if to pull him back, to drag him into a pit from which even light could not escape.

  ‘Home!’ commanded Draken-Korin and the universe had shattered.

  Macros said, ‘When we were in the chamber below Sethanon, holding back the rift that was forming, and Draken-Korin slipped through, a Dreadlord followed.’

  ‘Yes?’ Pug nodded, curious as to why Macros was reminding him of events he had lived through.

  ‘In the aftermath of that conflict, did you ever wonder why they came together?’