Night of Madness

Chapter Thirty-five

The march to the Palace seemed so strange to Hanner as to be almost unreal-an unruly gang of warlocks, of all ages, all sizes, and both sexes, dressed in everything from Lord Faran’s best silk tunic and green velvet cloak to Zarek’s ragged homespun, walking down High Street and Center Avenue as if no one else was present, while a few yards away yellow-tunicked soldiers and assorted civilians stood screaming and struggling, trying to hold their ground against the steady advance of the wall of warlockry. They were all forced back, some staying upright, others tumbling to the ground.

A few soldiers tried to get under the invisible barrier, without success.

A few wizards tried to levitateover the barrier, which might have been more successful, but rising out of the crowd made them immediately visible, and Kirsha or Varrin slapped each one down.

Desset had abandoned her post on the corner of Coronet Street not long after Rudhira’s disappearance; trying to keep the entire route clear was obviously impractical. She and a few others were still acting as a rear guard, but were now only about a hundred feet behind Faran and the others. A few guardsmen and civilians had come around behind and were following the warlocks, just beyond Desset’s retreating barrier.

Hanner walked along in the midst of this bizarre scene, wondering how he had ever come to this. He could have stayed at Warlock House. He could have fled to Mavi’s house. Why had he come?

It had seemed like the right thing to do-but it certainly wasn’t the safest. When the party reached the mouth of Central Avenue and marched out into the square before the Palace, Hanner stopped so suddenly that Zarek, just behind him, bumped into him. The two mumbled apologies to each other, then walked on.

Both of them were staring at the crowd that had been waiting for them in the square.

The overlord apparently had, indeed, called out the entire guard-and more. A path from Central Avenue to the bridge across the moat had been cleared, and on either side of it stood a dozen rows of soldiers, all with pikes at the ready. Behind them stood hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ordinary citizens, watching it all.

Faran marched out to the middle of the plaza, then stopped and looked around; the other warlocks gathered around him. Hanner, struck by an unhappy premonition, hurried to his uncle’s side.

“What now?” someone called.

“Why are we stopping?”

“I thought we were going to the Palace.”

Faran did not answer; he stood, waiting silently, until all the warlocks, even Desset, had collected into a fairly compact group at the center of the square.

“Uncle,” Hanner muttered, “what are you doing?”

“A thought struck me, Hanner,” Faran muttered back. Then he raised his voice and called out, “People of Ethshar! Men of the city guard! Listen to me!”

“Louder,” Hanner whispered. “Use warlockry.”

“I know,” Faran said testily. “Shut up.” He raised his arms and spoke again, and this time his words rang out supernaturally loud and clear.

“People of Ethshar! I am Faran the Warlock, who was once chief advisor to Lord Azrad the Sedentary! Around me you see other warlocks, your friends and neighbors, your sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, driven from their homes by mistrust!”

“Notmy son!” an old man called from the crowd behind the soldiers to the west-an old man Hanner recognized as the one who had so often stood at the fence, staring at the house, during the past two days. “You took him!”

Faran turned to glance at the old man, then announced, “Some of you think we, the warlocks of Ethshar, were responsible for the disappearances on the Night of Madness. I give you my word, we are not! We know no more than you do of what happened to them!”

“Liar!” the old man called.

This time Faran ignored him and continued, “We have come here today to ask Lord Azrad, and to ask you, to forgive those of us who may have committed crimes on the Night of Madness, when this gift of magic was bestowed upon us by forces unknown. We have come to say that most of us took no part in that madness, we didnot steal your children or neighbors, and despite our magic we are still just people like yourselves, no more inhuman or evil than wizards or sorcerers. Lord Azrad has ordered us into exile; we have refused to go, because we believe that sentence is unjust. We have done nothing to merit exile. We go now to ask Lord Azrad to reconsider his decision to cast us out, and we sincerely hope that he will.”

Faran’s words rolled out across the square and echoed from the surrounding buildings; no other sound could be heard while he spoke.

“However,” Faran said, “I know Lord Azrad. I worked with him for many years. He can be a stubborn man. He may refuse to hear us. I want you all to know, here and now, that if Lord Azraddoes refuse to rescind our exile, we are nonetheless staying in Ethshar. This is our home. We will fight to stay here. We will try not to harm anyone, but we will do whatever it takes to stay here. I want to make that absolutely clear. I hope this can be settled without bloodshed, but we stand ready to fight, and if necessary, to kill.”

“Uncle!” Hanner said.

“If we fight,” Faran continued, “I want you to know that we will welcome anyone who chooses to fight on our side, whether he be warlock, or magician, or soldier, or ordinary citizen. Furthermore, we have learned how to train apprentices in warlockry, to pass on the gift of magic that we received on that night. Anyone who chooses to join us, and who wishes it, can become one of us!”

“Uncle!” Hanner looked around, horrified. He had thought that the knowledge that they could make more warlocks was a useful secret, to be held in reserve and perhaps brought out during negotiations.

The idea that they could make hundredsmore warlocks would probably drive Lord Azrad into an even greater panic.

Of course, that might be exactly what Uncle Faran wanted, Hanner thought bitterly. Despite what he had said a few minutes ago, he might actually intend to go ahead and depose the overlord, maybe kill him outright. That statement that they would kill if necessary... the power of life and death theoretically belonged to the overlord and the Wizards’ Guild, no one else. Faran was usurping it. He might intend to usurp more. Hanner knew his uncle had always been ambitious, always thought the city deserved better than fat old Azrad as its master-and Faran had clearly been disappointed that no position higher than Lord Counselor was open to him, short of a revolution.

Here, quite possibly, was his attempt at creating such a revolution.

“Now, we go to speak to the overlord!” Faran’s arms dropped, and he began walking toward the Palace again.

“Now!” someone cried, and hundreds of spears were flung at the warlocks-only to bounce harmlessly from the invisible shield their magic still maintained. Soldiers marched forward, closing the path, only to be swept aside as Varrin and Kirsha advanced on either side of Lord Faran.

Hanner ignored all that; he was sure the warlocks could handle anything the guards might do. He ran forward, following his uncle, and called, “Uncle Faran!”

Lord Faran turned to listen to him, but did not stop walking.

“Uncle,” Hanner said, speaking in low tones, “are you planning to take over the city?” Faran glanced quickly around, then replied, “I might be considering the possibility.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Hanner said. “I think you could do it well enough, but could youhold the city, once you took it?”

“Why not?” Faran said. He gestured at the soldiers.“They can’t stop us.”

“There are other powers to be considered,” Hanner said. “The Wizards’ Guild might accept you peacefully as another sort of magicians, like sorcerers or witches, but as the city’s rulers? You know they won’t allow that.”

“Wizards have not been very effective against us so far,” Faran said as they reached the bridge across the moat. The guards who ordinarily stood there were absent; presumably they had either been sent out with the others or had decided that being swept aside on a bridge was not as acceptable as being swept aside in the plaza and so had fled rather than risk being pinned against the stone railings or flung into the moat.

“Those?” Hanner snorted. “Those are nothing, and you know it. Those were the ordinary wizards the overlord could hire on short notice. I didn’t see Ithinia or any of the other elder wizards out there on the streets.”

“I think we can manage the Guild, all the same,” Faran said. “We might work out some power-sharing arrangement with them.”

“I doubt it,” Hanner said. “I don’t think it’s power they want, and it never was. But quite aside from that, Uncle, I think you’re missing something important. All these plans of yours involve using a great deal of warlockry, don’t they?”

“Yes, of course,” Faran said. “It’s all we have.”

“And the more you use it, the more powerful you become.”

“Yes.”

“And the more powerful you become, the more prone to the nightmares.”

Faran hesitated. He looked at Hanner, instead of staring ahead at the closed doors of the Palace.

“And the more powerful you become,” Hanner continued, “the more you hear the Calling. And if you keep on using warlockry, flinging entire companies of guards about like so many rag dolls, sooner or later you’ll reach Rudhira’s level.”

Faran stopped-but they were in the shelter of the palace entryway, close enough to the doors that Hanner wasn’t sure whether it was his words or the physical barriers that were responsible. He frowned at Hanner.

“Uncle, that could happen toyou, if you go through with this. You saw her today and yesterday-distracted, confused, and finally unable to stop herself. She flew off. We couldn’t stop her. And I don’t think she’s coming back.” Faran waved to Varrin. “Open the door,” he said. “Try not to smash it.”

“Uncle, I think that’s what happened to all those people who disappeared on the Night of Madness,” Hanner said desperately. “I think they were the reallypowerful warlocks, the people who were more naturally attuned to it than you were.” He gestured at the little crowd that had followed Faran onto the bridge. “You people are just the leftovers, the ones who only got a little bit of whatever it was. Whatever it was that did this, it was trying to summon people north, and some of you only got part of the message. But the more you listen, the more you’ll hear, and sooner or later it will get through, and you’ll fly off to the north.”

“You’re guessing,” Faran said.

“Yes, Iam guessing,” Hanner admitted. “But do you want to risk it?”

Faran started to say something, then stopped. He turned slowly to look at the doors.

They were still closed.

He turned to look at Varrin, and found Varrin standing motionless, staring straight ahead-straight north.

“Varrin!” Faran barked. “The doors!”

“I’ll do it,” Kirsha said, and the doors sprang open.

Varrin was still staring blankly ahead; Hanner grabbed his sleeve. “Varrin,” he said, “listen to me!”

“It’s calling,” Varrin said without looking at Hanner.

Hanner threw an angry glance at Faran, then turned his attention back to Varrin. “Varrin,listen! Turn away! And don’t use any more magic, no matter what you do. Don’t listen to it, listen tome!”

Varrin took a step forward, then stopped when Hanner’s pull on his sleeve held him back. He paused, blinked, then looked at Hanner.

His eyes were haunted, almost glazed.

“Varrin, come on,” Faran said. “We need to get to the audience chamber and talk to Azrad, get him to call off his war against warlocks. Then we can see whether a healer can do something about these dreams.”

“A healer?” Hanner turned to stare at his uncle, but Faran paid no attention; he was waving his arm in a beckoning gesture.

“Come inside, all of you!” he called. Then he turned to Hanner. “If Varrin’s inside he can’t fly off the way Rudhira did, can he?”

“I hope not,” Hanner said, unconvinced, as he followed Faran into the Palace.

What sort of a healer did his uncle have in mind? He knew that Alladia had said the gods wouldn’t heal warlocks, and Sheila had said witches couldn’t touch the part of a warlock’s brain that was presumably where the nightmares originated. Faran wasn’t thinking clearly, Hanner was sure of it; he was so caught up in the anger and exhilaration of using his magic to confront Azrad that he almost wasn’t thinking at all.

Hanner wished he could think of the right thing to say, the words that would dissuade his uncle from a course Hanner was sure would end badly-but the words weren’t there.

In the hallway beyond the doors the party of warlocks found Captain Vengar standing with raised spear. “I’m sorry, my lords,” he began.

That was as far as he got before the spear splintered and fell to the floor in a dozen pieces; the steel spearhead bounced ring-ingly on the marble floor while the shattered fragments of the wooden shaft tumbled and rolled in various directions. Hanner had no idea which warlock had destroyed the weapon; it might have been a joint effort.

“Stand back, Captain,” Faran said. “We’re here to talk to the overlord.”

Whether Vengar would have stood back voluntarily Hanner never found out; before the soldier could begin to respond he was picked up by invisible forces and slammed back against the tapestried wall, his helmet hitting the fabric with a loud, ugly thump. Hanner winced at the sound.

Vengar was a decent man, trying to do his job, Hanner thought; he didn’t deserve such treatment. He glanced around, wondering which of the warlocks had done this.

There was no sign, no indication of whether it had been Varrin, or Kirsha, or Faran himself, or someone else in the group now straggling in.

Faran paid no more attention to Vengar, but marched down the grand hallway toward the golden doors of the main audience chamber with Varrin at his side and Kirsha on his heels. Hanner paused long enough to be sure Vengar was still breathing, then hurried after his uncle.

The other warlocks trailed into the Palace behind him, and Hanner heard someone say, “Wow,” at his first sight of the interior. He thought the voice might have been Othisen’s, but he didn’t take the time to look back and see.

He was too worried about what was about to happen. Uncle Faran was being overconfident, he was sure, and far too confrontational. The overlord might not be able to stop a gang of warlocks, but this sort of behavior was certain to eventually bring down the wrath of the Wizards’ Guild, and despite what Uncle Faran said, Hanner did not think the warlocks were a match for the Guild.

Especially not when their most powerful members might vanish at any moment-Hanner noticed with dread that Varrin’s sandals were a foot off the floor.

And before Faran could say a word to anyone Varrin spread his arms, and the golden doors did not merely open, but were smashed down, torn off their hinges, and then sent flying inward. Hanner winced at the sound of crashing metal; he had never heard anything quite like it. It was the sound of rattling pots and pans multiplied a thousandfold. He ran forward to grab Varrin, to try to calm him down.

It was too late; the weaver was flying now, ten feet up, soaring the length of the immense audience chamber in a matter of seconds, and smashing out through the great window above the overlord’s vacant throne. Faran and Hanner had both run forward into the audience chamber, hoping to catch Varrin; now, as the last shards of tumbling glass shattered on the stone, they both stopped and stood side by side on the long red carpet that ran from the door to the foot of the throne.

“May a thousand demons dance!” Faran said through gritted teeth.

Hanner managed to avoid saying “I told you so” only by clenching his own teeth hard.

Then he looked around, and realized that although the throne was empty and Lord Azrad not present, although the customary entourage of guards and servants was absent, the room was not totally deserted. Two figures stood to one side, cowering against the east wall below a tapestry showing someone directing the construction of a city wall.

One was Lord Clurim, one of Azrad’s younger brothers.

The other was Lady Nerra-Hanner’s sister.