Wrath of a Mad God. Raymond Feist

a centre tower rising up highest of all.

      ‘Look at the size of that place,’ observed Nakor.

      ‘And more of the life-energy is leaving there,’ Macros said, pointing.

      Pug saw that thousands of tiny wisps of the black life-energy were leaking from the top of the highest tower, seeding back towards the massive intake they had observed earlier.

      Macros said, ‘Deep under this structure, dozens of levels below this plaza, are cavernous murder rooms. While mayhem is the word for this day, ritualized slaughter takes place on appointed holidays. His Darkness apparently needs a steady supply of Dasati life-energy to thrive, and so has bent the will of his people to this unspeakable practice.’

      ‘How have they survived?’ asked Magnus.

      ‘In times past,’ said his grandfather, ‘by conquering other worlds. The Twelve Worlds were once populated by other intelligent beings, and the Dasati put every one of them to the sword or sacrificial altar and have their hearts cut from their chests.

      ‘Over the ages, they ran out of victims, so they began to prey on one another, evolving into this culture of death and madness you see today.’ Macros fell silent to let what he was saying sink in. Then he said, ‘The truth of what occurred is hidden. History has been overlaid with dogma until the canon of the Dark God and history are the same thing. Only the Bloodwitch sisters have some perspective on what really occurred over the centuries, and their archives are sketchy at best.’

      ‘Why is that?’ asked Nakor.

      ‘Over there,’ said Macros to Pug, ‘move us towards that large spire and straight on beyond. That will lead us to the Grove.’ To Nakor he said, ‘For centuries the Bloodwitch sisters were part of the faith of the Dark God, though it’s almost certain they predated his ascension and were servants of a goddess of life or nature.

      ‘But even though the Sisterhood finally recognized the pointless folly of a society so murderous that even its own young were at risk, they didn’t come to that realization until after much of the old lore was lost. Had I longer to study …’ His words fell away.

      Pug suspected Macro’s condition was more dire than he admitted. Certainly there was a sense of urgency in everything he did, and Pug couldn’t escape the feeling that matters were quickly heading for a turning point.

      War was coming. Either to Midkemia or Kelewan, the twin of this world, and the only things holding off the initiation of a bridgehead into the next realm were the preparations being made for the Dark God’s forces. This gathering of energies must be the final preparation for such an invasion.

      Pug sensed the logical need for such a war. He was only beginning to form opinions as to the root cause of this society’s twisted behaviour, but it was clear to him that a brittle homeostasis existed here, social forces locked together by their own pressures: one blow from an oblique angle would cause the entire structure to collapse. How fast this society recovered from this day of wholesale butchery would be instructive, for such a thing in Midkemia would surely bring a town, city, or even a nation to its knees.

      Pug understood that in every human culture too much disruption at any level, among farmers and labourers, merchants and traders, the military or the gentry and society would descend quickly into chaos.

      It had taken the Western Realm nearly twenty years to recover fully from the Serpentwar, and that was only because bright and talented men and women rose up to serve, including members of his own family.

      Pug turned his attention to the parkland below. He could see a band of armed Dasati – Lessers from their attire – crouched in a shallow wash, screened from view from everywhere but above by dense shrubbery. They were bloodied, exhausted, and from what Pug could observe as he sped above them, they had finished fighting and were now trying to wait out the coming day.

      As they reached the south-western boundary of the parkland, Pug thought the hiding Lessers were unlikely to survive this day, for a large contingent of heavily armed, mounted Deathknights and a pair of Deathpriests were marshalling in a square, clearly intending to conduct an organized sweep of the area. Pug wished he could intervene, but to what end? And just because in the normal course of social behaviour the Deathknights were more often the predators than the Lessers, that hardly made the latter any less bloodthirsty and murderous. He knew that given the chance they would destroy him and his companions without hesitation.

      Pug realized bitterly that even though he had been able to assimilate Tsurani culture when he was a captive on Kelewan in his youth, and had become adept at navigating the cultural byways of many other alien societies, he would never fully be able to grasp the essence of the Dasati, any more than he could fathom the thinking of ants in a hill, even if he could appreciate and apprehend their social order. He then admitted to himself that he had a better chance of understanding the ants.

      They continued to fly over the cityscape, seeking out potential threat amongst the uniform buildings. But the journey proved uneventful and after a long flight in relative silence they heard Macros say, ‘Over there, near that open area with the small lake.’