The Complete Demonwar Saga 2-Book Collection. Raymond E. Feist

on the tower above shouted, ‘Flyers!’

      Knowing his command was gratuitous, as his magic users already conjured their defence, he still felt the need to give the order. ‘Shields!’

      It was part of Undalyn’s nature to be wary of ceding too much authority to others. He knew this could easily be a failing, but another part of him took pride in knowing that every one of his warriors, priests, and magic users understood their task and answered him without hesitation. The more desperate his people’s struggle became, the more proud he felt of them.

      He was Undalyn, leader of his people by lineage and law, Regent Lord of the Clans of the Seven Stars. He was the most powerful elf among his kind.

      His features were typical of his people, though his skin tended towards a darker tone than most, due to his passion for hunting and spending years under the sun. His blue eyes were the colour of the ocean, containing flecks of green, and his brow was unlined, despite his more than three hundred years. A white leather circlet decorated with five perfect rubies set in gold tied his snow-white hair above his head in a noble’s knot and left some free to fall in a long cascade down his back. He was handsome, but nevertheless had a dark and dangerous aspect to his features that was revealed at odd moments, though he rarely raised his voice in anger. It was his eyes that held the fury within.

      The Clans of the Seven Stars, the taredhel in the old tongue, accorded him the utmost respect, for it was his burden to guide them, as it had been his forefathers’ before him. But no Regent had faced a burden such as his, and the responsibility was taking its toll. Dark circles under his eyes told of many sleepless nights, endless worry, frustration, and ultimately a sense of doom.

      He felt rather than saw the energy barrier go up, as the remaining magic users employed one of their more powerful spells. The demons had encountered this barrier before, yet they hurled themselves against it, time and again.

      Archers waited at the ready against the possibility that one of the creatures breach the mystic defence. Those on the walls peppered the retreating horde of demons that appeared to be marshalling for another assault on the wall should the flyers break through. The Regent Lord took a deep breath and pulled out his sword again to be ready. He glanced at his hands and saw they were free of blood. His shoulders ached and he felt as if he could sleep for a week, yet he had not struck one blow against the enemies of his people.

      His soldiers had kept the demon horde at bay for another day and he had been free to oversee the defence of the barrier and not put himself at risk. Other days he had not been so fortunate and had killed his fair share of demons, returning to his palace at night covered in their evil black blood.

      He watched without emotion as the flyers struck the barrier. The sky above scintillated in rainbows of colour as the winged horrors of the Demon Legion bounced off the shield. The Regent Lord knew some of the monsters were clever, but the ones who assaulted his defences every day seemed without any spark of intellect. Had the demons possessed half the guile of the elves, they would have overwhelmed the Seven Clans years ago. But even without organization, they were grinding the Clans of the Seven Stars to nothing. Entire worlds had already been abandoned and now here on the home world – he shook his head, for this wasn’t their true home world, only the capital of his nation – but here they were making a final stand. He knew that no matter how valiantly they struggled, eventually they would fall.

      The flyers beat furiously against the barrier, but it held. Lately demons capable of magic had appeared from time to time, costing the elves dearly, but this day at least it seemed that victory would go to the Clans.

      The demons eventually withdrew and the Regent Lord surveyed the barrier. As the flyers retreated and the sun lowered in the west, Undalyn knew the battle was over for today.

      He removed his helm and almost instantly an aide appeared at his side to take it. Another came over to him and said, ‘My Lord, we have a report that the Conjurer Laromendis has returned.’

      The Regent Lord didn’t ask what news he carried, for the Conjurer had been under strict instructions not to divulge his findings before reporting directly to the palace. Undalyn could not afford for rumours to be racing through the capital until the truth was known. The fate of the Clans of the Seven Stars rested on this report.

      ‘I will return to the palace at once.’

      ‘He is being transported to the palace, my lord,’ said the aide, a youth who bore a striking resemblance to one of his sons, lost years before. The Regent Lord pushed his feelings aside; too many sons had been lost to too many fathers, and fathers lost to sons. They all shared in the tragedy of this war.

      With a dismissive wave of his hand, the Regent Lord shooed his aides to one side and alerted the portal guardian that he was returning to the capital. The magician whose sole responsibility was to manage the portal nodded and activated the gateway with a simple spell. His job also was to destroy the gate should the demons breach the barrier, and give his life to keep them away from the capital for a few more days.

      The Regent Lord stepped through the portal and found himself in the marshalling yard of his palace. Two companies of warriors stood ready to answer the call should reinforcements be required. The Regent Lord motioned to the Officer of the Yard and said, ‘How go our other struggles?’

      ‘Well, my lord,’ he answered. The old elf was still robust looking, though he had sustained enough injuries that his fighting ability was severely diminished; but his mind was still as keen as ever and he was among those most trusted by the Regent Lord to act in his absence. Jaron by name, he was given full responsibility to decide where reinforcements were sent and when. Men lived or died on his order, and that trust had been hard won over many years of service. ‘They’ve fallen back on all fronts, and so for another day we hold.’ Glancing around, he repeated, ‘Another day.’

      ‘We live another day,’ echoed the Regent Lord.

      ‘Rumour has the Conjurer returning,’ said Jaron in a low voice.

      ‘Best not to repeat that to anyone,’ said the Regent Lord, walking away without further comment. He knew he would reach his chambers before the magic users and he wanted a few moments to compose himself in private, lest the news was ill. He also needed to be composed should the news Laromendis carried be good. Walking silently towards the large doors into the palace, Undalyn cursed hope.

      The Regent Lord of the Clans of the Seven Stars sat quietly, trying to enjoy one moment of solitude and peace in a day dominated by violence and noise. The enemy battered the Barrier Wall every minute of every day, yet here, in the heart of the capital, he could indulge himself in the illusion that his city was as it had been since he was a boy. Deep within, he felt weak for longing for days by, gone beyond reclaim, but it calmed him and gave him hope that someday the People would find a haven as tranquil as this world once was.

      Large open windows granted the sun, wind, and rain admittance into the room. The Regent Lord would always meet guests in the open, so that the People and the Spirits of Ancestors might witness it, such was the law. The only adornments to the room were the battle standards of the Host of the Clans hanging from the ceiling, providing a moving reminder of the People’s history as they stirred in the wind.

      The tall warrior rested on a simple wooden chair that had been his nation’s seat of power since memory began.

      The People, his race, were dying and there was nothing he could do to save them as long as they remained here.

      Despite the heat of the day, Undalyn’s shoulders were covered in white fur, as a mark of his rank; it was the pelt of a snow bear he had killed during his manhood rite high in the mountains of Madrona. He rested his hand upon the hilt of his father’s sword, Shadowbane, absently caressing it.

      Below his mantle of fur he wore a light tunic and trousers of a dark green cloth, simple but for the gold thread at the collar and cuffs; his feet were clad in fine brown leather boots, still covered in dust from his morning walk inspecting the city’s defences. The same dust covered his nearly-white hair, and he wished for time to bathe, but knew much needed to be accomplished before a relaxing bath was possible.

      He