WoP - 01 - War of Powers

by Robert E. Vardeman

  He caught sight of a tow-headed figure making his way through the crush of bodies. In a drab workman’s smock, Erlund walked with legs bent under his burden, a pitch-pot resting on a brazier of coals, with handles to insulate his hands and a leather apron protecting his belly. There wasn’t a good reason for a worker to be abroad in the Circle with a pot of hot pitch, but nowhere in Fost’s experience were folk inclined to question a common laborer who was obviously going about his business. These people didn’t disappoint him. They edged away from the heat and stench of the pitch-pot, but otherwise paid Erlund no heed.

  Fost stood near the ranks of soldiers holding back the crowd. A sudden crunching noise grabbed his attention. He looked over the soldiers’ heads and gasped. The statue had uprooted itself and strode toward the captive princess.

  The nearness of such magic overwhelmed him. For a mad moment all he could think of was flight. Anywhere, anyhow—even straight over the lip of the Well, if this would get him away from the demon.

  His instinct for survival saved him from panic. Any Medurimite street urchin knew instinctively when he’d attracted the attention of the authorities. A prickling along his spine warned him something was amiss. He jerked himself into control and back to the problem he faced.

  An officer eyed him suspiciously. Gaping at the statue come to life was not unusual. But something in Fost’s manner had alerted the man. He gimped forward, dragging his stiff leg.

  “I grow weary of my burden, lordly one,” he said to the man, dropping his eyes in the deference proper for ground-born when addressing a child of the Sky City. “Would the colonel and his gallant men partake of my wine, as a gift from my humble self?”

  The officer, who was plainly no more than a lieutenant of infantry, grinned acceptance. The last of the squat bottles were dispensed to the troopers. Caught up in the mood of the event, they forgot discipline to the extent of prying open the seals with daggers or simply breaking off the necks on the pavement. Purple wine gurgled down throats and slopped onto black tunics. Fost bobbed his head at them, smiling servilely. Then he saw what the idol was doing and the smile hardened on his lips.

  Delight surged through the living stone of the demon’s Vicar. Yet sensations lost for millennia awoke only part of the sleeping demon’s mind. They stirred an elemental and primitive part, capable of tasting raw sensation and feeling raw emotion. That tiny fragment of the intellect responding to a bribe of carnal pleasure was enough to make the ruler who invoked it the mightiest sorceror of the Sundered Realm.

  Howling like a maddened beast, Erlund threw himself through the crowd. He jostled soldiers aside. One shrieked and fell down flapping as pitch splashed onto his tunic and ignited. Alone on the cleared area of the Circle immediately behind the Vicar, Erlund dropped the brazier and flung the steaming pitch onto the broad back of the statue.

  The horrid rhythm of the basalt hips never faltered. As the squad stared at the Vicar, Fost lunged a hand into his pouch and cast the spirit jug at the idol. The pot bounced off a churning dark shoulder and fell to the marble flagging, shattered.

  The salamander flashed free. It was a small one, a green shimmer against the day’s grayness. For a moment it hung in the air. Then it sensed the fumes, volatile and seductive. It moved.

  One instant the Vicar reveled in single-minded joy as it raped the bound woman. The next the sun fell through the clouds and lit upon its back. The violence of its mental shout of pain blasted through the city.

  Normal fire would not even have drawn its attention. But the fire of the salamander ate greedily at the clinging pitch and turned the stone molten where it touched. The demon Istu was in no danger; it slept far beneath the streets, as invulnerable as it was immobile. But the spark of its life which animated the Vicar knew dreadful agony. It wheeled, saw a pitiful man-thing crouching at its back, and stared at him. It reached down, caught up the creature by its leather covering, and began to rip off its limbs, like a small boy dismembering a flying insect.

  A fresh blaze of agony brought Moriana awake. She no longer felt the piercing pain in her loins. Only a throbbing ache remained. The crowd sounds that washed against her ears had changed from lewdness to terror. Nearby, someone screamed.

  A jerk at her right wrist made her open her eyes.

  “Just lie still,” Fost said, “and I’ll have you free in a second.” As she lay unbelieving, he quickly cut through the bonds that held her other hand and feet.

  “What…” she began.

  Fost grabbed her waist and flung himself backwards. The hard pavement bruised Moriana’s limbs as he rolled atop her. A streak of light flared viciously overhead with a hiss and sizzle as a deathbolt from Synalon drew a charred line across the altar. The sorceress shrieked her fury and prepared another lightning-cast.

  The blue flash caught the Vicar’s attention. Its pseudo-awareness identified magic fire and the one who cast it with the cause of its pain. It turned, casually , tossing the armless, legless husk that had been Erlund into the Well. The stink of fire-magic hung like a fog around the tall woman in white. It went for her, arms outstretched to maim and hurt and kill.

  A bird rider swooped on Fost as he dragged Moriana to her feet. The Guardsman misjudged his distance and passed too close to the blazing statue. Eagle and rider erupted in a ball of green flame.

  Moriana stood, still babbling questions. Fost looked around frantically. The rescue had gone off as planned—but where was his diversion? No other fire elementals frolicked among the spectators. The crowd had thinned considerably, but the ranks of soldiers Fost had burst through to reach the altar stood with backs unthreatened. All had their pikes leveled. Uriath’s promised support hadn’t materialized. Fost and Moriana were caught between the anvil of the troops and the hammerlike fists of the raging statue.

  Only one course lay open. Gripping Moriana’s wrist, Fost turned, took three running steps, and vaulted over the altar straight at Synalon. The black-haired princess gaped at him, hair flying as she swiveled her head from him to the advancing statue and back. Moriana managed to scramble over the still-smoking altar as her sister dropped flat to avoid a roundhouse sweep of the courier’s broadsword. The soldiers on that side of the altar had fled the onslaught of the Vicar, leaving their mistress as thoroughly in danger as Fost’s allies had left him. Hard on Fost’s heels Moriana followed, joining the shrieking tide of humanity streaming away from the demon’s wrath. In an instant they were across the Circle and into the safety of the city’s twisting streets.

  Synalon struggled to rise before the Vicar tore her asunder, as it had killed Erlund. Her plan lay in ruins. She had meant to beguile the demon with pleasure; she had given it searing anguish. Istu would not forget. Despairing, she considered letting the statue wreak its vengeance on her.

  But she was no less a princess of the city than her sister. She straightened, a slim, slight figure before the monster’s bulk. Her lips shaped the words of dismissal.

  And then she realized it was too late.

  Wings boomed over her head. A wiry shape dropped to the marble. In astonishment, the Vicar stopped to gaze at this puny thing that dared interpose itself with its pathetic sword and javelin. Doomed but unflinching, Prince Rann Etuul faced the maddened Vicar.

  At the end of a street radiating from the Circle of the Skywell, Fost paused to let Moriana catch up. Her hair hung in strings about her face and thin rivulets of blood ran down her thighs, but she seemed in good enough condition. Looking past her, Fost saw Terror fall from the sky to drop Rann between the statue and his cousin. Synalon’s voice reached Fost as she shrilled a chant. A vast black arm lashed out and swept Rann like a doll from the Vicar’s path.

  Moriana’s hand sought Fost’s. He picked her up in his arms and ran.

  * * *

  Later, sheltered against a building in the palace district, Fost stopped, gasping for breath. When it no longer felt as if spears pierced his lungs each time he breathed, he turned to Moriana.

  “I owe you m
y life and soul,” she whispered, “and no Etuul shirks her debts. That which you seek is in the penthouse of the northwestern tower of the palace. It’s doubtless guarded by sorcery, but I think you can seize the philosopher’s jug.” She dropped her eyes. “Words are too small for thanks. Farewell.”

  Fost spent several breaths eyeing her appreciatively. For all her ordeals of the past few days, she was still breathtakingly lovely. In her disheveled nakedness, she stood as proud as any queen could hope to.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, wench,” he told her. He took off his peddler’s cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Come along. We’d best reach the palace before the Guard collects its wits!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Blue lightnings surrounded Synalon’s head in a crackling nimbus as she surveyed the wreckage of her sitting chamber. A mage lay spread-eagled on the floor, his chest blasted open by a deathbolt. The wounds that had claimed the lives of three palace guards were obviously of more mundane origin.

  “How did he get here?” she screamed. “The spirit said Moriana robbed him in the night and got away. How did that dirt-spawned dog reach the city?”

  A Monitor officer and several magicians stood clumped in the doorway. The officer cleared his throat. “We assumed that the Princess Moriana hijacked the balloon and killed its crew; it seemed so apparent that was the way she’d gained access to the city that we never troubled to question the ghost about it.” He paled at the look in Synalon’s eye, swallowed hard, and continued. “Now we feel she placed the crewmen under a spell of compulsion, and the barbarian, lacking her knowledge of either sorcery or aeronautics, resorted to force to reach the city.”

  “You assumed.” Contempt filled the words. “Your assumption has cost us dearly, Gulaj.” The man cringed. Synalon turned the full heat of her displeasure on the trio of sorcerors. Their shaven heads bobbed up and down. Fearful perspiration had begun to make the cabalistic designs painted on their skulls run down their cheeks. “And how fares my gracious cousin?”

  The eldest mage looked at the next eldest, who pivoted his head to peer expectantly at the youngest. That worthy only just saved himself from looking around for someone else with whom to saddle the unhappy task of answering.

  “H-he fares well, O Mistress of the Clouds. His ribs are cracked where the Vicar struck him. He sleeps well under sedation; a few days of rest shall make him whole again.”

  Synalon paced to her beryl throne and sat. The silk cushion lay askew. She paid it as little heed as she did the remnants of her headdress hanging in her face or the pink-tipped breast that peeked from her torn pearl-white robe. Rann had bought her time to conjure the life out of the Vicar and return it to Itsu, but the stony fingers had been clutching at her garments when the light went out of the statue’s eyes. Dispatching the elemental had taken little more than a gesture. But the struggle with the Vicar had brought her near exhaustion.

  “He shall not have days to rest,” Synalon said. “Go and rouse him. Even now the Guards comb the sky for the fugitives, but I expect the prince will have ample opportunity to redeem his failure by personally bringing the criminals to justice.” After a moment’s hesitation, the mages turned and left.

  Gulaj started to follow them.

  “Colonel.” Synalon’s soft voice brought him to a halt just inside the doorway, which was blocked by the massive ironbound door, blasted off its hinges by Moriana’s sorcery. “Did you hear me give you leave to go?”

  “Your pardon, Lady. Istu…”

  A lance of fire from a pointing fingertip cut him off. Blue-white light filled the chamber. The colonel fell forward in a reek of burnt flesh and ozone.

  Synalon paid the corpse no mind. It was Rann who deserved to die. But Rann she could not spare. Only the prince, she was sure, had the skill necessary to recover Erimenes and work retribution on those who had stolen him away.

  Why did he help her, that miserable groundling of a courier? She robbed him! Sparks popped from her fingertips as fury gripped her. The injustice tied her muscles into knots of frenzied anger. She sat for a hundred heartbeats, clenched and sweating at the deviousness of her twin sister.

  The fit passed. She slumped limply in the chair. A shaft of sunlight fell through clouds to waken the green fire in the gemstone arm of her throne. Moodily, she drew herself up and stared out the window at her bird riders wheeling their mounts about the sky.

  “My thanks for saving me from those despicable rogues,” Erimenes said.

  “You dare speak of roguery?” Moriana shouted. “You, who begged to be allowed to witness my torture?”

  “I toyed with them, no more,” Erimenes said airily. “If I seemed sufficiently intent on watching them torment you, I knew they’d never touch you. Psychology, you see. It must have worked. Your flawless skin remains intact.”

  Moriana’s eyes smoldered. “They tortured my friends to death before me. I’d rather they’d worked their fiendishness on my body.” She snatched at the jar once more suspended in its pouch slung beneath Fost’s arm. The courier fended her warily. “Psychology, you say! Is that what you call it, to sit talking of exotic perversions with Synalon while my loved ones died, screaming for oblivion?”

  “I was only trying to win her confidence,” said Erimenes. “And I knew those ward spells she’d cast hindered your powers. Rann felt nothing, lacking in any magical skills, and could have physically overwhelmed you. And Synalon, well, she was scarcely in the position of having to use magic while you were chained. So, you see, my behavior was consistent and in your best interests. In fact, I…”

  “Enough!” Fost bellowed before Moriana could reply. “For Gormanka’s sake, you’ll alert the entire district.” His voice reverberated the length of the street and sent foraging rats scurrying for cover.

  “Here,” he said in a softer tone, unslinging the pouch and handing it to Moriana. “Hold onto this blatherer. I’m supposed to meet my contact with the underground, if they haven’t botched that as well.” He glimpsed the glow in Moriana’s eyes. “Don’t throw him over the edge. It’s not likely to do him much harm.”

  “Of course not,” Erimenes declared. “Being immaterial, a fall of a thousand feet would be as a…” A vicious shake by the princess shut him up in mid-sentence.

  Leaving Moriana to deal with the dead philosopher, Fost moved up the block, around the corner and slipped into an alley. After the rescue, he was to bring Moriana to a certain warehouse near the docks at the edge of the city. He had been told the route to take. He didn’t go that way now. Instead he traced a roundabout course, to bring him upon his contact from an unexpected direction. He’d had enough of Uriath’s lack of security.

  He had no difficulty in sneaking up behind the undergrounder. Fost was in his element now, far more than the dilettantes of the resistance. He paused a moment to make sure that the contact was alone. Then he moved, as swift and silent as light.

  A heavy hand muffled the cry that broke from Luranni’s lips as a dagger-tip pricked her throat. “So you came,” he said. “Was it mere oversight that I was left facing the city’s whole army alone?” She shook her head, her eyes glazing with fear.

  “Make a noise louder than a whisper and I’ll slit your throat,” Fost said before taking his hand away from her mouth.

  “No treachery,” she breathed. “I swear it! I don’t know what went wrong. The men with the elementals said they never got the word to act.”

  The courier hesitated, still holding the girl immobile, his dagger hovering near her neck. The cinnamon scent and the nearness of her body awoke memories, but they had grown pallid and distant. Finally he shrugged and let her go. Her tale was likely true. He could expect no more from the amateurs in the underground than he had already gotten.

  “I suppose you’ve come to tell me your people failed to find us a way to get to the surface.”

  She shook her head, sending a soft cascade of brown hair swirling out around her shoulders. “No.” Her eyes were bigger and rounder than norma
l and the word came hesitantly. She obviously thought that the man she had taken to bed a few days earlier was ready to slay her at any moment. “The way is prepared. But it’ll be hazardous. Won’t you stay? With me?”

  “No. Synalon’s men will take this town apart clear to Istu’s bedchamber on the chance that we’ll remain.” He looked into her eyes. Emotions stirred within him. Her invitation hadn’t fallen on deaf ears, and however ill her comrades had done by him, she had tried her best on his behalf. She’d come to mean something to him, as well. He couldn’t leave without some explanation.

  “Moriana and I have something we must do. If we succeed, our chances of freeing the city will be much improved. I can’t say any more.” He knew that Moriana’s purpose in seeking the Amulet of Living Flame opposed his own, though the reckoning of who should have it had been put off for the moment.

  “You have the parcel that you wanted?” she asked. He nodded. “And you will deliver it as you intended?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  The faint cry of a circling war-bird drifted down from the sky. Luranni gripped his arm. “We must hurry,” she said. He led her back to where Moriana waited, hoping he didn’t disengage his hand from hers too blatantly.

  “What have we here?” The words made Fost stop and turn. Moriana stepped from a recessed doorway. Her parted cloak revealed swatches of pale skin. Fost grinned in appreciation. Here was no clumsy amateur. She was almost as skilled as the courier himself.

  “Yes, what have we?” Erimenes asked with interest. “A lovely lass to be sure. Quite lively in bed, too, I don’t doubt.”

  Luranni gaped at the satchel, her expression turning quickly to keen interest. Fost ground his teeth. She was no more a fool than her father, except at the game of insurrection. He knew she was quite capable of drawing conclusions he didn’t wish made.