WoP - 01 - War of Powers

by Robert E. Vardeman

  Rann shut his eyes and lay back. He stifled a moan. A' few weeks before, Synalon had been frantic to get the Amulet of Living Flame. Now she dismissed it as a mere trinket. For all her power and wiles, the self-proclaimed ruler was little more than a spoiled child. She could focus her interest on one thing only so long; then her desire skipped gaily to some new toy.

  He opened his eyes. Hers burned like blue suns. He was slow to recognize that there might be shrewd calculation behind her apparent fickleness. W ith Moriana out of the way, the major threat to Synalon's power had been removed. Now the usurper could put her grand schemes into motion.

  For that she would need her cousin. Recuperation was a slow process for the prince. Not even the magic of the Sky City could heal wounds such as his overnight. And his iron will could demand only so much of broken limbs and battered muscles.

  Still, the next weeks were a time of activity for the prince. He observed, considered, and planned. Within four days of his return to the floating city, he had himself carried to a great-windowed chamber where he looked out on the Sky Guardsmen drilling on their mounts. Shortly after that, he supervised the drill personally. He could not sit on an eagle, but a sedan slung between slow cargo eagles allowed him to fly among his troops, to watch, criticize, refine.

  Militarily, the Sky City possessed both advantages and disadvantages. The troops of the City had a base that was virtually proof against assault, or even against attempts at assault. Several times in her wars with Athalau and the Empire, the City had been assailed by balloon attacks, but such clumsy transports proved bloody jokes when confronting the superbly trained and equipped bird riders.

  But as far as the City was concerned, targets for bombings with rocks had to be directly below - and the Sky Citizens had no more control over the movement of their floating home than did their enemies. The only cities vulnerable to attack from above were the five cities of the Great Quincunx. And the attacks brought courted reprisals of the most devastating form.

  The Sky City's existence depended on trade. No raw materials were produced within the City. All food had to be purchased or produced on plantations owned and run by the City's agents and then lifted thousands of feet upward to feed the small but well-fed populace. Over half of the water had to be raised by balloon; rigorous water discipline, collection of rainwater, and use of the Fallen Ones' 'magic fountains' - the aeroaquifers-alleviated the problem but did not solve it. Military material especially strained the supply system. Even rocks to be dropped on enemies far below had to be lifted laboriously by the great dirigibles.

  If the Sky City wished conquest - and Synalon did - it had to begin by conquering the Quincunx. Fortunately, there was no difficulty in reaching the targets. Sooner or later the City passed over all its earthbound trading partners. And the land dominated by the Quincunx lay in the middle of the Sundered Realm, giving the territory definite strategic value in terms of further expansion. But the City's war with the Quincunx had to be fast and it had to be successful. A cessation of trade would starve the aerial city quickly.

  Further complicating Rann's task as commander in chief was the lack of knowledge as to which target the city would attack first. They'd just departed Thailot on the savannah west of the Thail Mountains and were bound for Wirix, fifty miles southwest of mighty Mount Omizantrim. Wirix, surrounded by twenty-mile-long Lake Wir, was dependent on water trade. If the Sky City captured Wirix, that city could easily be cut off. On the other hand, since the City had never been known to double back on its course, from Wirix there were only two possible destinations: Kara-Est at the head of the Gulf of Veluz, and Bilsinx, central city of the Quincunx. Of the two, Rann thought Bilsinx the easier target. The Estil had domesticated huge jellyfish I ike creatures from the swamps west of the city which produced lighter-than-air gas within their bodies sufficient to raise themselves and considerable loads. Though still inferior to the eagles of the City, the ludintip of Kara-Est gave the Estil the best aerial defense of any of the cities.

  The wind blew sharp and evil a fortnight after Rann's return. The night before, it had brought clouds from the south to plaster a blinding white stucco of snow across the land. For all its brilliance, the sun above lacked warmth. And the very air sucked heat from unsuspecting bodies until Rann felt as if he'd been slashed with a hundred knives.

  His body was still one throb of pain. The cold was torture this morning as it magnified every ache. Later he would welcome numbness as a blessing, but now he forced himself to continue with his task in spite of the discomfort.

  A cup of medicinal tea gave the illusion of warmth. Rann sipped it as he shifted his bandaged body on the divan, trying to find the best view out of the balloon's wicker gondola. Beside him, looking like a small freak of a bear in his furry coat and hood, stood the balloon operator. And huddled against the curving wall of the basket like a fur-bearing crane was Maguerr, hugging his geode and breathing mist on his blue fingers to keep them warm. He was Rann's communications officer. In the past few days, the prince had grown almost resigned to the journeyman mage's presence as punishment for the muddle he'd made of the quest for Moriana and the amulet.

  It had been a pity to lose Moriana, he thought. Sighing inwardly, he peered over the gondola's rim to watch the workers laying out strips of dark cloth several hundred feet below. Soon those dark patches would be real enemy troops and not practice targets. Still, better to have his mind on war than on the loving touches he could have given Moriana.

  He sipped at his tea, so lost in thought that he hardly noticed its bitterness. Maguerr muttered his grievances endlessly to himself. Rann idly turned his attention to the mage. He hadn't yet caught the words of the youth's aggrieved litany, but from its rhythms he guessed Maguerr repeated himself too much to leave room for inventiveness in cursing.

  It had been a pity to lose Fost as well. With the collapse of the Empire centuries before, the Realm had lost all central authority. Its roads and byways were constantly alive with brigands ranging from skulking cutpurses to young armies of cutthroats that occasionally grew bold enough to ransack unwary towns. Those brigands were the reason for the City's large numbers of highly trained troops. The trade arterials had to be kept free. Sky City bird and dog riders guarded caravans, its spearmen held innumerable outposts along the major routes into and through the Quincunx, and its patrols attacked known bands of highwaymen from the air.

  Because of the prevailing anarchy of the Realm, the men serving as couriers had to be very special, tough, smart, and resourceful. Fost Longstrider had been no exception. Rann could recall no single outlander who'd given the Skyborn such difficulty. Even before teaming with Moriana, he'd bested several patrols of dog riders sent to take Erimenes from him. To add further insult to his crimes, he'd infiltrated the Sky City and stolen away Moriana. That and the pursuit leading up to his injury inside Athalau made Rann view the courier with a mixture of admiration and hatred.

  He could use men like Fost. Mulling over the prospect, an idea came to the prince. Why not recruit as many Realm couriers as possible to use as rangers and raiders? Because of the Sky City's lack of population, tactical doctrine depended on small, well-trained units. For serious conquest once the Quincunx cities had been subdued, Synalon would hire mercenaries to flush out her ground forces. Even here, the couriers could be of use. They would know the best places to recruit such men.

  Spun downstream by the wind like flotsam, the notes of a trumpet reached Rann. He craned his neck. A company of eagles rose from the City, formed an echelon, and winged toward his tethered balloon. Another company followed and then another.

  Overhead, just out of the reach of missile fire from the ground, the bird riders formed a wide circle. These weren't Sky Guardsmen. Their eagles didn't maintain the awful, foreboding silence until the moment of attack. Their voices rang down fierce and wild, full of challenge.

  From a fold in the land appeared a body of dog-riding cavalry. The bird riders broke formation and streamed in a raucous, s
qualling line to take up a new orbit above the heads of the ground troops. The wind whipped the dark cloth laid out to represent the enemy army. The cloth cracked with a splitting sound, crisp and harsh in the morning chill.

  The first company of bird riders drove on the 'enemy'. They held unti I their front ranks were twenty yards from the flapping cloth. Then a hailstorm of arrows broke from their flyers. The projectiles fell like deadly rain onto the cloth, pinning it to the ground in half a hundred places. The second company followed with the third close behind. When they finished the attack, they circled again, pouring down missiles. The ground-borne skirmishers came whirling forward, casting their own darts and arrows. The cloth strip lay still like a great beast freshly slain.

  Rann nodded. This was his drill for attacking formed troops: soften the front ranks with an arrow storm from the air, further disorganize the foe with the skirmishers while the eagles continued to harry from above, and finally drive in with lancers for the killing stroke. Variations would be used as the battle required. His troops had performed well, but his keen eyes saw flaws.

  'Get me Captain Sunda,' he growled at Maguerr. 'That first volley was as ragged as a molting eagle's tail. Maguerr bobbed his head and waved spidery fingers over his geode. Rann sat back, at ease in spite of the cold and agony enveloping him.

  The Sky City's great conquest was soon to begin. 'You are sad, child,' came the gentle, clear voice through the moaning of the wind. 'Tell me of it. A burden is lighter when shared.'

  Moriana sighed and let the amulet drop from her fingers. She had been contemplating it for some time, oblivious to the chill rush of the wind and the acrid stink of the small campfire. The amulet's color divided now between light and dark, but it was never still. The balance shifted from one moment to the next so that she was barely able to perceive the subtle flux. Neither shade predominated. Whatever the interplay of black and white meant, it was in equilibrium for the present.

  The wind brushed fluffy snow in soft sibilance across the top of the makeshift shelter. Drawn back to her surroundings by Ziore's words, Moriana tried and failed to keep down a shiver. The lean-to provided poor shielding against the relentless storm sweeping down from the northwest. But it was better than no shield at all.

  It had been sheer luck to stumble upon the herd of grazers. It had been greater luck still to find an aged cow, her white winter pelt yellow and dingy with age, resting amid tall, dead grass at the perimeter of the herd. With the wind blowing out of the Ramparts at her back, Moriana had stalked within striking distance of the beast without alerting any in the herd. A bellow of fear turned to pain as she slashed her scimitar across hamstrings and then across the softness of throat skin. The hailstone of hooves as the herd took flight had faded into silence.

  She stripped the skin from the dead animal, cut off as much meat as she could carry, and continued on her way. The Sky City beckoned. She had unsettled business with her twin sister.

  The single-horned ruminant's flesh was stringy but a welcome relief from the monotony of the Athalar rations. But the important item was the hide. The wind marched ceaselessly across the steppe this time of year, as frigid and merciless as a horde of army ants. The hide offered some protection. This southeastern corner of the Southern Steppes was crisscrossed by streambeds running down out of the Ramparts toward the Gulf of Veluz. In spring they'd froth with the runoff of melting snow, but now they were dead and dry. The long roots of the steppes' grass held the topsoil firm, forming almost perpendicular banks. An hour's labor with her knife gave a snug cubbyhole that could be roofed with the grazer hide. With dried grazer dung for fuel, Moriana indulged herself with a campfire, though only a tiny one so she wouldn't smoke herself out.

  She sighed again. Rolling idle reminiscences through her mind was merely a way to put off answering Ziore. On the endless loneliness of the steppe, any human companionship was welcome, even a ghost's. And Ziore provided more than mere companionship. Her affection and concern sometimes seemed to cover Moriana like a warm, soft blanket. Yet even such snug comfort grew cloying at times.

  'I'm afraid,' she said flatly. 'My sister knows more sorcery than I. With the amulet, I stand more chance against her. If I can find some place secure against her minions, I can engage her in a battle of magics. When her deathspells strike me down, I'll rise again to challenge her anew. Sooner or later, I will exhaust her.' Moriana fingered the glassy facets of the stone as she added, 'I hope.'

  'And for this you must be physically within the City?' asked Ziore. Moriana nodded. 'What if you cannot gain entry into the Sky City?'

  'I will gain entry,' the princess said, letting go of the amulet to draw figures in the yellow dirt. 'If stealth doesn't serve, I'll raise an army and force my way in.' She laughed abruptly, bitterly. 'I'm being grandiose today, aren't I? To speak of forcing entry to the City in the Sky when I sit huddled over a reeking manure fire in the middle of a blizzard with nothing but sore feet to carry me across hundreds of miles of barrenness. The way I talk, you'd think I was a princess and not a wretched refugee.'

  They sat in silence. The fire burned low. Moriana dug into her pouch for a dried dung chip and threw it into the embers.

  A feathery touch caressed her cheek. She started, her eyes darting. Ziore hung beside her. The aged and beautiful face showed concern.

  'I believe,' the spirit said at length, 'though I cannot know, for foretelling what will come to pass is a talent never granted me, that you will find some way to reach this reckoning with your sister.' Ziore's eyes were sad. 'I also know that's far from all that troubles you.'

  Moriana nodded, acknowledging the pain, grateful there was no need to put a name to it. 'Did I do right?' she asked.

  'Don't be foolish, girl,' said Ziore, her tone brisk. 'You know quite well that only you can answer that.'

  'I have to feel I did right.' She felt warm tears fill her eyes. 'I feel the anguish of my people as Synalon's tyranny grinds them down. And I feel there's more at stake than even the welfare of my City. Synalon is quite insane. She's in tune with the power of the Dark Ones, more so than any of the City since the ancient time of Queen Malva Kryn. I dread her ambition, not so much for what she might achieve herself but for what she might unleash in her mad striving after power.'

  A wave of sickness, starting in the depth of her loins and washing outward, passed through her. She hugged herself and clenched her teeth against a mindless scream. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and blackness yammered at the fringes of her mind. She had been close, so close to that black maelstrom. The Vicar of Istu, animated by the sleeping demon's life, had held her in its stone embrace. The formless dark that swirled behind the statue's yellow eyes as they burned into hers had left its imprint on her soul.

  More than anyone else alive, she understood the nature of the forces with which her sister so blithely toyed.

  Another feathery caress touched her arm. To feel purposeful contact out in this friendless, icy waste sent a ripple of eeriness down her spine. The feeling passed quickly, and in its place came a strange serenity.

  Moriana turned her head. Ziore paused, slim fingers on the princess's arm. The heavy maroon fabric of Moriana's cloak dimpled as though to the touch of solid fingertips. Moriana looked at the spirit in surprise.

  'An illusion,' said Ziore, her voice a whisper in the strong wind. 'Another trick I learned as a nun in Erimenes' cult. Not all the master's gifts proved worthless.'

  Bitterness tinged the words. After the ghost woman's initial vehemence at the mention of the sage's name, Moriana had been little inclined to press for an explanation. But those few words on Ziore's part said it all.

  The princess reached out, taking one of Ziore's hands. The not-flesh seemed warm and dry in her fingers. She drew a ragged breath.

  'Oh, daughter, daughter,' the spirit said. She stroked Moriana's cheek. 'You have need. Great need.'

  Her fingers slid down Moriana's face, over the rounded jawline and down her slender throat. Moriana felt a stirring in
the depths of her belly. She shied away from it, from the strangeness of it. Again she felt the touch of Ziore's mind on hers, gentle and sweet as the illusory touch of her fingers.