WoP - 01 - War of Powers

by Robert E. Vardeman

  Rann had authored both stories, official and otherwise. Each contained a germ of truth. Civil disturbance had followed Derora's death, and the City was definitely planning to increase the scope of its dealings with the surface.

  How long the Quincunx would accept the stories remained an unanswerable question. Spies reported uneasiness in Wirix. In three days, the Sky City would be above the island city. When the City passed by and committed no aggression against Wirix, the fears of the other Quincunx Cities would ease.

  And after the transit of Wirix . . . The City would change direction over Wirix and head for one of two destinations, Bilsinx or the great seaport of Kara-Est at the head of the Gulf of Veluz. Whichever city the floating fortress crossed, there the first blow would fall. With surprise, the Sky City bird riders had a chance of subduing either. To be certain of success - and Rann could afford no less - required allies on the ground.

  Small garrisons of Sky City dog riders bivouacked in both Bilsinx and Kara-Est to escort caravans across the brigand-plagued prairie. Neither was large enough for Rann's purposes, and he dared not augment them without exciting suspicion. He needed a dependable, discreet, competent ally whose presence wouldn't be connected with the Sky City's approach.

  The unwieldy balloon now rising to meet the City carried a man Rann hoped would be that ally.

  The breeze blowing in the window began to make his wounds ache. While no longer bandaged like a corpse in its shroud, the prince was still far from fully recovered. He shut the window and went to a table on which a large map of the Quincunx had been spread. He began to study and plan.

  Moriana's mount failed her as the Sky City came into view.

  It had been a tense flight. It should have taken less than two days to arrive at her destination. She'd been in the air for three. When her stolen mount touched ground the day before, the princess hadn't known whether or not she'd ever get the bird airborne again.

  She had spent half the night awake, caring for the bird. When the wind stilled, Moriana had gathered dried dung, built a roaring fire, and moved the stricken eagle as close to the flames as possible without singeing feathers. He coughed incessantly, a racking, convulsive sound. A hint of bloody froth touched the hinges of his beak. Moriana had massaged him, trying to soothe tortured muscles. Her fingers were expert. She had known the secrets of an eagle's anatomy before she learned the mysteries of her own.

  She found no proper herbs for healing. Moriana had strained herself to call up the strongest healing magics she knew - in this branch of magic she was far superior to her sister. Peversely, the healing spells took the same soul-wrenching exertion as spells of harm. The princess had reached down inside herself and had drawn out the essence of her soul, even daring contact with the black blight left there by the Vicar of Istu. She wove the spell to restore the eagle's strength. The royalty of the Sky City had an ages-old obligation to their eagles, an obligation not even Synalon would think of denying.

  So she worked, struggled, wept. Despite the midwinter cold, sweat rolled off her in rivers. Exhaustion permeated her body and poisoned her muscles, bones, mind. A cloud of stink rose to assault her: the acrid reek of the dung-fed fire, her own body long unwashed and overworked, the stench of terminal sickness gushing from the eagle with every heave of his chest. It had required all her determination to keep working until she'd done what she could. Only Ziore's masterful calming and soothing and encouragement enabled her to finish her task. And when the princess had at last collapsed into a deathlike sleep, she knew all she'd gained was a pitiful few hours flying time.

  The new day dawned cold and bleak. The wind blasted in from the west, quartering her line of flight. It was as if fate had decreed that she would not gain entry to her City for the final confrontation with Synalon. Her amulet, her secret weapon, shone mostly black like a sun partially eclipsed, and she played with it as she flew. A croak from the eagle drew her from the fog of tension. She looked up, alarmed. Did the bird sense danger? Or was it calling above to its comrades on patrol?

  The eagle cried again. This time she heard the glad note in its voice. A low, humped darkness appeared on the horizon, an anomalous isolated storm cloud. But it was no ordinary cloud. The City in the Sky floated heedless of the wind. The tempo of the wingbeats picked up. Her mount strained to the utmost, striving to reach home and die.

  But this last exertion proved too much. The City grew in Moriana's vision until she made out details, picked out the steep roofs of homes and businesses, the tracery of the palace on the far side. She even saw movement on the walls. Monitors patroling. The bustle of activity on the ground and the cargo balloons sprouting from the strange, prairielike fungi didn't surprise her. Using a scrying spell, she had scanned the City. The palace was denied to her vision because of routine magical precautions, but she saw that the City girded itself for war.

  For conquest. She had just noted the exceptional number of bird riders in the air when her mount coughed and shuddered mightily.

  Her attention instantly focused on the bird's dying cough. A sigh from Ziore touched her mind. The spirit sensed it, too. The bird had made it all this way only to fall short by less than a mile, almost near enough to touch the skystone of the City itself.

  The wings fluttered, losing strength perceptibly. The City canted and veered away as the bird banked into a descending spiral. War eagles were trained to land when they felt their strength failing them. Moriana felt the bitterness in the creature; it longed with all its fading being to die, if it must, in a last desperate effort to get its claws on the rock of home. But duty lay in protecting its rider. The ancient compact between rider and eagle bound both equally.

  The bird straightened its wings. Gliding down, it conserved strength for landing. The irregular ground hurtled upwards at a dizzying rate. An incautious landing would kill Moriana as surely as if the bird's heart had burst a mile up.

  Moriana tensed. Thoughts chased one another through her mind with terrifying speed. Her plan had been to fly openly into the City. Citizens didn't question bird riders, and if she rode in purposefully enough, no Guardsman would question her, either. But that scheme lay shattered now because of her bird's fading life-force.

  'Say-y-y! Ho there, a rescue!' came the cry from above. Five birds had detached themselves from the unusual number that flocked around the City. Five powerful pairs of wings propelled bodies and riders through the air toward her with purposeful speed.

  She had time to appreciate the irony of this rescue. The Sky Guardsmen did not for an instant suspect they were on the verge of apprehending the fugitive Princess Moriana, presumed dead. They saw only a bird rider in distress, and the only bird riders in the Sundered Realm were soldiers of the Sky City. They thought they flew to the rescue of a comrade in trouble.

  Moriana knew they'd realize their mistake soon enough. Then the ground came spinning up to meet her.

  'I take it for granted, my lord count,' said Rann, toying with the skull he had been using to hold down a corner of the map, 'that you appreciate the need for utmost discretion in this matter.'

  'Certainly, Your Highness,' said the count, his manner courteous but clipped, verging on impatience. The edge in his voice would have thrown Synalon into a homicidal fury at his impertinence. It only reassured the prince. The man refused to waste time. Rann needed such a man.

  He gingerly put down the skull. He had stripped the flesh from it while its still-living owner thrashed and howled in exquisite agony. The whole experience had been so rewarding that Rann had desired a momento.

  He studied his guest carefully. A small man, scarcely three inches tal ler than his diminutive host, but as stockily built as Rann was spare. He stood in his severely cut, blue tunic and loose trousers with black riding boots rolled down to his calves. He wore a sword hung from a black baldric, a rare privilege for an outsider permitted into the presence of Sky City royalty.

  It was deliberate. Rann let the man know how utterly he trusted him. The look in the visitor
's watery blue eyes showed his understanding of the situation.

  Rann picked up a goblet of hot spiced wine and sipped. The drink spread soothing warmth through his body, erasing the effect of the chill wind, and soothing him while he bided his time. His visitor stood waiting, but not patiently. Though not a muscle of body or face moved, he gave the impression of vibrating with ill-suppressed energy. Even the tips of his prematurely white, waxed moustache stood quivering at attention.

  The goblet clanked to the tabletop with sudden decision. 'You wi 11 need to arrive in the target city wel I before we do, with, of course, some ostensible business not at all associated with the Sky City.' The count's only reply was a curt nod. 'That's why it is necessary to meet now before our transit of Wirix. Preparations must begin immediately.'

  'It shall be done as you command, Highness.' The visitor smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his tunic.

  'Our friends below are nervous. But they are also complacent. Years of peace have turned them soft. They doubt anyone would dare attack them. The Sky City has made no overtly hostile move toward them since the humans conquered it. As a result, for all their apprehension at our recent activity, they cannot bring themselves to believe that we will attack. But. . .' He drained his drink and set the goblet down with a thump of finality. 'But should they receive intelligence - reliable intelligence-of our designs, even the most lethargic bourgeois would be goaded to action. Properly forewarned, they might even successfully fend us off. It is a matter of concern to Her Majesty and myself.'

  His tawny eyes moved sidelong to study his visitor's reaction. The man's face betrayed no emotion, but his manner clearly said he was irritated. He grasped the obvious as readily as any other man.

  'Well, then,' said Rann, smiling, nodding his head as if to change the subject. 'If my lord will excuse me, I've an appointment in the palace dungeons. My Monitors caught a spy trying to sneak in. The slut rode up in a cargo balloon. I anticipate a most diverting afternoon.' He turned a bland countenance on his guest. 'Unless my lord wishes to come and watch ... '

  'Thank you, Highness,' the man said with a courtly half-bow, 'but I fear I must return to the surface at your earliest convenience. There is much to set in motion.' His toneless, staccato voice did not waver. But his florid face had gone pale at the suggestion that he share in Rann's 'diversion'. Rann felt a delicious tingle of amusement. Inflicting emotional upset was, in its own way, as gratifying as dealing out physical pain.

  The stone's color shifted to black. Moriana kept it tucked into her tunic while flying, but the eagle's whirling descent steepened as the bird lost control and pitched it free. It seemed incongruous to the princess that the stone's color mirrored her own fortune. Then the tip of the bird's lower wing caught on a tree limb and the eagle spun in.

  At the northern edge of the central plains, the occasional trees sometimes banded together into woods. As her mount had started his final descent, Moriana had steered him for the nearest large cluster of trees. It was dangerous landing among trees. But to land in the open was fatal.

  A limb laden with snow hit Moriana in the face as her mount cartwheeled down through the trees. A blow to her ribs knocked the breath from her. She saw clear, snowy ground below and threw herself from the saddle.

  She hit and rolled expertly, coming to rest against the bole of a tree. The eagle floundered on, smashing through the bare limbs in a flurry of white powder. The snow muted the sound of its passage so that it sounded distant, unreal. The noise of wings cracking branches ceased abruptly. A heartbeat later, Moriana heard a sickening thump. A cloud of snow marked her mount's final resting place.

  She raised her head, shaking it to clear snow from her eyes. A lump hung tenaciously to her forehead like a cold, wet hand.

  She silently saluted her fallen eagle, then began moving. The ache in her ribs jabbed into pain with every step. Possibly she'd broken a rib, but this wasn't the time to check. She had to find cover before the bird riders descended.

  She knew what to expect from those above. Seeking cover, the princess found a spot where interlocked branches had formed a framework roofed over with snow, bent low, and scurried beneath it. For all her care, she brushed the limb. It dumped snow down the back of her cloak.

  Ignoring the snow turning to water on her back, she examined herself. Her ribs hurt, but after a few experimental breaths she decided she hadn't cracked any. An ankle throbbed painfully; she'd twisted it and hadn't noticed till now. Her face was scratched, her lips swollen from the limb that had swept across her face. But she was relatively healthy.

  She remembered Ziore's jug. Guiltily, she reached around and felt her backpack. The jug seemed intact.

  I'm here, she heard the nun's voice say inside her head. Don't fear for me, child. I'm not harmed.

  Moriana sighed in relief. Overhead, the bird riders swept by. Instinctively, she hunched down. The eagles flapped by, their wings making the sound of sails flapping in a stiff breeze.

  'Look,' came a man's voice. 'That's where he went down.' Through gaps in the trees Moriana saw the five birds circling over her fallen mount. She held perfectly still. The slightest motion would betray her. She tried to ignore the discomfort of her cramped position as her mind raced.

  Moriana knew she was finished if they landed. She considered shooting at the Sky Guardsmen with the bow she'd taken from the lost scout. She dismissed the idea at once. She could bring one down, but with the trees in the way that would end her life then and there. The only way she could escape was to bring down all five at once.

  Ziore? she thought. Can you help me? She felt the spirit's negative response. She thought fleetingly of her own sorceries, but these were Sky Guardsmen, warded against anything she could do on such short notice. Her hand slipped to the reassuring firmness of her sword hilt. Her heart hammered in her ears. She waited. It was all she could do.

  'I don't see the rider,' called one of the orbiting Guardsmen. 'He may have been thrown free.'

  'Ho!' another shouted. 'Ho, down there! Can you hear me? If you can't answer, make some sign. We can't see you!'

  The minutes moved as ponderousfy as the glacier guarding Athalau.

  'He's in no shape to respond,' a third voice declared. 'Let's go down and look for him.' 'No!' a fourth voice rapped.

  'But flight corporal,' the second said. 'We can't just leave him.' 'We're under orders not to land.' A bird shrilled irritably. The mounts disliked the wing-cramping circle they flew.

  'Corporal, he's one of ours!' the second complained. Hardness pressed into the palm of Moriana's left hand. She realized she clutched furiously at the Amulet of Living Flame. She stared at it.

  Its surface was glowing mostly white. Irrationally, her heart beat faster. She had no reason to think this meant her luck had changed, but. . .

  'I'm sure Prince Rann will be impressed with your spirit of comradeship,' the corporal said ironically, 'when we're strapped to the torture frames in his playroom. He commanded that no one land under any circumstances. Rescues are to be left to the dog humpers. Our place is aloft, flyer, and aloft is where we're going to stay.'

  No grumbling greeted the corporal's words. The prince's name acted like a potent spell. One of the Sky Guardsmen shouted down, 'Sorry, but we can't land. We'll have the dog boys out with stretchers as soon as we can.'

  Then the sound of wingbeals diminished. 'Ziore, did you have anything to do with that?' Moriana trembled with the nervous release of tension.

  'No’ the spirit said aloud, sounding puzzled. 'As soon as the corporal spoke, I probed his mind to harden him to the idea of flying off if he started to weaken. But he didn't. In fact, I don't think I could have made him land.'

  Moriana emerged from the shelter, stood up, and stretched. Hours in the saddle coaxing her eagle along had left her muscles wound into knots.

  'These bird riders are afraid of this Rann,' said Ziore. 'I thought you said he was dead.'

  'I thought he was.' Moriana shook her head. This was a
bad turn. She looked to the northwest. A balloon grew like a tumor from the forward edge of the City, distended, broke away, and then began to descend as the flyers vented air from the bag. A feeling of despair washed up like bile from her belly. The City was near-and infinitely far away.