A Magic of Twilight nc-1

by S L Farrell

  Allesandra nodded. “I remember. It was just a tiny thing, but it clawed Whitepaw’s nose so badly that he ran away with his tail tucked, and there was blood everywhere and the healer had to sew Whitepaw’s nose back together again. And the kitten made Skitters yelp and bleed, too, before Skitters finally got it and shook it to death.” Allesandra looked at the jewel of the city set in the night landscape. “Oh,” she said.

  “I understand what you mean, Vatarh,” she said. “I do.”

  Karl ci’Vliomani

  From the balcony of the Archigos’ residence, it was possible to believe that there was no war looming. From that vantage point, the lights of the Avi curled past the brilliantly-lit dome of the Archigos’

  Temple. The breeze was cool from the northwest, ruffling the edges of the ferns in their pots, and the Nessantico herself was strangely silent.

  Karl knew the calm for the chimera it was. He’d been gathering

  together the Numetodo in Oldtown, and on the North Bank, where the first thrust of the Firenzcian assault would take place, there was no calm at all. From the outskirts of Oldtown, one could look out and see not only the campfires of the Garde Civile, but the more distant fires of the Hirzg’s army. There, the citizens were panicked, and it showed.

  Twice during the day, Karl had witnessed riots in the main streets, both violently put down by the Garde Kralji, as the citizenry stormed butcher shops and bakeries looking for food (and conveniently broke into any adjacent taverns as well). Heads were broken, the cobblestones grew slick with blood, and the mood turned uglier as the sun itself retreated to the west.

  A constant stream of people and carts flooded the Avi a’Parete: soldiers, Garde Civile, various chevarittai and the occasional war-teni all heading east, and everyone else moving west. From what Karl had been told, both the Avi a’Nostrosei and Avi a’Certendi, as well as the Avi A’Sele, were packed with refugees from the city, carrying as much of their belongings as they could.

  Only here, on the South Bank, did the city seem to retain any semblance of normalcy, and even that was the thinnest of veneers. Underneath the calm surface, there was a boiling, nervous energy.

  Karl stood beside Ana as they both leaned on the balcony railing.

  He could feel her warmth against his side, but though he longed to do more, he did not. The ghost of Kaitlin stood between them as they stared out into the night. “I wish you would leave the city, Ana,” he said.

  “And I wish the same of you,” she answered. “And you know neither of us can do that.”

  “Everything will change in the next few days. Six months ago, I would have left the city and not cared at all who lived or died here. Now it scares me, Ana-because of you. Because of us.”

  She gave a barely perceptible nod. She didn’t answer otherwise, didn’t move.

  “There hasn’t been enough time for your war-teni to learn enough. We can hope they’ll be able to employ the Ilmodo a little faster than before. That’s all.”

  “If they don’t fail in their spells entirely, the way I did,” Ana said.

  He felt her shiver. “I worry about that, too. This has shaken their faith. What good does speed do if they’re no longer effective? I wonder if I’ve actually harmed the city’s defenses rather than helped them.”

  “They have you as an example, and the Numetodo in the city will be there to help,” he answered. “We’ll do what we can to shield the warteni, and they can always use the Ilmodo as they did before. Ana, stay with me tonight. .” he began, but she turned to him and the look on her face stopped his words.

  “No,” she said. “I won’t. You’ve made a promise to another; I won’t help you break it.”

  “Then, after. . I will write to her, tell her. .” He realized he was deliberately avoiding saying Kaitlin’s name aloud, and he wondered why.

  “Don’t talk of ‘after,’ Karl,” she said. “We don’t know that there will be an ‘after.’ There’s only now. This moment, then the next and the next. That’s all we have right now. If there’s an after, we’ll figure out then what that might mean for us, or if there even is an ‘us.’ For now, all I can think about is how to survive tomorrow.”

  She walked back into the apartments. Karl didn’t follow her. He stood at the railing of the balcony, and listened to the city and to his conscience.

  War

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  The battle began with spell-fire and a sword thrust to the belly of the city.

  All that morning the Firenzcian army approached: a steady advance that edged ever closer, a great arc slowly pressing down toward the forces Sergei had placed around the city from nearly Nortegate to the banks of the A’Sele.

  The defensive line was dangerously thin. Sergei didn’t have enough men; despite Sergei’s persistent urgings, Kraljiki Justi had refused to allow the entirety of the Garde Civile and war-teni to move forward.

  Instead, the Kraljiki wrapped battalions of Garde Civile and his most loyal chevarittai around himself as a protective cocoon: inside the city walls. Sergei had been given orders by the Kraljiki not to engage unless necessary, and so the defending forces grudgingly gave ground to the advancing ranks. There were occasional skirmishes, brief flurries of combat punctuated with the challenges of the Firenzcian chevarittai.

  Some of the chevarittai of the city couldn’t resist the challenge and went out to meet their cousins-a few ca’-and-cu’ of both sides bloodied the ground prematurely as a result.

  By Second Call, the tension had become nearly unbearable. The army of Firenzcia was a thunderhead looming near the city, like a silver-and-black cloud issuing tongues of lightning and growling with low thunder, the wind cold and vicious and rising.

  The storm, inevitably, broke.

  Sergei sat astride his horse on a small knoll a mile outside the old city walls, up the Avi a’Firenzcia along the River Vaghian. His leg ached, and his back was stiff, but he forced himself to ignore the nagging pains. Several flag-and-horn pages waited near him to relay orders and A’Offizier ca’Montmorte was at his side. From the knoll, Sergei could see the front ranks of the opposing force. The banner of the Hirzg and the Red Lancers was being flown prominently: Jan ca’Vorl was out there, somewhere close. In front of Sergei, the two armies were separated by a muddy field, the once-ripening crop of wheat prematurely harvested and the remainder trampled under the hooves of the chevarittai and the boots of the Garde Civile and conscripts as they’d retreated to their present position in the western tree line.

  Sergei had stopped the grudging retreat-if they backed any closer to the city, the fighting would be taking place among the houses and buildings that had grown up outside the original walls. Their spines were to Nessantico’s outskirts; the offiziers had re-formed the lines.

  Seeing them waiting, the Firenzcian army had halted, but Sergei didn’t believe they would remain there for long.

  The sun fell directly on the field. The light did nothing to warm them.

  “If I were Hirzg Jan, I would wait,” ca’Montmorte said. “It’s already past Second Call. He should establish his lines, call his offiziers together for consultation and settle the troops in for the night. I’d continue the advance at First Call tomorrow.” Ca’Montmorte nodded at his own advice. “That would give us time to bring more conscripts from the city and have the Archigos send up the remainder of the war-teni. The Hirzg doesn’t know that we don’t have the entire Garde Civile waiting in reserve.”

  Sergei shook his head. “I know the man, Elia. The Hirzg is a decent tactician but a mediocre strategist-if there’s any strategy here, it will be the Starkkapitan’s. Ca’Vorl’s most dangerous in the midst of a fight, but he has no patience. He also knows he has the advantage. No, this is what he wants and he will have it now. I’d wager that he intends to sleep tonight inside Nessantico, and we’re in his way. He’ll attack. He won’t wait.”

  Ca’Montmorte shook his head. “That would be foolish.”

  “Wait,” Sergei told him. “I know t
he man. .”

  They waited less than a quarter-turn of the glass. Without warning, a half-dozen fireballs bloomed, brilliant even in the sunlight. They rushed over the field, arcing no more than a half-dozen men’s height from the ground, streaking from the far trees beyond the roving groups of Firenzcian chevarittai and the impassive lines of infantry. “Teni!”

  Sergei cried and the pages reached for flags and horns to sound the alarm, but the few war-teni with Sergei had already responded. Their counter-spells, Sergei realized gratefully, were curiously rapid-no doubt the Envoy ci’Vliomani, who along with a hand of Numetodo was with the war-teni, was responsible for that. Given the lack of warning, Sergei had expected the teni’s response to be too late, but two of the onrushing suns fizzled and died before they reached the front ranks of the defenders, and two more went careening back toward the far side of the field to explode in front of the enemy ranks.

  Cheers went up from the Garde Civile.

  But the remaining fire-spells were untouched. They slammed hard into the ranks, exploding with gouts of the liquid fire, and cheers dissolved into screams. Those caught directly died instantly, their bodies torn apart; those nearby were enveloped in blue Ilmodo-fury that clung to their skin and clothes. They bellowed in agony, rolling on the ground, trying to smother the stubborn flames. Those who rushed to help their fellows found that the spell-fire adhered to their own hands. Where the war-fire blazed, the ranks shuddered and threatened to fall apart, the conscripts panicking, and Sergei shouted along with the other offiziers and chevarittai. “Hold!” he cried. “Damn it, make them hold!” The flag-pages waved yellow flags desperately; the horn-pages blasted an imperative two-note call on their cornets and zinkes.

  More spell-fire came; again, most were countered and a few thrown back into the enemy, but not all could be stopped. The trees on the west side of the meadow were on fire now, and the panic was beginning to spread along the lines. The offiziers had swords out, keeping their men under control. The cornets of the pages seemed to be lost in the growing noise.

  But the lines, tenuously, held together.

  Sergei nodded-if the Hirzg had intended to send him fleeing under the barrage of the war-teni, that plan had failed.

  “The Archigos’ war-teni deserve commendation,” ca’Montmorte said. “Right now, we’re holding our own, but if they keep up the barrage, we’re going to have to give ground.”

  “The Hirzg isn’t that patient,” Sergei repeated. “That will be the last volley of the war-teni. He’ll bring in the chevarittai and the army now.”

  Again, they did not have to wait long. With a thousand-throated voice, the Firenzcians charged. The hooves of their chevarittai pummeled the ground; behind them, the infantry spread out like a horde of black ants. “Archers!” Sergei shouted: the pages dropped their yellow flags to pick up blue, the cornets shrilled, and the offiziers took up the cry. With a sibilant, wordless steam-kettle hiss, arrows crowded the sky, arcing up and down into the onrushing forces. There were counter-spells from the Firenzcian war-teni-arrows went to harmless ash in great puffs of cloud and arrowheads pattered like metal rain onto the mud-but some of the chevarittai and their horses went down, as did many soldiers. But there were far too many behind them, and more continued to flow out from the trees.

  The charge hit the front line in a clash of metal. A frothing chaos spread, the angry foam of a storm-driven wave crashing into unyielding land.

  Sergei had to force himself to stay back and not charge into the fray with his sword-the Hirzg’s sword-held high. But it was difficult enough with his healing wounds just to sit his horse, and it was not the commandant’s role to fight.

  Not yet. Not today. For a turn of the glass, perhaps more, the Nessantico line held, as Sergei directed his offiziers through the scurrying pages and the signals of flags and cornets.

  But they couldn’t hold forever.

  The line sagged inward toward Sergei’s position as the meadow filled with Firenzcian black and silver. The war-teni lobbed spells and counter-spells into the field and onto the rear ranks; fire burst in colorful sparks over the field, and the screams of the wounded and dying were muffled in drifting smoke and confusion.

  Distantly, Sergei saw a portion of the northern end of the line give way entirely. Firenzcians poured through the gap, the banners of the chevarittai fluttering as they pushed deep into the Nessantico ranks.

  The flag-pages around Sergei glanced over nervously. He scowled down at the battlefield.

  “It’s over, Commandant,” ca’Montmorte said. “They’re through the defenses. We can’t hold them here any longer.”

  Sergei hadn’t expected to prevail, but he’d also not expected to be routed so quickly. “I know,” he nearly shouted at ca’Montmorte. The angry words tasted like bitter, unripe sunberries in his mouth. “Tell the offiziers to fall back,” he grunted, and the pages snatched red flags from the ground and began waving them frantically, the horns changed their call. The cry went up from around the field.

  The Nessantico war-teni turned to different spells; now they covered the field with a thick, dense fog to confuse the inflow of the Firenzcians and cover the retreat. The chevarittai reluctantly turned their mounts; the foot soldiers gave way and the archers tried to slow the enemy troops that filled the vacated space.

  Faintly, Sergei heard the Firenzcian horns. He’d hoped that the Hirzg would let them retreat, so that the Hirzg could lick his own wounds and set the army for the final thrust toward Nessantico. That was the way of polite warfare: when the outcome of the battle was decided, the the triumphant side allowed the loser to draw back, perhaps to exchange prisoners and recover the bodies of any important ca’ or cu’ who had fallen.

  But the horns across the field weren’t sounding halt, but pursuit.

  Ca’Montmorte spat onto the grass. “The bastard. .” Sergei shook his head. He pulled on the reins of his horse.

  “Regroup the chevarittai with the Kraljiki’s troops near the Fen Fields,” he told ca’Montmorte. “Send a runner to the Archigos; we’ll need all the war-teni to try to stop them there. Tell the Kraljiki to be ready. The Hirzg wants his city today.”

  Sergei glanced once more at the battlefield wreathed in spell-fog.

  He shook his head and kicked at his destrier’s sides.

  Jan ca’Vorl

  The pages rushed about, carrying news from the front lines and relaying orders from Jan and Starkkapitan ca’Linnett as the attack began. Well back from the front line and protected, Allesandra was with Jan, as were Archigos ca’Cellibrecca and Starkkapitan ca’Linnett. From the cover of the trees, they watched as war-fire arced away from the teni toward the defenders of Nessantico. But the sense of destiny and power faded almost immediately. Jan cursed and Archigos ca’Cellibrecca gaped in shock as the spell-fires were countered, as the blazing suns were extinguished or-far, far worse-were sent back toward their own lines. There were cries of alarm from across the field of battle, but the overwhelming terror that Jan had been assured would be the result was lost. “They’re using the Numetodo. .” the Archigos muttered. He made the sign of Cenzi, as if to ward off evil.

  Jan was merely furious. “Archigos, I’d remind you that both you and U’Teni cu’Kohnle assured me that our war-teni would send our enemies running back to the city. It seems to me that nothing of the sort has happened, and that, in fact, you’ve just caused the death of many of our own men.”

  “The counter-spells came impossibly quickly, my Hirzg,” ca’Cellibrecca answered nervously.

  “Impossible, Archigos? I saw them. Or are you telling me that I’m mistaken?”

  Ca’Cellibrecca bowed his head. “I’m sorry, my Hirzg. But it’s obvious the Kraljiki and the heretic cu’Seranta have made a pact with the Numetodo.” Ca’Cellibrecca clenched his hands and made the sign of

  Cenzi. “They deserve everything Cenzi will bring them. Everything.”

  Allesandra answered him. “My vatarh brings the Kraljiki’s fate to him,” s
he said tartly, the emphasis in her statement obvious. Jan’s anger didn’t fade, but he smiled grimly at his daughter’s admonition, as did ca’Linnett.

  “We’ll deal with this failure later, Archigos,” Jan told him. “Numetodo or not, and despite the performance of your war-teni, we will prevail here. Starkkapitan, send our troops forward. Let us see how well the Garde Civile fares against true Firenzcian fury.”

  Ca’Linnett bowed and barked orders: cornets blared, and with a great cry, the army surged out from the trees, the chevarittai leading the way with banners of black and silver flying.

  But the resistance was stiff, far more tactically adroit than Jan had hoped. The flood of pages continued to come over the next turn of the glass, and the news was never what Jan wanted to hear. “That’s ca’Rudka,” Jan grumbled. “Ca’Montmorte hasn’t this kind of flair. The bastard should never have been allowed to escape Passe a’Fiume.”

  With that, ca’Linnett glanced at Jan uneasily. “They’re outnumbered, and your strategy has them spread along too long a line to defend well,” the starkkapitan insisted. “We have more war-teni and more chevarittai. They won’t be able to hold for much longer, my Hirzg.”

  Jan raised his eyebrows. “They’d better not, Starkkapitan,” he said.

  “For your sake.” At his side, Allesandra giggled at the face ca’Linnett made.

  Jan prowled the tree line restlessly, glaring across the field, his hand on his sword. He ached to be out there, even if he knew it was not his place. The adrenaline of battle sang in his ears, and he could not stay still. Allesandra watched him as he paced, her gaze always on him.

  But the starkkapitan proved to be prophetic. One of the pages came riding up, breathlessly, a grin on his stained face. “Their line’s broken, my Hirzg,” he shouted. “We are behind them now.” Even as the boy spoke, Jan heard Nessantico’s horns on the far side of the meadow calling retreat and saw a spell-fog rise near the trees on the other side of the clearing.