Key to Magic 03 King

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Hovering directly in their path, Mar peered toward the strange skyships. At this distance, the objects were mere glints against the sky. Might they have the semblance of some fantastical beast, like the Bhrekxa? But no, as they drew closer, it became clear that these were also crafted apparatus like the Phaelle'n's gray ships, the artifice of magical smiths.

  He did not question that these new apparitions belonged to the Brotherhood. Who else would have access to ancient magic?

  He strained to extend his awareness out through the ether, seeking to divine the nature of the oncoming skyships' spells. The distance was still beyond his range, but he did sense an oddness in the background magic. As they drew near with shocking rapidity, he began to perceive more, encountering an incomprehensible array of densely wrapped and intertwined flux modulations like nothing he had previously experienced. Extremely powerful, all were awe-inspiring admixtures of sound-colors, braided in such complexity that he could not determine where one modulation ended and another began.

  Within seconds, the two craft had closed upon the encampment once more, and they dove towards the crossroads and the moored skyships with obvious malignant intent. The dart-like shapes hurtled in front of him at a distance of no more than a hundred armlengths and crossed over the forward end of the barge train, hardly ten manheight above the upper canvas awning of Number Two. Reddish light spat from the Phaelle'n crafts' forward sections as each unleashed a dark, wavering stream that ripped into the moored skyship's timbers. Number Two exploded spectacularly, the raking fire shattering her decks and hull in a blast of erupting flux and yellow fire. The stricken skyship buckled along her midsection and broke apart, her bow and stern sagging in different directions. As dark gray smoke began to climb into the air, the two attackers streaked away, almost faster than Mar could think. Whirlwinds spawned in their wakes, toppling tents and raising clouds of dust that swept across the panicked civilians.

  Mind racing, Mar tweaked the flux supporting his brigandine to drive him toward the wreckage. Leagues away, the two attacking skyships banked to return for another pass over the crossroads.

  He knew immediately that his immature skill could not affect this new menace. He had brought down the Bhrekxa by disrupting the flux modulations of its spell, but he had no hope of doing the same with these. The complexity of their spells was simply beyond him.

  With his will alone, he had been able to deflect the green flux lances when he, Mhiskva, and the marines had been attacked in the Mhajhkaeirii'n street. Could he do the same to dark streams?

  Clearly, the Mhajhkaeirii'n skyships were their primary target; the Phaelle'n could have easily wreaked terrible carnage among the helpless civilians. Taking a protective position above Number One, his heart began to race. Like arrows, the approaching skyships seemed pointed directly at his chest.

  Below, marines and legionnaires scrambled onto the upper deck of Number One carrying shields and crossbows. Telriy, easily identifiable, sprinted in their midst as they rushed toward the steerage platform at the bow. He was too high to shout a warning and patently did not have the time to descend to order them away.

  Belatedly, The Knife Fighter's Dirge sprang to mind and he began to hum, working to gain the time he needed to prepare for the coming onslaught. As always, his spell made the progress of the world around him slow to a crawl, but when he went to move toward the Brotherhood's skyships, he found a strong flux resistance pushing back against him. The farther his magics drove him from his original location, the stronger the resistance became. Inundating his brigandine with an overload of ethereal energy, he surged perhaps another armlength, but the air around him filled with scalding-blue, scarping shrieks of violated flux. With some alarm, he realized that travel through slowed time, which he had not previously attempted, might actually be impossible. Abandoning the fruitless attempt, he allowed his spell to fade and saw red fire flare again from the attackers.

  Focusing his full attention toward the wavering streams, he sensed within less than a second that each was actually composed of unenchanted bits of some material hurled at a great speed. Their impetus reflected from the background flux as a pale, grumbling-yellow. Reacting without plan, he raked a random wave of scrambled static-purple from the ether and flooded it toward the bits, trying to intercept them scant armlengths above Number One. The grinding clash of flux where the static-purple met the grumbling-yellow dissipated the latter in a stark burst that roiled the background gray, and the bits began to scatter, losing all speed and dispersing to earth about the grounded skyship.

  Then the Phaelle'n skyships had passed over, stunningly close, the rushing wind of their passage battering him and driving him backwards through the air, leaving him with a fleeting impression of sharp metal and dark glass.

  Elated at his success, he rotated to face the next attack. Number One began to pull grudgingly away from the burning remains of Number Two and a large group of armsmen had moved in to haul on ropes fastened to Number Three, dragging it back to prevent the spread of the fire to the rest of the train.

  Driving on Number One, which Telriy had turned to the east, the sharp-edged metal birds unleashed their torrents of grumbling-yellow driven bits, but once again, his static-purple shield leached their speed and scattered them harmlessly.

  Five more times the Phaelle'n attacked, but each time without success. When they altered the angle of their attack to bear instead on the barges, he flew back to cover them. The speed of the monks' ships gave them indisputable advantage, but it also precluded rapid corrections of their course, allowing Mar to judge accurately where they intended to strike.

  After the fifth ineffectual pass, the aerial craft abruptly banked away and disappeared to the south.

  FIVE

  17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 45th Day of Glorious Work

  (Firstday, Waxing, 3rd Summermoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)

  The Greatest City in All the World

  From dozens of leagues away, Abbot Jzeoosl's voice came clearly through Whorlyr's headset. "Brother Whorlyr, we are beginning our first run. As instructed, the two of us shall concentrate on but one of the flying boats."

  "Understood."

  Up to this point, the brethren had been unable to coax the far talking enchantments of the Shrike Relics to communicate with anything but themselves. None of the recovered handheld far talking discs evinced even the slightest sound when the magics in a Shrike were activated. Brother Salhm’l, the discoverer of the Shrikes, had speculated that the vessels encoded their flux messages in a specific manner designed to prevent interception. Thus, in order to monitor the attack, it had been necessary to utilize an additional Shrike. This, of course, also necessitated a third operator to sit in the control compartment and verbally relay events.

  Whorlyr had been fortunate to be present, reporting the status of his cloister and their Relics to Martial Director Lhevatr, when notification that the research team had successfully activated the Shrikes had come from the Chief Skryer. Without a second of delay, the Archdeacon had commanded that a trio of the Relics be brought to Mhajhkaei. The first pair had arrived in the conquered city but a scant hour later, flown in under cover of darkness by the researcher who had finally cracked their key sequence, Abbot Jzeoosl, and his assistant, Junior Specialist Brother Hyeu.

  Waiting with his deployed cloister in the commandeered opulence of the Palace's Garden of the Eternal Mhajhkaeirii'n Peace, Whorlyr's mouth had fallen agape as the massive Shrikes descended from the night sky in utter silence, their landing struts crushing ornate flowerbeds and cracking decorative walks. He had heard rumors of their existence, but had discounted the outlandish story as just another bored novitiate's fancy. Larger than two wagons placed end to end, with sharp forward edges and a sweptback shape, it had seemed to him that the wingless craft did not so much resemble the merciless songbird for which they were named as they did the flattened, burnished head of spear.

  The Archdeacon had seemed only slightly less
impressed. "The description that I had received led me to believe that they were not quite so large. There is room but for a one occupant?"

  "Indeed, Preeminence." Martial Director Lhevatr, standing, as he often did, at the head of the order's elbow, had replied. "As I understand it, the control compartment contains only a single seat. There is also a large compartment behind retractable panels on its belly, but thus far the consensus of our scholars is that this is storage for large, independently launched weapons, none of which were stored with the Shrikes."

  "What of the third Relic?"

  "None of the other candidates successfully accomplished the key sequence, my lord, in time for their departure. Abbot Jzeoosl has expressed doubts that any others of his research community have the combination of Ability and clarity required to do so in the short term."

  "A satisfactory candidate must be found within the hour, Marital Director."

  "Yes, Preeminence."

  Simultaneously recognizing and seizing his opportunity, Whorlyr had boldly stepped into the Archdeacon's presence and offered himself as a volunteer.

  Clearly eschewing offense at this breach of protocol, the Archdeacon had observed him for a moment and then asked, "Your Ability?"

  "Two and one tenth, Preeminence." Whorlyr had let his pride show. That placed him in the top tenth percentile of all gifted brethren.

  "What meditation mastery have you achieved?"

  "I hold the Tenth Degree of Ibin'sho'wg, Preeminence." That placed him in the top one thousandth percentile of all members of the Brotherhood.

  "Brother, your eagerness to embrace the Duty is well regarded. You may study with the Abbott, but be forewarned, time is of the essence."

  Whorlyr had been unable to suppress his grin. Even were he to fail, the attempt could do nothing but enhance his status in the fraternity of the Great Phaelle. Were he to succeed, the experience of contact with this newly revealed, perfectly preserved, and fully operational Holy Relic and the extended contact with the Archdeacon and his chief advisors would no doubt lead to accelerated advancement in the hierarchy!

  Dispatched immediately through the Emerald Gate back to the Home Community on Shoarian, Abbott Jzeoosl had returned in an astoundingly short time with the necessary third Shrike and commenced to instruct Whorlyr in the enunciation of its key. In less than two hours, the ecstatic K'hilbaeii had successfully mastered the series, a single forty-seven syllable phrase in a dead tongue that had thirteen distinctly accentuated intonations. When he brought his Shrike to a life, a mild vibration had stirred its metal skin as softly colored lights and unclearly perceived flux fields had sprung up. Mirroring the magical reaction, an ecstatic thrill had passed through Whorlyr as the intoxicating magics of the war Relic had enfolded him, and straight away, he began to plot how he might insure that he would be fully instructed in their use.

  Now, in the waning hours of the next morning, Archdeacon Traeleon, Marital Director Lhevatr, and several attendants from the College of Archivists stood on a wooden platform immediately beside the opened observation hatch of Whorlyr's Shrike. Around them, at the entrances to the Palace, along the garden's enclosing curtain walls, and amongst the benches, statuary, and maltreated vegetation, a full congregation of heavily armed Salients, including Whorlyr's own cloister, stood guard.

  "Status, Brother," the Archdeacon commanded.

  Whorlyr exchanged a few words with the abbot. "Preeminence, Brother Jzeoosl reports that they have begun the attack."

  Within seconds, another message came through the headset. "Brother Whorlyr, we have succeeded in the destruction of one of the flying boats."

  Whorlyr announced the success to those waiting.

  "It was totally destroyed?" Martial Director Lhevatr asked, wanting clarification.

  Whorlyr spoke again into the mouthpiece of his headset and then replied. "Indeed. They have broken its back and it is aflame."

  "What is the response of the Mhajhkaeirii'n sorcerer?" Archdeacon Traeleon asked.

  "Brother Jzeoosl. Your status?"

  "Neither craft has taken damage. The Apostate has not struck against us."

  "None, as yet, Preeminence."

  "How many of the cylinders for the impulse engine catapults remain?"

  Whorlyr voiced the Archdeacon's question to the distant Abbott and received an immediate reply. "His gauge reads eighty-three percent."

  "Continue the attack."

  "As you say, Preeminence."

  Calm and unruffled, the Archdeacon asked no further questions and took a sedate seat on a waiting stool.

  Whorlyr resisted his own temptation to pester Jzeoosl for an update. After several minutes, the leader of the attacking pair spoke at length.

  "Preeminence, Brother Jzeoosl reports that the Apostate had erected a strong ward above the other flying boats. The accelerated cylinders have been completely neutralized."

  Without expression, the Archdeacon nodded. "As we suspected. His ammunition store?"

  Whorlyr held a short exchange with Jzeoosl. "Thirty-seven percent."

  Archdeacon Traeleon turned to Brother Lhevatr. "Martial Director, your analysis?"

  "Preeminence, as per our primary objective, we have confirmed the capabilities of the Shrikes. We have also discovered that the Apostate has no recovered magics to bring against them, at least at this time. Also, we now know that the ward Relic in his possession is effective against all forms of distance magical weaponry that we can access currently."

  "Recommendations?"

  "While I see no difficulty in the use of the Shrikes against other enemies, we should not send them against the Apostate a second time. As he can counteract their main armament, the risk that his magics may damage or destroy them is great. My initial impressions suggest that we should utilize them primarily in a defensive mode to protect the Holy Trio against further attacks from the Apostate's flying boats."

  Whorlyr watched this exchange carefully, seeking to determine whether the rumors that Brother Lhevatr was in disfavor had merit. Advancement in the Brotherhood often required the leveraging of schisms in the upper ranks. One must, however, take care to choose the ascendant faction. Many brethren had chosen their allegiances unwisely and suffered for it.

  The Archdeacon raised one eyebrow slightly. "I would disagree, Martial Director. I see the outcome of this experiment as a revelation of the Apostate's vulnerabilities. First, while he did finally succeed in protecting their flying boats with his ward relic, he had no forewarning of the attack and therefore must be unable to skry. Second, it seems clear that the only offensive magic available to the Apostate was the enchanted missiles, and that the cache of these has in all likelihood been exhausted. Third, the Apostate can readily be taken by surprise. You will immediately make preparations for a decisive strike against the escaped Mhajhkaeirii'n bandits along the lines we discussed this morning."

  Brother Lhevatr's face gave nothing away. “As you say, Preeminence.”

  The Martial Director came to attention and made the archaic imperial salute. This display struck Whorlyr as odd. It was well known that Lhevatr, one of the few brethren who had risen to his position outside of the militaristic order, was not a Salient. The manner of his obeisance hinted that he might be a member of the small, insular, secretive, and half-mythical Society of the Duty.

  The Archdeacon turned to command Whorlyr. "Brother, signal the craft to withdraw."

  "Yes, my lord."

  The Archdeacon gathered his attendants with his eyes and moved to descend from the platform. As if struck by a thought, he stopped and turned back to face Whorlyr again.

  "Brother, you have demonstrated satisfactory proficiency with the Shrikes. As Abbott Jzeoosl's research efforts are too important to risk in further combat missions, I believe that operation of the Shrikes shall be given over to brethren seasoned in the arts of war. I intend to nominate your advancement to Junior Assault Brother within the hour. My expectation is that the Deaconate Congregation of the Salient Order will speedi
ly concur. At that point, you will be placed in command of the cloister that will form as flyer helmsmen are trained."

  Not bothering to wait for an acknowledgment, the Archdeacon turned about again and departed for the Palace.

  Feeling like shouting with glee, Whorlyr instead simply allowed a triumphant grin to envelope his face.

  SIX

  When Mar located Number One -- barely two hundred yards from the encampment and climbing slowly -- and slammed his boots onto its upper deck, his anger was so ferocious that he literally could not see straight. A hazy cloud of grinding-coal flux generated by his outrage boiled from his skin and obscured his vision. But he knew exactly where Telriy was; she now gave off a wane, whispering-emerald in the ether that he could sense from a hundred armlengths away. Ulor, Phehlahm, and a dozen other armored marines and legionnaires had formed a defensive turtle around her, spears, swords, and other wickedly sharp implements bristling.

  "My lord king --" the subaltern (Both Ulor's and Berhl's impromptu promotions by Mar had been readily accepted as fact by all the Mhajhkaeirii.) began.

  Mar enchanted the leather of the armsmen's armor and effortlessly swept them all from his path, leather creaking and metal clanking, and advanced toward the forward platform where the young woman waited.

  "What in the foul name of Gheshuai do you think you're doing?" he exploded when he was barely an armlength from her.

  Telriy's eyes flared as she leaned toward him, her body stiff and vibrating. "It should be obvious that I'm steering the skyship."

  "Who told you to do that?"

  "Nobody told me to do that!" Her tone and volume now matched his own. The marines and legionnaires stood about in awkward silence, uncomfortably witnessing the tiff with guarded expressions.

  "I told you to take shelter!"

  "Who else could move the skyship?"

  "I could have!"

  "That's idiotic!"

  Feeling his blood surge through his veins, Mar clamped his mouth shut in inarticulate rage. The ether reacted to the intensity of his emotion, the background gray adulterating with bursts of spectral color that washed static through the air around him, causing tiny, bright blue sparks to jump from the armor and weapons of the Mhajhkaeirii. Alarmed by this expression of uncontrolled magic, an aggravated impulse drove him to soar off the skyship, ascending at a terrific rate.