The boy looked mildly chagrinned. "Aye Brother Subdeacon."
"Go through the gestures again. This time --"
Before Aealmohs could complete the order, Postulant Second Lhorst, seated to the Captain's right at a narrow panel mounted with thirteen geometrically shaped devices, most of which had not yet had their magics rekeyed, interrupted him urgently. "Brother Subdeacon! I have a detection of magical objects approaching from the shore at approximately one hundred manheight!
Aealmohs swung his chair around and glanced at the centrally located flat octagon that Lhorst stared at fixedly. His own Ability of nearly three allowed him to see the shadows of magic on the slick gray surface, but without the rigorous training that the vocation of Skryer demanded, he could not interpret them.
"Calmly, Brother Lhorst. Surely these are the new flying Relics?"
"No, Brother Subdeacon! These are much smaller and their signature is more chaotic!"
Aealmohs did not hesitate. "Brother Ghlye, sound the battle alarm. Brother Kylen, jettison the anchor chains! Brother Seingt, main propulsion to one tenth! Eighty degrees rudder!"
As Captain, the Senior Subdeacon knew without a doubt that the safety of the Work was ultimately his responsibility. With little faith that the Duty and the Restoration could protect it, he did not intend to allow his ship to remain a sitting duck.
Bright flashes came through the starboard view port. Aealmohs jerked his head around just as a serious of heavy thuds vibrated the entire ship. Huge explosions had formed a fiery halo about the Duty. All of her spontaneous defense engines were firing upwards continuously at unseen targets.
"Main propulsion to fifty percent! Steer around the Restoration and make for open sea!"
The forward end of the Work vanished in a terrific blast that jolted the ship so sharply that Aealmohs was thrown from his chair. As he tried to get to his feet, another blast struck the starboard side almost immediately, and he fell heavily once more. Heat, sound, and debris hurtled through the bridge.
All of the others had been likewise toppled, save for Lhorst, who, clearly dead, was pinned to his chair by the armlength long shards of the portside view port.
The Captain grabbed the arm of the command chair and raised himself up.
"Seingt!" he shouted at the sprawled novitiate. "Full speed! Get us out of here!"
The boy obeyed, jumping up and gesturing madly at the helm. The Work surged forward, banking sharply to port.
Aealmohs seized G'ean by the shoulder and dragged him up. The Junior Brother had a bloody gash across his forehead but otherwise seemed ambulatory. "See to poor Lhorst, brother! And see if you can spy where the attack is coming from!"
G'ean staggered to Lhorst's station, briefly felt for a pulse in the man's neck, then turned his eyes outward through the remains of the port. "I can't see ... wait, there's something coming down. It's small, shiny. I think ...it's coming down right on top of us!"
"The Duty." Aealmohs intoned in a loud and resolute voice, as the ship, gaining speed, began to vibrate.
"The Work!" the survivors responded strongly.
"The Restora--"
ELEVEN
17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 47th Day of Glorious Work
(Thirdday, Waxing, 3rd Summermoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
Aboard the recovered Relic Duty, flagship of the Brotherhood.
"As of now," Bhrucherra informed the Archdeacon, "Seventeen Mhajhkaeirii'n Senators have accepted our offer."
Traeleon, mounting the last of the stairs of the temporary ladder from the launch, stepped onto the deck of the Duty and rotated to face the First Inquisitor. "That should be sufficient to provide the semblance of legitimacy. Make arrangements immediately for a session of the Senate to ratify our suzerainty of the Principate."
"Should I also provide an audience, Preeminence?"
"Indeed. Mind that you select the participants carefully."
Bhrucherra smiled wanly. "This goes without saying."
Brusquely, Traeleon turned about and continued on, headed toward the hatchway that would lead down to the "leadership site." The other members of the Conclave -- Bhrucherra, Martial Director Lhevatr, First Promulgator Zheltraw, the Chief Skryer -- and half a dozen aides and assistants followed. As he passed between a pair of the manheight tall close defense weapons, the turrets spun with abrupt and almost soundless precision, their protruding firing rails angling up sharply. The discharge of the weapons caught him in mid-step, the stream of black cylinders blasting the air with a sound like ripping fabric. At this close range, the clatter was loud enough to be painful.
Clamping his palms to his ears, he started to run. The concussion of an explosion overhead smashed him from his feet. Dozens of other explosions followed and the deck beneath him began to rock and shake from the force of the blasts.
Weaving across the bouncing deck, Lhevatr ran to him and without a word commenced to drag him bodily toward the central tower. Once in the shelter of an exterior catwalk, Traeleon shook off the Martial Director's grip and steadied himself against a stanchion as the Duty rolled under the impetus of the continuously discharging magic engines. As far as he could tell, every spontaneous weapon on the ship had activated.
Lhevatr jerked open the hatch. "My lord, we must get you inside!"
Another series of explosions filled the sky above the ship as the turrets found and annihilated an incoming pattern of glistening specks. The rippling downdrafts again caused the frame of the ship to shudder and shake.
"Preeminence," the Martial Director insisted, "those are the Apostate's enchantments falling on us! If one penetrates the defense and strikes near us, the leadership of the Brotherhood will again be decimated!"
Realizing the correctness of Lhevatr's caution, Traeleon nodded. He ran his thumbs along the underside of his fingers, counting the eight rings that he never put off, checking the spells.
"Assist the others. I will be in the command cabin." He hopped through the hatch, cut left immediately into the stairwell, and, hands sliding on the handrails, plunged down a level without touching a step. Bolting along the corridor, he burst into the command cabin. There were half a dozen watch standers present, all in various stages of agitation. Traeleon fixed his gaze on the calmest, the watch commander, a Salient Senior Coordinator with both Combatant and Strategist sigils.
"Brother Tlamaeigh, have you identified the source of the attack?"
"Preeminence, the barrage appears to have come from within the city," Tlamaeigh, standing next to the concentrating brother at the skryer's station, reported succinctly. "There was no discernable stirring in the ether prior to their launch and we haven't been able to locate any unusual flux concentrations that might indicate a Relic."
Before Traeleon could speak again, the Skryer announced clearly, "One of the enchantments has struck the Work."
The Archdeacon pressed his lips into a thin line. "Can you tell the extent of the damage?"
"Not completely, Preeminence," the brother answered without taking his gaze from the glass wafer fixed to the panel in front of him. "The ethereal signature of the ship is very different, but I don't know what the changes mean."
Needing the expertise of the Chief Skryer, Traeleon spun about and started back into the corridor, only to be immediately met by Bhrucherra. Behind him followed some of the attendants, who all seemed hale, though disoriented.
"Where is the Chief Skryer? I need his abilities."
The First Inquisitor looked grim. "I am sorry, my lord. He has rendered his life in service to the Work."
"What?"
"We believe that his heart failed, Preeminence."
Traeleon suppressed his own shock and declared in a placid, stentorian tone, "The Work."
"The Duty!"
"THE RESTORATION!"
The ship jolted again and the muffled thuds of the explosions echoed resoundingly through the cabin.
As soon as the reverberation quieted, Traeleon demanded of Bh
rucherra, "Where is the Martial Director?"
"He has gone to the bridge to take tactical command of the ship, Preeminence."
"And Zheltraw?"
The First Inquisitor offered a neutral expression. "To the Observation Mast."
"For what purpose?"
The Skryer looked up, his expression forestalling Bhrucherra's answer. The man's face had gone pale. "Preeminence."
"Yes, what is it?"
"Another enchantment has hit the Work. I think ... that is, it feels as if she's dead."
Into the silence this statement provoked, the young brother operating the far talking disk burst out, "A message relayed from Brother Whorlyr, Preeminence! He has launched his Shrike and sighted two wooden flying boats helmed by the Apostate! They are heading northwest away from the city!'
Traeleon's response was harsh and immediate. "Send this message to the Shrike: Attack."
TWELVE
The Phaelle'n skyship dove out of the sun and Mar neither saw nor heard it before the black cylinders stitched diagonally across the stern of Galley Number One. The rear mast, chopped cleanly through, crashed down in a tangle of lines and bundled canvas. Boxes jumped as they were holed and the line of destruction marched inevitably toward him.
Before he could react, he was struck on his left side and twisted around by the force of the blows, falling heavily onto a pile of canvas and rope. The shock left him stunned, and for a thick moment or two he could not grasp what had occurred. The attacking flyer hurtled overhead and flashed away, the vortex of its wake rocking the galleys.
He tried to get up, but his left arm, at first numb but now beginning to flare with pain, flopped uselessly. When he looked over at it, he saw a flood of blood pouring through his shirt from neat holes in his shoulder, forearm, and abdomen.
Groaning, he dragged himself across the jumbled heaps of cargo toward where he had cached the hammers, leaving a long smear of blood on the crates and boxes. A bout of dizziness and weakness almost made him faint, but he succeeded in reaching the spot as the Brotherhood's skyship banked across the galley's path and lined up to strafe him once more.
The ether responded tardily to his efforts, submitting incompletely to his control, but finally the hammers rose in an expanding cloud of twirling handles and wobbling black heads and raced out toward the burnished vessel. The Phaelle'n swerved to avoid them but was going too fast to miss them all. With a blast of light and a sharp clash, the skyship heeled over, slowing and flying erratically, then slid into a roll out of sight below Galley Number One's rail. He had not had the time or energy to infuse the hammers with an overload of flux, but the force of the simple collision had apparently damaged the attacker.
As a shudder of pain seized hold of him, he hoped desperately that the skyship did not return. The pain was so great that he could not concentrate and felt his sense of the ether flutter.
When his breath began to chop from his mouth in short, sharp gasps, he knew that he was dying.
With increasing desperation, he tried to find The Knife Fighter's Dirge, but could not compose the tune. A spike of pain shattered it each time he made the effort.
Dully, he tried to center his magical sense on the blood soaking his clothes and pooling stickily beneath him. The lowing persimmon flux of the liquid faded in and out as he attempted to manipulate it, and it seemed as if he were futility waving at a thin vapor as he worked to staunch the flow.
At one point, his vision tunneled, but after a few minutes, it returned, more or less, to normal. Eventually, he thought that he had succeeded in closing his wounds, but perhaps not completely. His left side remained awash with pain and that arm unresponsive. Drained of strength, both physical and magical, he managed after several attempts to sit up, using a combination of both. Knowing he needed to get the galleys clear of the city, he closed his eyes and began to pump vigor into the unusually uncooperative driving sound-color of both. At the level where it felt as if the wood had reached a major part of its maximum capacity, he relaxed again and did nothing but rest for a long time.
Though he dreaded its reappearance at any moment, the Phaelle'n skyship did not return as the galleys sailed along, and after a while the thought came to him that he should take a sighting on his course, lest he wind up a hundred leagues away from the encampment.
Standing proved impossible. The best that he could accomplish was a slump propped up by his right arm on a floating crate. Seated with legs hanging down on this ersatz throne and braving the stout, bone-chilling wind, he raised up high enough to see over the cargo and beyond the bow.
The galleys had cleared the city and the agricultural environs were visible all around. The altitude that he had set last, no more than a score manheight, did not provide him a sufficiently comprehensive view and he coaxed the galleys upward until he spied the twisting serpent of the Ice River in the far distance. This convinced him that his heading was too far west and he corrected slightly, then rotated about to scan the sky in the galleys' wake.
The Greatest City in All the World, reduced to a hazy splash of white and red on the horizon, looked to be a good ten leagues back. There was no sign of pursuit, airborne or otherwise. Nagged by the sharp wind that seemed to be leeching all warmth from his body and concerned about overshooting the encampment, he cut back the driving flux in both ships until the air crossing above them felt no more discomfiting than a slight breeze.
Then, half-afraid of what he would find, he spurred his crate across to the trailing galley to check on his passengers.
All eyes turned to him when he crossed above the prow and settled his crate onto a small, vacant wedge of deck at the bow, most widening in shock as murmurs and alarmed gasps spread through the entire group. As their curious gazes latched upon him, several of the nearby children set up a fuss before being grabbed up and quieted.
Thankfully, it did not look as if any of them had been hurt. Khlosb'ihs, his sons, and several other people near them in the forward part of the ship stood up hurriedly and worked their way through the still seated crowd toward Mar.
Clearly shocked, the shipwright asked anxiously, "My lord Magician, are you dying -- er, that is, will you be all right?"
Mar started to laugh, but stopped when the movement sent a wave of agony across his left side. "I'm pretty sure that I'll make it. Did anyone here get hit?"
"No, thanks be to the Forty-Nine, none of the flying thing's arrows struck here."
A very short woman at Khlosb'ihs' left spoke up. "You'd better get Aunt Whelsi, Khlos."
"Well, I don't know if that would be a good idea, Sholmiy," Khlosb'ihs objected.
"Don't be silly, Husband! He does witchery himself. He won't give her away."
"Still--"
Speaking to one of the sons, the woman cut Khlosb'ihs off, "Bhregk, go fetch Aunt Whelsi. She's way at the back with poor Mistress Sidndt. Tell her to bring her special bag."
"Yes, mum!"
Through labored breathing, Mar asked, "Your Aunt Whelsi, she's a healer?"
"Oh, no, she's just a nurse," Khlosb'ihs corrected quickly. "Nothing but practical techniques sanctioned by the Forty-Nine."
Sholmiy gave her husband a disgusted look but simply stepped close to Mar and put a hand on his forehead. "You're cold, my lord. You've lost way too much blood."
Mar decided not to expend energy to confirm the obvious.
Aunt Whelsi, instead of the wizened hag that Mar, thinking of Marihe, expected, turned out to be a tall, moderately heavy matron with straw colored hair and plump, slightly reddened cheeks.
Moving over to Mar's left side, she clucked her tongue at him as she ran her eyes over the bloody mess that the Phaelle'n had made of him. "You should be dead, young man."
He tried to shrug with his good shoulder, but gave up the effort when he almost lost his supporting grip on the crate.
Bhregk tried to offer her the large leather satchel that he had brought along, but she shook her head. "Bandages and salves won't help. He's sealed the wo
unds, but he's got to have more blood."
"Don't flinch, now," she told Mar. "I just need a sample."
She rubbed an index finger over the crusting blood on his draped useless arm, gazed intently at the smear on her finger for several seconds while she hummed a little tune, then looked up and swung her head to catalogue all the standing onlookers. "None of you will do. He's got the Old Blood and it's not strong enough in any of you to work." She tapped her chin in thought. "Where's your cousin Wilhm, Sholmiy? Did he come with us?"
"I think he did. I saw his brother and you know Orhv wouldn't leave Wilhm alone in the city."
The nurse pinned Khlosb'ihs with her gaze. "Go find him and ask him to come on up, would you? He'd take the request from you better than most and I don't want him to get in one of his moods."
The shipwright hesitated. "You sure you need him? You know how he gets sometimes. It'd be right dangerous to have a ruckus up here in the air."
"I've got to have him. No other will do and if we don't get some blood into this boy then he's sure to pass out here shortly and be dead, if I'm any judge, by the end of the day. Who'll helm these flying ships then?"
Khlosb'ihs grimaced. "All right. But I'm going to bring your brother-in-law Frem too. My son's and I'll need help if Wilhm goes off. Bhregk, Sihl, Tsor, all three of you come with me."
Mar, watching the exchange, thought about declining whatever arcane procedure Aunt Whelsi intended to practice upon him, but found that he could now hear-see the ether only intermittently. The crate beneath him barely shifted when he tried to raise it.
As Khlosb'ihs and his sons started toward the stern, they asked the other passengers to open an aisle, insisting on a space wide enough for two men to walk abreast. They stopped near the mast and spoke to a large man sitting on one of the rowing benches with a woman and a covey of children. This fellow immediately rose to join them, and the group continued on into shade of the stern castle where they all stood tensely for several moments while Khlosb'ihs spoke to someone seated on the deck.
Key to Magic 03 King Page 9
