Key to Magic 03 King

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Clinging to the wobbling stool -- for some reason his impromptu chariot did not respond to enchantment well -- he hovered low above the abbreviated deck and infused the lifting and driving spells, then raised the vessel to four manheight, causing it to shed the temporary scaffolds and ladders that surrounded it in a great rending clatter. Satisfied that it would hold together, he moved on to the skeleton of Number Nine. While she had a complete keel, little more than half of her lower deck had been covered and only a few main timbers had been put in place for the upper deck. Worried that the existing hull structure was too weak to bear a load, he confined his spells to the keel and slowly raised it, studying the interactions of the flux. Some of the ribs, lacking proper stays, trembled, but it looked as if the half-finished skyship would also fly.

  When he brought the pair to the tower, rather than line them up behind Number Three, he lowered them to the ground clear of the crowd. Berhl, followed by a dozen marines, ran up to him.

  "Get to work on these two," Mar told him. "I want Nine finished and two decks added on top of each one. Then put all the rafts together that you can. I'll be back to enchant them."

  The vice-captain looked agog. "But ... my lord king, my crews are all scattered. We don't have workers or time to even begin!"

  "I know. I'm going to get both." With that, Mar took off again.

  The shield wall formed by the diminished Mhajhkaeirii legions was two ranks deep and looked pitifully inadequate. Many of them only had part of their equipment and very few of the men in the second rank had full armor or shields. Instead of spears or swords, some of the legionnaires wielded cudgels. Some bore bandages and quite a few looked unsteady. None, however, appeared to waver in the face of the Phaelle'n battle line forming just a little more than a thousand armlengths in front of them.

  Dropping down, Mar found Lord Ghorn behind the center of the line in the midst of a full section deployed in a square formation. Before the Prince-Commander could speak, he told him, "I need you to withdraw and put your men to work on the skyships."

  The prince opened his mouth then closed it abruptly. After a moment, he grimaced. "I take it that you have a way to keep the monks back from the crossroads?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you also cover our withdrawal?"

  "Yes." Mar did not intend to waste time explaining. Magic was, after all, his trade.

  After a short beat, Lord Ghorn bobbed his head in a brief nod. "Very well, my lord magician. I will issue commands to withdraw at your order."

  "I won't be close. You'll know when to move out." Mar soared away.

  There was corn to the east of the highway and barley to the west, the first a month shy of being ready to harvest and the second ready for the scythe. At breakneck speed, he sped along a bare fingerlength above the crops, sowing a magically enhanced band of fire in his wake that spanned nearly two thousand armlengths. He drew a great arc, a reversed shield, between the Phaelle'n and the Mhajhkaeirii. The barley burned well, but the moisture-filled corn demanded a hotter fire and he complied, feeding flux into the flames until they were nearly three manheight high. He continued to swing back and forth along the barrier, maintaining the wall of fire with floods of sifting-purple even where all fuel had turned to ash. For the most part, he kept the fire from spreading beyond its original twenty-armlength swath. Eventually, it seemed as if only the soil itself could be burning and the fire became much hotter, the flames going from yellow-white to bluish-green, so that he could not bear to be closer than a dozen paces from it. At that point, the fire appeared to become self-sustaining, requiring much less attention.

  Looking back north, he saw that the Mhajhkaeirii legions had broken into squares and begun to march up to the crossroads. When he raised his stool up above the flames and smoke to check on the Phaelle'n, he found that they had redeployed to column and started to march east, paralleling the banks of the stream, their obvious intention to skirt the end of the fire wall.

  That would not do.

  Flying five hundred paces in front of their lead elements, he slashed across the Phaelle'n's path, extending the end of his fire wall south across the corn to the stream, fed it until it also formed an impassable barricade, then zoomed to the west and did the same. Finally, he scythed back east, a hundred paces out from the stream and less than that from the marching legionnaires, to complete the box.

  The legions, trapped, simply halted, but did not show any signs of disturbance or confusion. They appeared to be waiting.

  Expecting the imminent arrival of the Brotherhood's armed skyships, he moved back towards the crossroads and gained altitude to intercept them, wondering if the material of which there were made would burn or if the devices were even subject to his magic at all.

  He also wondered, without surmising any likely answer, why they had not attacked already.

  After a nearly half an hour, with no sign of the streaking darts, he relaxed; whatever had detained them apparently continued to do so. His high vantage gave him an excellent view of the area. The Phaelle'n legions had assembled into a large circular formation astraddle the highway and more or less equidistant from the magical fires that confined them. As bidden, the Mhajhkaeirii legions had returned to the crossroads and begun work on the skyships and rafts, with a light picket deployed around the mooring tower and the crowd of civilians. To the northeast, the two detached Phaelle'n legions had made a turn and were now closing on the crossroads, while the Mhajhkaeirii'n marines, perhaps half as many, were advancing into an expansive bean field to intercept them.

  Taking one more look to the south and still seeing no indication of an aerial attack, he flew out toward the bean field.

  TWENTY-TWO

  17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 52nd Day of Glorious Work

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

  An unknown farmer's black bean field

  Marching steadily at a pace synchronized to that of the brethren at his sides, Recruit Brother First Mhers risked a quick scratch at the fresh tattoo on his cheek. When Encourager Second Szhelm had applied the needle, Mhers had been too proud to wince at the pain, but now the symbol of his advancement in the Brotherhood itched abominably.

  "No movement in the ranks!" Junior Ascertainer N'hil bellowed, who stomped along the moving line and then back-stepped expertly while he confronted Mhers. "The order was to stand ready Recruit! That mean's no scratching you stupid sod!"

  Jolted, Mhers snatched his hand back to the pommel of his sword, freezing his upper body in the Ready stance: buckler held at his waist in his left hand with his right ready to draw. Satisfied, Brother N'hil stalked farther down the line, glaring at the ranks of the Seventeenth Cloister of the Fourteenth Holy Legion.

  As a swordsman in the reserve, Mhers -- thankfully -- would not face the enemy's first blows. He was not a coward, but he was afraid.

  He had become a Salient in order to free himself of the dictatorial confines of his tyrannical mother's household on Khikhos, save himself from the drudgery of a lifetime as a fisherman, and avoid the certain destiny of a marriage to one of the daughters of a neighboring family, whose females tended almost exclusively to the hirsute and heavy.

  There were many zealots in the Salient Order, but, while he made the responses to the litany with quick enthusiasm and demonstrative fervor, he was not one of them.

  Truth to be told, though he never dared put his doubts to words, he only half-believed in magic. He had seen the demonstration of Holy Relics in the guise of the far talking disks and other devices that his legion possessed, witnessed from a distance the might of the Holy Trio and of the astounding new Shrikes, and heard tales of the Emerald Gate and other fantastic salvaged apparatus, but it seemed to him that magic was no more a matter of spiritual belief than an axe or hammer. To his mind, these recovered wonders seemed more the product of lost scholarship than of a mystical power that no man could see and a scarce few could work.

  A command echoed down
the line and he halted in perfect unison with his comrades, forming an arrow-straight line across the crushed rows of beans. Thinking that the battle line of Droahmaerii thirty paces in front of him, a full legion three ranks deep, was about to make contact with the Mhajhkaeirii'n marines, he looked out beyond the spears and shields of the allied armsmen. The marines were normally lightly armed and armored, according to Junior Ascertainer N'hil, but could move quickly and were given to unorthodox tactics. Brother N'hil had said that it might be an intense fight, but with the odds looking to be more than two to one, it should also be a short one.

  Mhers hoped it was. He was well trained and confident in his own abilities, but this would be his first battle. Having arrived in Mhajhkaei on the Second Fleet, with the city already pacified, the Mhajhkaeirii legions scattered and defeated, and the populace subjugated, he had not had not yet been personally introduced to the brutality of war. Reportedly, the initial battles of the invasion had been easy victories against a broken foe and if he had sailed with the First Fleet instead, that introduction might have been less dangerous than the one he faced now. But he had also been told tales of the horrendous slaughter sprung from the Apostate's resistance, so perhaps it was fortunate that he had not.

  Truth to be told, he felt some trepidation, for he had never witnessed violent death of any kind. His life on Khikhos had been one of security and peace and though there had lately been rumors of the executions of recalcitrant Mhajhkaeirii, he had not been called upon to either observe or facilitate them. Nevertheless, he believed himself prepared to face the potential carnage of battle. Today he would learn whether that was true.

  Oddly, the dark line of the Mhajhkaeirii was still far to the west. Then, he saw the reason for the halt, a wide bellied wooden vessel, floating down from a good height, the low, late afternoon sun causing it to cast a long shadow across the field. That such things could fly still amazed him, and he watched it, engrossed, as it landed just to the fore of the forward Droahmaerii rank.

  After a moment, two men, larger than the largest man that he had ever seen, leapt from the bow of the vessel, dropping nearly two manheight with no apparent difficulty, stood together for a moment, and then, astonishingly, charged.

  When these maniacs crashed with suicidal intent into the shields of the Droahmaerii front rank, he thought that they would speedily receive their just due.

  What he saw instead horrified him.

  The two giants -- they stood head and shoulders above the armsmen they faced -- struck with dizzying speed, slashing about with swords as long as Mhers was tall, and the Droahmaerii fell, their shields and armor of no effect against the shinning blades. Ten went down, then twenty, then thirty, and the giants became covered in blood. Bodies lay in heaps and any legionnaire who stood against them died. With a wide breach carved through the shield line, the two demons raced along its rear, hamstringing one unprepared man after another, and the formation disintegrated into a confused mob.

  Then, the demons turned toward the immobile reserve line of the Fourteenth Holy Legion.

  Mhers turned and started running.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The magic drew Mar. It was a blood pounding crimson scream, singing from the midst of the melee in a fountain that created a tempest through the background ether.

  When he was a thousand armlengths from the marines, he caught sight of the barge, Revenge, moving slowly across the bean field between the opposing forces, and cursed. Rushing immediately to it, he came down on its deck so fast that the legs of his stool struck and shattered. He kicked the remains aside and confronted Trea and Ihlvoh, who, rather than the shocked apprehension that he expected, seemed almost beside themselves with excitement. The few corsairs, crowded elbow to elbow at the rail ogling the battle, hardly spared Mar a glance.

  "What is the barge doing here?" he demanded.

  Ihlvoh swelled with pride. "Fighting the Phaelle'n!"

  "Following orders, my lord king!" added the more observant Trea right on the heels of his brothers boast, having noted the anger radiating from Mar.

  "I told you to get away from the encampment and warn the loggers!"

  The ferocity of his reply brought the brothers up short. Ihlvoh looked suddenly sullen, but Trea went on the defensive.

  "When the Captain saw the Phaelle'n, he ordered us to bring the Revenge down," the older brother explained. "And the Captain is absolute ruler of a ship at sea. That's the law!"

  Mar growled inarticulately and spat out, "Get the barge out of here!"

  Without waiting to make sure that the brothers obeyed, he retrieved the remains of the seat of his stool and flew toward the churning dust and swirling men that marked the location of the center of the vortex of magic and -- he could sense them in the ether -- that of Lord Hhrahld and Wilhm.

  The Gaaelfharenii stood back to back, surrounded by the dead and dying and presenting a stark, visceral image that was both magnificent and horrible. Beyond the corpses, a wide, cleared circle had opened, the maroon and gray blazoned legionnaires keeping back just out of the dancing reach of the giants' swords.

  As he drew nearer, Mar identified the magic that had called to him from nearly a league away. Between the ancient pirate and his catechumen, linking and uniting them, was a complex cord of flaring ether that vibrated in unison with the beating of two warrior hearts. That connection reinforced the intensity of the effects of the spells that he could now see that each possessed, intricate flux modulations that seemed rooted in their very bones, to perhaps tenfold of their normal power. Mar somehow knew that this was old magic, older than the ancient magic of the Blood Oath and far more potent. The intense magics drastically enhanced their ferocity, courage, and prowess, making men already almost unbelievably strong and fast into nigh unstoppable forces of death.

  But the magic had not made them invincible.

  Both men had taken severe wounds from head to toe, their armor in tatters and streaked with blood, theirs and others, and Wilhm had a crossbow bolt an armlength long sticking through one thigh. This injury had hobbled the young man and he seemed unable to move very far. Lord Hhrahld, fierce and unbowed beneath his mane of ivory hair, looked ready to stand by his shield mate till death.

  All across the field, Phaelle'n officers were rallying crossbowmen and pushing them forward. In mere moments, Lord Hhrahld and Wilhm would surely be struck down, ancient magic or no.

  Mhiskva's marines struck then, slamming into the disorganized legionnaires in full charge and carrying the Phaelle'n away like sea froth before a merciless storm.

  As quick as a bolt, Mar flew close and, infusing the leather of their armor, plucked the Gaaelfharenii out of the battle. He carried them away in the direction of the Revenge, separating them to either side of himself in order to better control their flight. When they were five armlengths apart, their tie of magic began to fade and then quite abruptly vanished. Simultaneously, the two went limp, eyes closing and heads lolling. Shocked, Mar redoubled his speed.

  When he reached the barge, he gently laid the unconscious giants on the planks and knelt to examine their ethereal natures. He staunched bleeding and knit flesh where he could, but did not know what to do about the quarrel in Wilhm's leg. Convinced that both would continue breathing, he picked out two of the corsairs who stood by gaping, Ghesev and a thin scoundrel who Mar had only heard referred to as Spit, and set them to binding their Captain's and Wilhm's wounds, then hurried back to the battle.

  There was, however, no need of his magic. The Phaelle'n were in full rout and Mhiskva had drawn up his marines at the eastern periphery of the bean field to reform his battle lines. Mar dropped alongside the High-Captain.

  Mhiskva saluted and asked immediately, "My lord king, how goes the battle with the main column?"

  "There is none. The monks there are contained and should remain so for some time. Pull back to the encampment and put your marines to work on the skyships."

  Mhiskva saluted again. "Aye, my lord king!"

 
Mar had felt no reticence as he had issued the brusque order. If he must be king, he would be king.

  It took until well after dawn of the next day to complete sufficient wooden vessels of all sorts and sizes to give a berth to every Mhajhkaeirii and to load every possible material and resource remaining in the encampment. All through the night, Mar, vigilant for any further ground attack and continually dreading the appearance of the Phaelle'n skyships, circled the torch lit crossroads as armsmen and civilians labored. The fiery prison that he had created to the south continued to burn, lighting the night sky with an alien glow, and the entrapped legions made no moves to escape that he could detect. If the broken circling force managed to regroup, it remained far out of Mar's sight, both magical and otherwise, and did not again venture to assault the Mhajhkaeirii.

  With daybreak had come a reddened eastern sky and the threat of rain. Lord Ghorn and his officers took the possibility stoically, but Mar grew anxious, worrying that the Brotherhood would use the limited visibility of a storm to mount another attack.

  When the last marine climbed aboard the last overloaded raft, some of which were just unguarded, open-sided platforms, Mar raised his fleet of half-built vessels and started north. With ropes in short supply, it had been necessary to fasten all of the various rafts and punts together with nailed planks to make it possible for him to guide the conglomeration from a single point, the steerage of Number Three. Consequently, the fleet moved ponderously and awkwardly, like some giant, wounded beast, and it took nearly a half an hour to get all of it to twenty manheight of altitude.

  To prevent his command structure, such as it was, from being decimated by the destruction of a single vessel, Lord Ghorn had distributed his officers evenly throughout the fleet, placing Mhiskva on Number Eight and Lord Purhlea and Number Nine. With only Berhl accompanying him, he himself had squeezed aboard Mar's flagship and now sat on the steerage platform beside the magician in a chair that had been found for him. Behind them, every square armlength of deck space was occupied. The throng of passengers, armsmen and refugees alike, looked strained but not panicked. Mar was not sure if they had become inured to the calamity of their situation or were simply stunned.