"She turns slowly," the prince commented gruffly, watching aft at the trailing fan of skyships as Mar corrected his course. As it had been so for a number of days, a frown was never far from Lord Ghorn's face.
"I'm amazed that it turns at all," the thief rejoined. "I can't sense most of the rafts. They're too far back."
"What sort of speed do you think we will achieve?"
"This is about it. We might cover two or three leagues in an hour. We're heavy, much too heavy, and it takes all of the flux that I can muster to make Number Three drag the train."
Berhl grunted. "If the monk's skyships come..."
"I'll do what I can," Mar stated flatly. "That's all that I can say."
The rain caught them about midday. Preceded by strong and erratic winds, a line of dark clouds pushed through, shrouding the sky. The winds shoved the train about, rolling the rafts and skyships as if they were at sea and under heavy swells, and quite a few lost their stomachs. Following straight away behind the wind, the storm unleashed an intense and steady downpour that lashed the fleet for most of two hours. On the rafts and punts, the armsmen, lacking slickers or canvas, simply hunkered down in their armor and endured. On the larger craft, the civilian passengers on the upper decks likewise could only huddle together under inadequate tarps to wait out the rain. At first, the passengers on the lower decks had some protection, but eventually water pooled on the top decks and drained through the uncaulked planks, showering those below. Toward the end, the wind kicked up again and scattered spray even into any relatively protected spot spared from direct dowsing. The chilly inundation left everyone soaked, bedraggled, and thoroughly miserable.
Mar kept his place on the steerage platform, shrugging off the rain and the wind. Unless he constantly monitored and adjusted it, the driving flux in Number Three tended to weaken and he could not permit any diminishment in speed. Although he could have steered Number Three from anywhere aboard, even under the questionable shelter of a tarp, he felt compelled to be in the clear, where he could take off instantly to defend the train if need be. Lord Ghorn also did not budge from the exposed steerage platform and his demeanor suggested that this was not the first time that he had suffered a storm.
After the rain, the sky cleared, but the air remained cool and Mar began to feel the chill settle into his bones. When Berhl brought him a blanket, he did not refuse it. Steadfastly, he maintained the skyship train's speed and nightfall finally found them deep into the Great Forest.
Just after the rise of Father Moon, a ragged hurrah went up aboard Number Three when the Monolith came within sight.
TWENTY-FOUR
17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 53rd Day of Glorious Work
(Ninthday, Waxing, 3rd Summermoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
Above the Great Forest
Whorlyr touched studs to activate the Shrike's forward weapons, then moved a slider to adjust his speed. A lighted indicator, thought to show the straight-line distance to a potential target, flashed blinking characters, counting down. The characters did not exactly correlate to modern numbers, being based by all indications on a system that used multiples of thirteen, but he had learned to approximate their output. More or less, he was nine thousand armlengths from the rearmost of the fleeing Mhajhkaeirii'n flying boats.
"Abbot Jzeoosl, we have sighted the renegades and are closing to attack," he transmitted.
"Understood."
"Covey Two, spread out, two on each side of me," he ordered the helmsmen the four Shrikes following him. "We'll go in together, fly over firing, and then circle back. We'll repeat this maneuver until all of the flying boats are down."
Besides himself, only four of his covey had learned to operate the relics at night. With the use of the proper ethereal keys, in most cases no more than simple gestures, the relics could be coaxed to enable sophisticated collision avoidance magics, glass like panels that displayed views of their surrounding even in complete darkness, and automated flight to recognized waypoints.
However, the five Shrikes that he had, all with fully stocked magazines, should be more than sufficient to annihilate the fleeing Mhajhkaeirii renegades.
After hours of fruitless waiting and the approach of sunset, he had begun to think that some great calamity had befallen the expedition to chastise the Apostate. There had been no word from Mulsis and after his one request for updated information over Bh'sh's far talking disk had been peremptorily rebuffed, he had not dared to ask again.
Just as he had begun giving consideration to ordering his helmsmen to stand down, an order had come from Brother Traeleon, who, uncharacteristically, had spoken directly through the magic disk. "The Apostate and the renegades have escaped to the north. Find them and engage, inflicting as much damage as possible without undue risk to the Holy Relics."
Though the Archdeacon's voice had possessed its normal steady and unhurried tone, there had also been a hint of exasperation. That the famously imperturbable leader of the fraternity should reveal such emotion was unusual indeed.
Whorlyr had launched immediately, taking the four qualified brethren, but as he had raced toward the Mhajhkaeirii'n camp, he had begun to wonder at the significance of the Archdeacon's disregard of the normal chain of command.
Had the operation against the Apostate failed so thoroughly that he had felt the need to intervene personally?
Or, as Whorlyr had begun to suspect, was there some hidden conflict among the members of the Conclave?
More importantly, what advantage could he derive from such a conflict?
He adjusted the ball device that moved the glowing targeting circle, fixing it carefully on the image of the Mhajhkaeirii flying boats revealed by the night seeing magics. He would be in range in only seconds.
Suddenly, Abbot Jzeoosl spoke in his headset. "Message from Martial Director Lhevatr. Break off attack. Repeat. Break off attack. Return to Mhajhkaei."
Reflexively, Whorlyr banked up and to the right, the Shrikes to his port and starboard moving belatedly to follow.
He had to assume that the order was valid -- sanctioned by the Archdeacon -- but it would certainly be interesting to discover that it had not been.
TWENTY-FIVE
After the arrival at the Monolith, Mar slept for a full day and a night in a cot on Number Three, with Phehlahm or another marine standing watch continually to wake him should the skyships of the Brotherhood appear. For another day, he lazed about, sitting in on meetings as Lord Ghorn and his staff dealt with the problems and chores of making the section of the ruins that the Mhajhkaeirii occupied into a habitable and defensible settlement, doing small magical tasks like raising roof beams or hauling away raft loads of excavated debris, or flying across the top of the plateau to peer into standing structures to see what they might contain. By the afternoon of the third day, he was bored beyond description.
Having a thought, he went and found Aerlon and Berhl. The two officers, who, along with a dozen other responsibilities, acted as quartermasters for Lord Ghorn's command, had an office of sorts under an awning in what might have once been a walled garden. Surrounded by a jumble of split walls, roofless arrays of columns, and sagged heaps, the garden lay just north of the square tower. The remains of paved paths crisscrossed its weed-choked plots and the officers had sited the awning and the planks and sawhorses that they used for a table on a wide and more or less level section of one of these.
"How are we fixed for supplies?" he asked them as soon as he passed through the broken arch that served as the garden's gate. His abruptness did not preempt both men from saluting.
Aerlon tapped a pile of notes. "The rations we brought from the city and those from the galleys you liberated are all but gone, my lord king, but we still have enough of the wheat that we purchased in Elboern to make bread for a nearly a fortnight. Grinding it to flour by hand takes a lot of work, but so far we have been able to keep up."
"It sure would be nice to have some fresh beef, though," Berhl admitt
ed. "Or chicken or pork or even some fish. Anything would be better than hardtack. It's about like chewing leather."
This won a smile and a nod from Mar. Fresh meat of any kind did sound appealing. "Mhiskva told me a couple of days ago that we had credit in Elboern?"
"Yes, my lord king," Aerlon affirmed. "Lord Ghorn signed an open letter of credit in the name of the Prince. The small farmers and merchants guild there accepted it without question."
"Alright, let's go. How many head of cattle do you think will fit aboard Number Three?"
"Your pardon, my lord king," Berhl hedged, "but Lord Ghorn was thinking that you'd be staying at the Monolith till we've built more air attack shelters."
"We know that the monks don't fly their skyships at night," Mar told him. He was not entirely convinced of this, but so far they had not done so and he judged the risk acceptable. "I'll wait and go tonight, just like at the encampment. I can get a train down and back in less than two hours, plus whatever time it takes to load."
Berhl did not look convinced. "Maybe one of the trainees could be diverted from bringing in the loggers."
"None of the trainees can make the speed or drive the load that I can. It makes better sense if I go."
"Aye, my lord king, but --"
Mar decided that it was time to be autocratic. "It's decided. I'll leave with Number Three as soon as it gets dark. Get your shopping list ready."
Berhl saluted again. "Aye, my lord king."
"No list needs to be made, my lord king," Aerlon advised. "We need anything and everything. However, the merchants and farmers do not store much grain in the town. Most of it is in scattered bins and silos. Likewise, if you are determined to transport a load of livestock, after dark the animals will all be in pasture or pen in the countryside. For a large shipment to be ready when we arrive, we will have to make arrangements in advance."
"Fine. Aerlon, you come along and work out the details with the guild. Tonight we'll load up anything that's available and plan on going back for a full load tomorrow night."
At sunset, Mar pulled away from the causeway dock as planned, but in addition to Aerlon and his regular crew of Phehlahm and the slightly recovered Chaer and E'hve, he also had Mhiskva and a half troop of marines aboard. However, the captain and his armsmen were not coming as guards, but rather as guerrillas.
"My lord magician," Lord Ghorn had explained, "We cannot simply hide while the monks ravage the provinces of Mhajhkaei. Now that we have a secure position here on the Monolith, I think it is imperative that we demonstrate, both to the Phaelle'n and to our own people, that the forces of Mhajhkaei are not utterly defeated. Your trip to Elboern presents me with an opportunity to make such a demonstration. This first mission will be just a raid, limited in scope and duration. If you have no objection, I would like you to pick up Mhiskva and his group in half a fortnight. Primarily, the raiders will scout enemy movements, gather intelligence, and, if at all possible, attack Phaelle'n supply trains and fire key bridges near the city."
Mar made one detour on the way south. He stopped along the river and had the marines help him take aboard a load of sand, filling a dozen buckets that he had brought along for the purpose. After having several men take stations on the steerage platform to look out forward, he put Number Three on a due south course and let her cruise more or less on her own. Then he sat on a stool on the upper deck and spent half an hour making infused spheres.
"These are what you used to vanquish the Phaelle'n legions in Mhajhkaei, my lord King?" Aerlon asked. He did not add, "and destroy my legion as well," but Mar could see the painful thought plainly written in his eyes.
The Plydyrii and all of the Mhajhkaeirii, Mhiskva included, had gathered around to watch. It was not much of a show. Mar simply and quite methodically took a handful of sand from one bucket to his right, enchanted and infused it, and then set the sphere in another bucket to his left.
"Yes, these have some of the power of the sun wrapped up inside of them in a way that makes them unstable. When the enchantment is broken, that power is released all at once."
"My lord king," Mhiskva asked, clearly examining possibilities, "are these spheres strictly the province of magicians?"
"No, not particularly." Mar stood and offered the sphere that he had just made to the big captain. "How far do you think you could throw one?"
Mhiskva took the sphere with great care and held it in his palm to judge the weight. Though as wide as Mar's fist, in the marine officer's hand the sphere looked tiny.
"I am not sure, my lord king. Is there any way to increase the weight?"
"Hmm. Maybe. Let me see it again." Mar retrieved the sphere, concentrated a moment in an attempt to enhance the effect of the flux that bound things to the world, and then handed it back. "How about that?"
"Yes, that might do. Where would you like it thrown, my lord king?"
Mar walked to the port rail and slowed the skyship. His direct course had left the Ice River behind and carried the vessel across the forest. All three moons were in the sky and he had no difficulty making out the gray snag of a dead pine about twenty paces out. Letting Number Three descend to no more than a dozen armlengths above the quiescent treetops, he pointed at the snag. "Can you hit that?"
"I will try, my lord king."
Mhiskva's arm flew back and forward faster than Mar could follow. An instant later, a tremendous thunderclap and blare of blinding light eradicated the snag.
Mar gabbed onto the rail as the skyship rocked sharply from the outburst of air. Some of the marines danced to keep their footing, but Mhiskva only swayed slightly. Grinning, Mar went to one of the buckets, picked up and modified another sphere, then told Mhiskva, "Just throw it as far as you can."
The big man complied. After a few seconds, far out in the distance the top of another snag exploded, the remains collapsing down into the forest.
Phehlahm, standing with several of the marines whom Mar knew, commented, "Huh, I bet that's more than two hundred paces."
"Nearer three hundred, I'd say," Drev countered.
Borlhoir shrugged. "Well, you'd expect a ... well, a man the Captain's size to be able to do that."
"Excellent point," Mar agreed. "Anyone else want to try?"
None of the other marines that gave it a go could throw one farther than seventy or eighty paces, and most a good bit less. All detonated, though some missed their targets and fell to the forest floor before releasing their magic.
"My lord king," Mhiskva wanted to know, "how sensitive are these spheres?"
"You mean to accidental discharge? Oh, I'd say some. You might need to carry them separated and I'd avoid dropping one on stone or hard ground, but they should be safe enough otherwise."
Mhiskva considered the buckets of spheres. "How many might we have?"
"How many do you want?"
"Ten per man?"
Mar shrugged. "Alright, but we're going to have to get more sand."
Mar dropped Mhiskva and his men five leagues from Mhajhkaei, in a patch of scrub forest not far from a sleeping village. Each of the marines had every available pocket, pouch, and pack stuffed with sand spheres, none of which Mhiskva intended to bring back.
To avoid detection as he sped back north toward Elboern, he kept Number Three above a thousand manheight, a height where the ground appeared only as a gray, nearly featureless expanse. They arrived at the large town just before midnight. Situated on a low rise above a wide, meandering stream, the original settlement had been an Imperial Army cantonment and the Emperor's engineers had laid out a neat grid of precisely perpendicular streets that survived at its core, though now lined with the staid brick villas of merchants and other notables. Surrounding this imperial center was a sprawling buffer of more haphazardly designed boroughs with houses, shops, and factorages mostly built of timber and stucco. No lights showed in the town or in the rectangular-walled fort that lay on the highest part of the ridge, and the moon-shadowed streets and plazas were empty and still.
After circling the town at a hundred armlengths to check for any indication of the Brotherhood's presence, Mar descended and let Number Three coast in to the single watchtower of the fort. Aerlon had written orders (essentially, standby and await further instructions) from Lord Ghorn for the Mhajhkaeirii'n legion officer that commanded the hundred-man garrison and Mar had decided to take care of that assignment first. When the bowsprit was less than thirty armlengths away from the four manheight tower, a hoarse baritone called out a startled challenge.
"We're warship o' the City Number Three," Phehlahm, standing with Mar on the steerage platform, shouted back. "We bring orders from Prince-Commander Ghorn for Vice-Commander Dhrasnoaeghs."
Sparks flared and a torch came to life, revealing four grizzled, timeworn faces peering disbelievingly through the crenellations. According to Mhiskva, Elboern was a retirement post and not a single man of the garrison, including the commanding officer, was under fifty.
One of the men, a ceannaire that was probably over sixty, shouted an order to Phehlahm to stand off while he sent for the commander of the post, and Mar brought the skyship to a halt, broadside of the tower and half a dozen armlengths off the port side.
Vice-Commander Dhrasnoaeghs, thin to the point of gauntness, was a tall, silver-haired man with an aristocratic manner of speaking. He arrived in full armor, most of it having the dulled, scratched look of equipment that had seen long service. The one exception was his gilded imperial style helmet, replete with horsehair crest and sea blue plumage. As soon as he appeared atop the tower, Mar nudged Number Three close enough so that the fort commander and two of his fuglemen could climb aboard.
Mar hung back while Aerlon, with Phehlahm, Chaer, and E'hve looking on, greeted the officer and gave him the sealed message packet. When the men began to exchange pleasantries, he slipped away to his stool. He did not want to be caught short of sand spheres again and intended to devote every spare moment to their creation.
Key to Magic 03 King Page 17
