“Caw! Leave him alone, you lunatic!” Edgar shouted as he darted through the air toward Grimshaw.
The Constable shot out his good hand, and a bright red light arced from his fingertips and struck Edgar. The rook cried out as the magic threw him back with such force that in an instant he had disappeared among the trees, several black feathers floating to the ground.
“No!” Timothy called.
Grimshaw laughed and started walking toward Caiaphas. In his remaining hand, his good hand, the Constable summoned another spell. Dark magic churned there, black and red mixing together. Timothy had no idea what evil enchantment he was about to cast at Caiaphas, but did not want to find out.
Timothy shouted, imitating the riders he had heard among the Legion Nocturne. He kicked the horse’s flanks again and held on to the reins, standing up in the stirrups as the steed thundered toward Grimshaw.
The Constable was so focused on murdering Caiaphas that it took him a moment too long to realize what was happening. He spun just as Timothy and his mount bore down on him.
But the boy had no intention of trampling Grimshaw.
Timothy drew one foot up onto the saddle, braced himself, and then sprang from the back of the horse. The animal’s momentum propelled him at Grimshaw with incredible force. He collided with the Constable, wrapping his arms around the man and dragging him into a tumble of limbs on the ground. The instant they made contact, his arm and the cage around Caiaphas disappeared.
Grimshaw cried out in fury and then grunted in pain as they struck the ground. He flailed with his remaining hand, trying to pry Timothy loose, to get away from him, but the boy held on. He had wrestled and sparred with Ivar hundreds of times growing up. The Asura had taught him how to fight.
“Get off me, boy!” the Constable roared.
But his magic was gone.
Timothy’s heart was racing with fear and anger, and it was all because of this man, this hateful, evil man who would not leave him alone. Still, he tried only to hold Grimshaw down, waiting for Caiaphas to come help him. But the Constable got one hand loose and reached up to grab Timothy’s throat, choking him.
The boy hit him in the face, three times in quick succession. Grimshaw’s grip faltered. His eyes rolled up. He was dazed.
Timothy jumped off of him and backed away. “Caiaphas!” he shouted.
And the navigation mage—his friend—was there.
His blue robes torn and dirty, Caiaphas still seemed majestic as he stepped up beside Timothy. The mage contorted his fingers and sketched them through the air. He muttered something in words Timothy could not understand. Grimshaw was shaking his head, had one hand propped beneath him, trying to rise.
Bolts of golden light burst from Caiaphas’s hands, crackling as they arced out and struck Grimshaw. The Constable let out a single, short yelp of pain, shuddered, legs spasming, and then slumped back to the ground, unconscious, fallen leaves stuck in his hair.
“Wow,” Timothy whispered.
“Caw, caw!” Edgar cried. The rook flew in a circle above them and then landed on the path not far from the fallen constable. “Well done, Caiaphas. I didn’t know you packed that kind of wallop!”
Timothy was filled with relief at the sight of Edgar. He had feared the worst when the rook had been struck by Grimshaw’s magic.
Beneath his veil, Timothy thought Caiaphas might be grinning. “Well,” the navigation mage said, “I was angry, but I would never have the magical strength to defeat one as powerful as Constable Grimshaw. Timothy lowered his defenses, you see? It was easy, after that.”
The boy was happy to see that the navigator seemed unharmed. He looked at the rook. “Edgar, where did the creature go? The cat-thing?”
“You saw it take off into the woods,” the bird replied, pinning his wings behind his back and thrusting his chest out proudly. “That thing isn’t coming back, kid. Trust me. Not when it knows I’ll be with you. Guess I got here just in time.”
“You certainly did,” Timothy assured him, sitting comfortably on his horse, feeling now as though he had been riding the beasts all his life. “We’d best take Grimshaw and get back to SkyHaven. If Alhazred really is alive, Parliament must be warned.”
Chapter Eleven
Cassandra Nicodemus stood atop the western wall of SkyHaven. The fortress was massive, with its many towers and courtyards, but the wall surrounded it all. The island floated far above the roiling ocean, and the view from the western wall was breathtaking. The sun shone brightly, the sky almost green today, and in the distance, across the waves below, she could see the shore of Arcanum. Beyond that, on a day as clear as this, the highest spires of the city were visible. If she squinted, she was certain she could see the Xerxis.
The girl loved to walk the walls and battlements, to stand atop the towers and search the horizon or simply gaze at the endless power of the ocean. Usually it brought her peace.
But not today. There was too much going on that frightened her, too much she didn’t understand.
“Mistress Cassandra!” a voice shouted.
She spun, hands coming up defensively, fingers warm with the bright green magic that crackled in her grasp. The magic was almost the same shade as her robes. When she saw that it was merely an acolyte, running toward her along the battlement, she let out a breath and relaxed her stance. But the anxiety in her heart remained, for there was fear in the acolyte’s eyes and a tremor in his voice.
“What is it?” she demanded.
The young mage, member of the Order of Alhazred, ran to her. He was not a sentry or a combat mage, only a household servant at SkyHaven, and he bowed to her with deep respect.
“Something terrible has happened,” the acolyte said.
“What? Speak, man!”
He took a moment to catch his breath and then he steadied himself, gazing at her. “Grandmaster Maddox … he … we have just received word from the Xerxis. He made an appointment with the Voice yesterday—unbeknownst to any of his aides—and he went there … he tried to kill her, Mistress. Grandmaster Maddox attempted to murder the Voice of Parliament.”
Cassandra stared at him. The wind blew her long, red hair across her face, and she pushed it away. She shook her head. It made no sense. “How can that be? He was here. I left him with Carlyle less than an hour ago, in his chambers!”
The acolyte nodded. “We went to his chambers immediately when we heard, Mistress. The Grandmaster is gone. Carlyle was unconscious, attacked by some sinister magic or other. He has come round now, but it is too late. He is frantic, Mistress. He sent me to fetch you.”
A cold anger filled Cassandra, not directed at Carlyle or this acolyte, nor even at Leander. It was simply that she had had enough.
“Fetch me?” she snapped. “I am not one to be fetched. With Professor Maddox obviously no longer capable of serving as Acting Grandmaster, it falls to me to assert myself. From this moment on, I am Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred. Let the word go out. All should be on guard for Professor Maddox’s return. If he comes back to SkyHaven, he is to be captured—unhurt, if possible, but certainly alive.”
The young mage hesitated, his mouth opening and closing. “But, Mistress … Grandmaster … there’s more.”
“More?” The idea stopped her cold. Cassandra swallowed hard, and a knot of ice formed in her stomach. “By the gods, what more can there be?”
The acolyte’s nostrils flared in distaste. “That… thing … the metal man. The creation of the Un-Magician—”
“His name is Sheridan,” Cassandra said angrily. “What of him?”
The young mage stood up taller, back straight, properly chastised for his demeaning attitude toward the mechanical man. He nodded. “Yes, Sheridan, that’s it. I came upon him as I left the others with Carlyle, rushing to find you. It … Sheridan claims that the savage … Ivar … has disappeared. The Asura warrior is nowhere to be found.”
The icy knot in Cassandra’s stomach twisted even more painfully. She took several lo
ng breaths, nodding. She was Grandmaster now. She had to act like it.
“All right,” she said, pushing her hair once more away from her eyes. “Place on the walls every sentry to look out for Leander’s return, and rouse every acolyte and servant. Search all of SkyHaven.”
The acolyte looked horrified. “For a savage?”
Cassandra slapped him across the face, hard enough to raise red welts on his skin. The mage’s eyes widened and then flashed with anger, but he only lowered his gaze and said nothing.
“Never mind,” she snapped, pushing past him and rushing along the top of the wall. “I’ll do it myself.”
The air above Tora’nah was battered by the sounds of the miners at work, shattering rock and digging ore. On the first day, Verlis had watched the birds in the area take off in great flocks from trees and shrubbery, scattering across the sky for a time before attempting to return to their nests. But the noise was almost constant, thundering upon the ears, and the birds would quickly take flight once more. It had been hours since Verlis had seen a single bird in the sky above Tora’nah. They had been driven off entirely, now, and he wondered if they would return.
The Wurm stood atop a rocky outcropping in the face of the hill that contained the graves of the Dragons of Old. The memorial fires burned again, and he could not avoid the somber feeling that came over him whenever he lingered here. Yet there was nowhere else at Tora’nah that he wanted to be. His quarters were too cramped for him to really spread his wings, and he tried not to spend too much time soaring the skies above the ancient home of his people. It made the miners nervous. Made the mages nervous.
And without Leander there to calm them, Verlis thought it might be unwise to do anything that would cause more trouble between him and the mages than already existed. If they came after him again he might be forced to use his heart’s fire to burn them, or might be driven, perhaps, to eat one or two. Not that he had any interest in such conflict. But if attacked, Verlis would defend himself.
The ground rumbled beneath him. Verlis turned his gaze toward the mining operation. The sky was green, and the air crisp and cool. The wind carried a sharp odor, like live sparks, or one of Timothy’s matches burning. It was, he had learned, the smell of rock being crushed and ground against still more rock. Even now he saw the Burrower digging a fresh tunnel into a hillside not far away. The enormous drill at the front of the thing was tilted somewhat downward, and dirt and ground stone collected beneath it before being swept back and out behind the vehicle by special scoops Timothy had built into the design. It was an extraordinary machine, and Verlis knew that, to the mages, it must seem its own form of magic. Yet it was precisely what they needed to mine the Malleum from Tora’nah.
Timothy was a good boy. A smart boy. Verlis was filled with bittersweet emotion thinking about Timothy, for he knew that the boy’s father would have been so very proud to see how brave and clever his son had become. It made the Wurm long to return to Arcanum—to the Cade Estate—as soon as possible so that he could be with his own family.
Soon enough, he thought. For now, you have a job to do.
Someone had to watch over the dig at Tora’nah to be sure the ancient, sacred lands of the Dragons of Old were not disturbed any more than was absolutely necessary. And Verlis had more experience with mages than others of his kin. He was the only real choice. It would have been easier for him, however, if Timothy had not had to return to Arcanum. Verlis wondered about Leander’s health. He hoped the Grandmaster would recover quickly from whatever illness was plaguing him.
I don’t want to stay with these ignorant fools a moment longer than I must, the Wurm thought, snorting in derision. Tiny flames flickered from his snout, and plumes of smoke rose from his nostrils. Many of the mages were cruel and full of hate. Some were kind, but they were the minority.
Verlis spread his wings, leathery skin rasping as they unfolded. He dropped to his haunches and then lunged off of that outcropping, wings beating the air, soaring into the sky. The memorial, fires burning far below made his heart leap with pride. This was the great history of his people, and he had been made its guardian. He would not falter in that task.
The wind slipped around him and he glided on the air. Verlis let out a long breath of determination and satisfaction, fire spilling over his fangs and lips and churning in a cloud around his snout as he flew. Then he inhaled again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a single mage down below, on the open ground between the miners’ camp, the little village where they were all staying, and the mine itself. The mage was waving to him, and it took Verlis a moment to recognize Walter Telford, the project manager.
Walter was a serious man, but courteous. Verlis respected him. He dipped his wings into the wind and darted toward the ground. For a moment he allowed himself to plummet toward the rocky terrain, feeling the pull of gravity and the rush of air past him. Then he pulled his head up and his wings back and he banked in a slow circle before coming to rest a dozen feet away from the gray-haired project manager.
“Amazing,” Walter said, nodding to himself. “That really is a fairly amazing thing to watch. A Wurm in flight.”
Verlis gave a short bow. “Gracious of you to say so, friend.”
The man smiled at the word.
“How does your work proceed?” Verlis asked.
Walter scratched the back of his head. “Pretty well, actually. Better than we ever could have expected. The Cade boy’s machine—the Burrower—well, it’s saved us, really.” The man grinned and shrugged sheepishly. “We rely so completely on magic—most of us, anyway—that the idea of taking on a job this big without using spells and enchantments is pretty daunting. But it’s really working. We’ve already got enough Malleum that the blacksmiths have begun their work. The forges are burning.”
Verlis widened his eyes. He glanced back toward the mine and then back to Walter. “That is excellent news.” The Wurm nodded his heavy head, plumes of smoke snorting from his nostrils. “Truly excellent. Once heated and then cooled, Malleum is almost indestructible and cannot be melted again, even by the hottest fire. If Raptus manages to bring an invasion force through from Draconae, every piece of Malleum armor will be vital to your defense.”
The project manager clasped his hands behind his back and smiled, pleased with himself for some reason. He rocked a bit on his feet. “Yes, sir. That is what we’re hoping. Actually, though, we were all hoping you would come and have a look at what’s already been forged. You know—to see if you have any suggestions, to let us know if we’re doing it properly.”
The Wurm gestured for the mage to lead the way. “I will look, but I am no blacksmith myself.”
As they strode together across the hard ground, the two exchanged pleasantries and discussed other less than pleasant topics. No word had arrived on the condition of Grandmaster Maddox, and they were both concerned for him. Walter Telford hoped Timothy could return soon. The boy’s inventiveness was indispensable to them.
Soon they came over a rise and in view of the Forge, a long, gray building made of stone and metal. Inside were four massive furnaces over which the Malleum could be heated so that the smiths could do their work shaping it into the armor and weapons they would need to combat a Wurm invasion. Once it had been properly shaped, magic could be used upon it to add symbols or clasps and buckles, but once magic had touched it, the Malleum would be impossible to alter. Its shape was set.
Verlis had yet to visit the Forge. Now, as he strode down the hill toward it, he felt the heat rising in his own furnace, the one inside his chest. It was a good feeling, and he exhaled little streamers of fire from his snout. Perhaps if there were any place in this encampment he might feel at home, it would be here at the Forge.
As they approached, a door opened and a bald mage poked out his head. “Ready, Walter?”
Verlis and the project manager were perhaps one hundred feet away. Walter smiled and threw up his hands in a gesture of opening.
The mage swung the larg
e door wide with a creak of metal, giving them a view into the dark, fiery inner workings of the Forge. At first Verlis’s attention was on the two enormous furnaces that he could see within, the flames leaping above them. There came the clanging noise of metal being worked and shaped inside.
A group of mages emerged from the fiery orange gloom within the building, first just a few and then many others. They called amiably to one another, these men and women in their heavy aprons and gloves, these metal workers, armorers, and weaponsmasters.
“What is this?” the Wurm asked, confused by the friendly, welcoming expressions on their faces.
“They wanted to meet you,” Walter said as they continued walking nearer. They were fifty feet from the nearest of the mages now. “Well, some of them you’ve already met, but the smiths wanted to make sure you knew that not all of us think the worst of strangers.”
A warmth spread within Verlis’s chest that had nothing to do with the fires there. The very corners of his mouth turned upward in a sort of smile. His wings beat softly, and he held his talons at his side.
Then he saw what was coming from within. From the darkness within and to one side of the door, four more mages appeared. They carried a massive helmet, forged from Malleum so pure that it was a gleaming silver-white. It had been worked into a long shape, perfect to fit over the snout of a Wurm.
The smiths gathered around him. One of them, a stout woman with a rugged face and streaks of soot on her face, stood forward. “I’m Charna Tayvis, good sir. The supervisor here at the Forge.” With bright blue eyes she glanced around at the others. “We’re told that when the time comes, if the Wurms on the other side of that wall get through and want to do some killing, you’re going to stand with us. It’s appreciated. Nice to know we’re not alone if bad times come.”
Verlis was amazed. He stared at Charna, then at the helmet, then glanced at Walter, who only nodded, urging the stout woman on.
Ghostfire Page 15
