The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2)

by Joseph Schembrie

  As further orders were barked down the chain of command and status responses climbed back up again, the six engines clicked, chugged, and whirred, joining into a communal hum.

  Valarion went forward and touched the window. It was a meter high and a meter square, so clear it was hard to believe he wasn't looking through air. A miracle of modern-day glazing technology, he thought. A row of such windows wrapped around the front of the bridge in a horseshoe configuration, and he thought as he had done the first time upon sight of the ship: No wonder this thing is so expensive.

  Unlike an irrigation canal, though, it would soon prove its military value – or kill him while trying.

  A junior officer came to the windows, raised and lowered arms. A man standing on the ground in front of the ship duplicated the signal, and the ground crew released the lines simultaneously. Valarion felt a lurch and frantically grabbed for the railing. No need, though; after that the ascent was so smooth that the only clue to motion came from visual cues.

  Outside, the ground was falling away, the men becoming smaller, the whole world becoming smaller, the sky expanding as they cleared the cliffs. Valarion controlled his breath and surveyed the interior of the island of Italia eastward in a view that heretofore could only be had by climbers of Enta.

  “Level altitude,” the captain said.

  “Level altitude two hundred meters,” the response came.

  Valarion turned west and his eyes met the cone of the volcano. They were more than midway to the top. He could give the order and they might rise high enough to peek inside. Certain myths said that those who glimpsed the interior would be blessed with long life by the volcano goddess Atani. Other myths said that espying Tyfon, the monster of the volcano, might cause him to awaken and erupt. As air travel became routine, Valarion supposed, both superstitions would surely fade. Unless, that is, they were true. Valarion decided to test that another day.

  With Valarion's assent, Landar coordinated the flight test with the captain. The ship sailed to and fro, full power and full halt, ascend and descend, hard-a-port and hard-a-starboard. Despite the maneuvers, the ride was smoother than a trireme in placid waters.

  When the tests were concluded, Landar finished marking papers on a clipboard and said, “She's all yours, My Lord. But I'd like to get her home within an hour so we can do an inspection.”

  “An hour is all we'll need,” Valarion replied. “Captain, take her to Rome!”

  “Yes, My Lord!” the captain said. “Speed and altitude, My Lord?”

  “Speed should be leisurely, altitude low enough for the people to have a good look.”

  The captain's cheek twitched, but without comment he translated the directives into specific commands and the ship headed north and rounded Enta. The slopes of the not-quite-so-dormant volcano slipped past, revealing open sea and the Island of the Sisters. The sheer hexagonal walls of that fortress, so intimidating when viewed from the water, seemed no higher than the threshold of a doorway.

  No wonder she prefers the sewers, Valarion thought. How easy it would have been to bomb the noxious coven into oblivion, had their nest remained on the island!

  Valarion noticed that within the fortress, one of the largest buildings, an otherwise nondescript warehouse, was topped by a tower of metal, many meters in height, that resembled the branchless trunk of a tree. What in the name of the Witch of Rome is that contraption for?

  The airship headed west, over the water and paralleling the shore. Below on Italia, men plodded along the shore-side road. Many stared, some fled for concealment. With almost equal shock, Valarion realized that the airship could serve as an instrument not only of destruction but also of terror.

  The ship curved southward. As they circumnavigated the volcanic cone, the city came into view. They passed over the crumbling ancient wall that had protected Rome in its fishing-village days from the marauding bands of the islands interior, and the great ship slipped its shadow over the streets.

  Valarion was struck by the emotional impact of the perspective. From the Bay of Rome, the city on the slopes of Enta appeared lofty. From the balconies of the palace, the city appeared charming. From this altitude, the city appeared flat.

  The people below took notice of the ship. Pointing and conversing, their numbers grew as the buildings emptied into the streets. Valarion sensed they were enthralled rather than afraid. No one was cowering, and many waved. He waved back, but realized they wouldn't be able to see well behind the windows.

  “Is there some way I can be better viewed by the people?” he asked.

  “There is a platform below and behind,” the captain replied.

  An officer escorted aftward, down a ladder, through a door onto a platform outside. Valarion gripped the rail as the breeze rushed against his body. He was facing rocket launching racks similar to those that Landar had employed in launching the attack against Irkut's cohort. For the flight test, only the forward-most battery had been loaded. He spared the rockets an appreciative, almost grateful glance, then peered downward.

  The ship was two hundred meters over the city. The people recognized the imperial purple of his fluttering cape and waved, yelled, and cheered. Leaning precipitously over the rail, he waved back. That brought their response to a frenzy: people jumping and waving both arms over their heads as if they too were trying to fly.

  It seemed the whole city had turned out to watch. Some streets were so crowded that the pavement became hidden under the mass of humanity. Victory Square was mobbed. Soon it was no longer possible to speak of crowds, for the entire city had become one Crowd, stretching north to south, Enta to Bay. Not since the early days of the republic had a ruler of Rome met nearly all the citizenry in one gaze.

  The ship steered toward the North Claw of the Mouth of the Bay. It passed over the military base. Soldiers and seamen spilled from barracks and hastily assembled in rows as trumpets blared. Hands extended in salute, thousands chanted: “VALARION . . . VALARION . . . VALARION!”

  He saw the ashen remains of Military House and remembered the day when Archimedes had looked down upon him from the other airship. Valarion looked at the bay where the masts of the sunken ships protruded from where Archimedes had set fire to half the fleet. Valarion wondered if the crowds had the sights of that day seared in memory as strongly as he did. Well, he would have to do something about that.

  He surveyed the scene, resting his eyes on a dilapidated shack at the halfway point on Mount Enta. It was an old naval lookout station that had been abandoned decades ago for a newer one nearer the volcano's rim.

  Now, he thought, the whole city would remember it again.

  “I need a messenger to convey instructions to the captain,” Valarion said.

  The officer indicated the speaking tube. “I can contact the bridge through that, My Lord.”

  Modern times, Valarion thought. He pointed to the shack. “I want rockets launched against that structure. If he asks, it's for a demonstration.”

  A moment later, the ship gracefully turned, then hovered perpendicular to the mountainside. Crewmen emerged from the gondola and took stations at the launching racks, which were swiveled and angled to take aim.

  With a flexible hose to his ear, the officer reported, “My Lord, weapons are primed and targeted.”

  “Fire at will.”

  The deck jolted as volley after volley of rockets were loosed. Smoke trails stabbed toward the mountainside and flames blossomed against the slope, engulfing the shack. A pillar of black smoke arose as if the volcano had sprouted a new vent. The explosions reverberated over the city.

  Brief silence followed as the embers of the shack burned. Then from below came cheering, louder than ever before. It went on and on and Landar, who had come down to watch the launchings, said, “All you did was destroy a single building and it's like you conquered a city.”

  “Use your imagination,” Valarion replied. “It could just as well be a city.”

  And he thought of which one it would be.


  The crowds were still cheering as Valarion returned to the bridge. The captain reported that one of the engines was behaving erratically and Landar recommended a return to base. Valarion agreed. Once the airship alighted upon the canyon floor, he transferred to the coach and rode back to the palace. As he rode, he stared upward with new appreciation for the clouds which moments before he had mingled among.

  The streets were lined with well-wishers, smiles on every face. His bodyguard had to get aggressive to keep the crowd from pressing in, and Valarion wondered something that he never had to wonder before: whether it was possible to become too popular.

  As he mounted the final step into the palace entry, a servant met him with a folded message. It was on the accursed bland stationery. Valarion's spirits were too high for much irritation. He actually anticipated greeting the Mother as the temple guard conducted him on yet another seemingly random route to her most recent hiding place. He had even composed a brief speech to recount the events of the flight.

  When he arrived before the Box amid its court of temple guard and damp brick walls, however, he had no time even to open his mouth.

  Shouts came from behind. Led by a growling hound on a leash, Imperial Guards swarmed around the corner of the tunnel, bearing torches and armed with crossbows. Overwhelmed, the temple guard surrendered.

  A little too easily, Valarion thought.

  The soldiers parted and Maldus broke through, glaring. “Where is she, Valarion?”

  “Maldus,” Valarion said. “You fool!”

  “Oh, I'm done being the fool. I was a fool for thinking you were the best choice to replace a doddering old Hadron and save the Empire, and instead you nearly destroyed the Empire and got me killed too. You don't know how many times these past weeks I've thought of slitting your throat – but it was too late, I'd cast my fate with you and if you went down, so would I. However, now that the city is put together again, I see no reason to keep you alive.”

  “You betray me, Maldus?”

  “I expect such slow perception by someone whose jokes are as insipid as yours.”

  “Did you kill Godant, or did he bribe you to do this?”

  “Oh, he's dead. His last words with head on shoulders were to promise me senatorial rank, but I knew I could do better.” Maldus chuckled. “Why settle for a stripe of purple when I can claim it all?”

  “Maldus. If you have me killed, the people will be outraged. Didn't you see just now? I'm a hero to the city.”

  “The city will hear that there was a tragic accident. A terrible fall from the ship when the rail broke as you leaned too hard against it.”

  Valarion shrugged. “Ah.”

  “Don't worry, Valarion, I will commend your courage in my eulogy and you'll have a fine statue on the Avenue of the Champions.” Maldus pointed his sword at Valarion's neck. “It's over, Valarion. Just one more thing that I want from you. Tell me where the leader of the Sisters is and your death will be painless.”

  Valarion recalled the words of the prognosticator cube: You shall not die so long as you have your second by your side. Even the Wizard had admitted it might be a form of prophecy.

  Valarion had thought of Maldus as his second. Maldus, who had remained loyal through the worst, had seemed a fulfillment of the prophecy. Valarion had even come to regard him as a charm. And here the charm had turned against him.

  Yet perhaps, Valarion thought, the prophecy had not failed. For it was clear to him that in this situation, Maldus was the one about to die.

  “Maldus,” Valarion said. “You fool. You can't defeat the Sisters.”

  “I have two hundred men in these tunnels, armed with arrowheads dipped in an acid that the Sisters are said to find most distressing. And if that's not enough, I will have ten legions on call once I am emperor, to hunt the Sisters wherever they may hide. So don't think that they will rescue you. As for me, Valarion, I am not incompetent and I have no need for their support. I certainly have no desire to share power with monsters. Seriously, Valarion, you accuse me of betrayal, but should you not be on trial for the betrayal of humanity in subjugation to the inhuman? Tell me where their leader is, or shall I begin stripping your skin from its flesh?“

  Valarion eyed the blade that was centimeters from his face. The Box, he well noted, was continuing to blink yet remain silent. He wondered what the Mother was waiting for. Perhaps, for the sake of her sense of amusement, she would watch him be tortured to death. She said she had replacements, and she certainly had no affection for him personally. He doubted she experienced such a thing as affection toward anyone or anything.

  Valarion thought fast. Ego, he thought. The Box was without soul, but it still had personality; it had an ego. By playing to its vanity, he could incite it to act.

  “Maldus,” he said. “You have no idea what you've pitted yourself against. The leader of the Sisters is not a mortal being. It wouldn't matter if you had brought a thousand soldiers, or all the soldiers in all the legions. You can't defeat her with mortal power. She is on a different level than us, she is divine power. Even now she can strike you dead where you stand. Maldus, for your transgressions against a goddess, you will surely not leave this place alive.”

  “Valarion, what are you blathering about? Are you feigning madness now? Tell me where the leader of the Sisters is, or I'll slice your nose and ears off right now!”

  Valarion stepped aside and gestured at the Box blinking multicolored lights atop a pair of crates. “There, Maldus. There is the Mother of us all.”

  Maldus scowled. “What kind of joke is this?”

  “How many times have you seen the murals installed by the Sisters in the Senate and palace? What is here before you is the greatest artifact in all the legends: The Box That Everything Came In!”

  “A crude prop you've made to mislead childish minds! I'm not amused, Valarion.”

  “I warn you, Maldus, you must show respect. I warn you, take another step toward the Mother, and you will die.”

  Maldus might have had no intention of taking any steps toward the Box at all, but the gauntlet, as the saying goes, had been thrown. Scowling again, he strode toward the Mother with sword poised.

  After three steps, the Box began to hiss. Valarion smelled something sickly sweet. He coughed. His head felt as if it had become a balloon and might fly away. The floor seemed to heave and for a moment it was as if Tyfon had angrily awakened after all. But the Box was remaining firm on the crates and the torches on the wall were steady and the temple guard stood as if nothing were happening.

  Maldus and the Imperial Guard, though, were staggering. Maldus sprouted a look of confusion, rolled his eyes and collapsed along with the rest of his men. Valarion's legs gave out too and the floor came up to meet him and then there was only darkness, thoughtless and dreamless.

  When he opened his eyes, he felt the cold stones on his back. He sat up, cursing at the pounding of his head. He looked around. The floor was bare. The temple guard and the Box were where they had been when he'd come, as if nothing had happened in the time between.

  Valarion wobbled erect and bowed to the Mother. “Maldus and the Guard. Where are they?”

  “They have been neutralized,” she cheerfully replied. “Except for the dog. It has very nice genes. I've had it set free on the streets, where I'm sure it will fare well.”

  Two hundred men dead, his Imperial Guard without a leader, and she thought he was concerned about a hound. “So what was it this time that you . . . summoned . . . me here for?”

  “What has happened is what I summoned you for.”

  Maldus never had a chance, Valarion realized. The Mother had seen the coup coming, and had known that Valarion never would have believed her bare accusation. She had lured Maldus to her lair so that he would openly betray Valarion before Valarion's own eyes, so that she could execute Maldus without Valarion's objection.

  The Mother continued: “Emperor Valarion. Today you have shown the city of Rome the power of your emperor-s
hip. The next step after a show of power is an application of power. May I suggest the target be the city-state of Kresidala. How do you feel about that?”

  He was still dazed from the enormity of Maldus's betrayal, while she was already thinking – calculating – ahead. Foil coup and execute traitor. Done. Next item on the agenda is . . . .

  “I . . . concur.”

  “I will leave the details of the attack on Kresidala to your staff. I do want to emphasize that the destruction must be comprehensive.”

  “Comprehensive. Yes, of course.”

  When he was returned to the palace, he summoned the surviving officers of the Imperial Guard and informed them that Maldus and his men had died in a tragic cave-in within the sewers. Their hollow stares told him that no one believed the story and no one would challenge it.

  He appointed a new general for the Imperial Guard, a blob of a man whose primary qualification, in Valarion's mind, were eyes vacant of intellect and ambition. In other words, least likely to usurp.

  Valarion sipped tea in his study. He stared at documents and signed them without reading. Couriers arrived with congratulation notices from various Senators.

  Valarion found himself thinking of Matt, the boy from Britan, who as unimpressive as he'd appeared, truly was the Wizard from Aereoth. The wizard-boy knew the Box of Rome was real, and so did the witch-girl and Archimedes. However, no one in the Roman government knew the reality of the ancient myth, except for Valarion himself. Even Landar, who had spoken with it through a thin veil, would think his Emperor mad if the truth were mentioned.

  What can I do against an evil that I can't even mention?

  Valarion supposed he could command a raid on the sewers in a generic search for temple guards, but the Box had undoubtedly moved to another well-hidden location by then. To search the whole of the city sewers might require the bulk of the Imperial Guard, and if the Box could so easily dispatch two hundred men, could even a thousand withstand her?

  Assuming they could find her before in retaliation she had him 'suitably' replaced. No, he was trapped in her web for now. He would have to act, however, before she found her sister Box in Britan. He sensed that once that happened, she would dispense with him.