The Diamond Isle

by Stan Nicholls

  The floor bucked like a living creature. Doors imploded, windows shattered, chandeliers fell. Bricks and timber flew in all directions. There were clouds of smothering dust. Then the roof came down.

  Something, a number of somethings, pelted and pummelled her. And at the last she was on her back, unable to move, covered by a barely tolerable weight. Instantly, all of her fears about being trapped in a confined space became horrible reality. But the mind is a strange and wondrous thing, and no more so than in extreme situations. Instead of panic occupying her consciousness, she could only dwell on the question, who did she think the Resistance had stolen the dragon’s blood idea from in the first place?

  Serrah’s assumption was substantially correct. Out on the plain, and on the tops of a few low, flat hills not far off, the invaders had set up giant catapults and massive glamour launch tubes. They were using a mixture of rocks the size of houses and magical munitions in their bombardment. It was one of the latter that had struck the part of the redoubt Serrah was in.

  Caldason ran for the fortress as fast as he could, heedless of any in his path. Well behind, Kutch and Wendah, hand in hand, dashed after him. All the while, the barrage continued. Massive jagged projectiles ploughed into fleeing islanders and crashed through roofs. Hex shells fell like hail, spreading the pestilences of fire, vitriol and noxious gas.

  Inside the redoubt, people were already working frantically to clear debris and free the wounded. Several dead bodies were evident. In the chaos, Reeth spotted Kinsel. He had no way of knowing about his loss, and took his dazed appearance to be a result of the carnage.

  ‘Have you seen Serrah?’ he demanded, catching his sleeve.

  ‘Reeth! Yes. That is, I came to look for her when I heard the–’

  ‘Do you know where she might be?’

  Kutch and Wendah arrived, panting.

  ‘She was heading back to our apartment,’ Kinsel explained. ‘But they say that’s where the main strike was.’

  ‘Stay with your kids,’ Caldason told him. He ran in the direction of the collapse, bowling people aside and cutting a path for a breathless Wendah and Kutch.

  There were few people in the area of the worst roof fall. Rescuers had yet to arrive, and anybody there at the time of the strike likely had problems of their own.

  Caldason surveyed the downed walls and mounds of debris. The dust was still settling. Shouting Serrah’s name might have been an option if there wasn’t so much echoing noise already. ‘Where do we look?’

  ‘We can help,’ Kutch said. ‘Or Wendah can, rather.’

  ‘Can you, Wendah?’

  ‘My skill’s similar to Kutch’s but not the same,’ she said. ‘I could see things for Praltor, find things.’

  ‘Could you find Serrah?’

  ‘I can try.’ She started to wander into the wrecked corridor.

  ‘Be careful,’ Reeth warned.

  A couple of minutes later she stopped at a pile of twisted junk no different to any other. ‘There,’ she said, pointing at it.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nodded.

  Caldason cupped his mouth. ‘Serrah!’ he called. ‘Serrah!’

  There was a muffled response three or four paces away. Caldason began sifting through the wreckage, and Kutch came to help him. They kept calling, and narrowed their search by the responses. At last they came to a door, lying embedded in rubble. They heaved, Wendah adding her modest strength, and at last managed to shift it just enough to reveal a hollow beneath. The pasty white shape they made out in the darkness there was Serrah’s face.

  ‘Thank the gods,’ she said.

  Caldason went down on all fours and stretched his hand into the hole. He touched her face, and she kissed his hand.

  ‘Afraid I can’t return in kind,’ she explained. ‘I can’t move a limb. Can you get me out?’

  ‘Of course we can, my love. Are you all right? Anything broken?’

  ‘It’s hard to say when you can’t move. I don’t think so.’

  A shudder ran through the whole of their side of the building. Plaster and small bits of masonry bounced around.

  ‘This stuff on top of me isn’t very stable,’ she told him. ‘I can feel it shifting. And if it shifts the wrong way…’

  ‘We’ll get you out,’ he promised. ‘Just stay calm. We’re right here and we’re working on it.’ Then he looked about and saw the enormity of the task. There were pieces of stonework in the way that a dozen men would struggle to move. The sheer quantity of wreckage was daunting.

  There was another shift in floor and walls. Serrah cried out. He scrambled back to the hole.

  ‘It’s getting tighter down here,’ she complained. ‘If you’re going to come up with something, soon would be good.’

  Caldason reassured her again. His frustration was starting to find an outlet; as in combat, he felt the creeping onset of a berserk. He couldn’t see that being helpful in the present situation and tried to calm himself. He turned to Kutch and Wendah. ‘How? How are we going to get her out of there? At the best of times it’d take a small army to clear all this. And at any minute the lot could slip and crush her.’

  ‘You’re going into one of your tempers,’ Kutch said. ‘I know the signs.’

  ‘I’m trying not to.’ He added crankily, ‘What the hell has that got to do with it anyway?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Kutch replied, ‘it’s good. I mean…not good good but maybe it’s good for this situation.’

  ‘I’m not following this, Kutch. Does it have a bearing?’

  ‘We’ve discussed it, Wendah and me. Your rages are due to the Founder bit of your parentage, so it could be the best way to connect with that part of you.’

  ‘Why would I want to?’

  ‘Because of what happened in the stables today,’ Wendah told him. ‘Tapping whatever Founder magic you’ve got in you could help get Serrah out of there.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Kutch admitted. ‘But we do know the Founders had really powerful magic. Who can say what it might be capable of? Surely it’s worth a try?’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this but…yes, it’s worth trying. What do I do?’

  ‘Ah. That we’re not entirely sure about.’

  ‘Oh, great, Kutch.’

  ‘No, wait a minute. You’re already halfway to a berserk, so that kind of puts you in the right frame of mind. Now we need some kind of catalyst.’

  ‘What?’

  Kutch shrugged.

  ‘Damn it! I’m out of my depth here, boy. If this was a swordfight I’d know what to do.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What is? You want me to attack this mess with a blade?’

  ‘Do you remember the times you talked to me about the no-mind technique you use in fighting? That’s a particular frame of mind, like the berserks. If you could combine them–’

  ‘I see where you’re going, but I’m not sure how easy it’d be trying to reach a meditative state while a berserk’s building. That’s a boat tossed on a very choppy sea.’

  ‘Try it,’ Wendah urged.

  ‘Maybe if you treated this as a martial exercise and drew your sword…’ Kutch suggested.

  ‘What’s happening up there?’ Serrah wanted to know.

  ‘We have to do a bit of…figuring out,’ Caldason replied. ‘Hang on!’

  He crept away from the aperture, unsheathing his sword. ‘Wendah, Kutch; try to keep her occupied. I need to be able to concentrate.’

  He moved a little way off, adopted a stance he knew to be conducive, then opened himself to no-mind. In his hand he held the same sword that had earlier saved his life. He had no real idea of what he was supposed to be doing, which in no-mind terms was an asset.

  Wendah and Kutch were at the hole, comforting Serrah and letting her know what was happening.

  Another rumble came, along with the sounds of splitting timbers and cracking glass. Serrah screamed. Kutch and Wendah didn’t look to her.
As one, they turned and peered in Reeth’s direction. What they saw was awesome.

  He came to them. Nothing about his appearance had changed, with the exception of his eyes, and they would have been hard put to say what was different about them. It was through the filter of their talents that they perceived the really important transformation. They saw something terrifying and inspiring in equal measure, and as he approached they realised that they had no privilege in their view. Anyone would be aware of the power Caldason now embodied.

  There were no words. He simply gestured for them to move. Once they had, he took hold of the door and ripped it away like paper. He discarded it as easily as a plucked flower, sending it crashing halfway along the corridor. Then with no apparent effort he tore into the mass of debris imprisoning Serrah, tossing it clear.

  Nothing impeded him, stone, wood, tile or glass. He snapped iron supports in two and swatted aside masonry chunks twice his size. In no time he was hoisting Serrah free and they were in each other’s arms.

  She knew, too. No wild talent was needed to show her what was so obvious. ‘You’ve done it, Reeth,’ she said, mesmerised.

  ‘I feel…omnipotent,’ he told her.

  She gazed into his now so atypical eyes and saw a story there. The war of good and bad, his divided legacy, each side struggling for dominance.

  ‘You’re full of contradiction,’ she told him.

  ‘Yes. I have to keep the balance. If I slip into the dark…’

  They hadn’t noticed that the level of noise outside the redoubt had been rising. Now the sounds of battle were unmistakable, and they could hear the crash of more projectiles. Somehow, none of them doubted that Caldason could hear a lot more.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Kutch said. ‘It’s what they were trying to hide! It’s what’s inside you! The Founders didn’t want you having what you’re feeling now. Your mixed heritage, it makes for something different to them. Perhaps more powerful, because you have their remarkable magical strength tempered with humanity.’

  ‘You can do something, Reeth,’ Serrah told him. ‘You can go against that horde out there before they kill us all, along with the dream.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ll know.’

  He looked up to the shattered roof and the dark clouds above. Then he looked to himself, and he understood.

  Reeth Caldason was a lightning bolt. He streaked into the sky. It was like his visions. Exhilarating, hyper-real, filled with potential. He knew that the Dreamtime must have been something like this.

  He floated far above the land and the petty affairs of men. Majestic, ethereal, he felt only contempt for them. Then his human reason countered and he saw distinctions, a golden divide between nobility and evil. He started to pay attention to what was happening on the ground, and swiftly picked his targets.

  It only remained for him to become an avenging wraith, an exterminating angel, a force of nature.

  He dropped like a stone, dived like a bird, moved from air particle to air particle like something other than a man.

  The enemy’s great siege engines, catapults and glamour tubes were so much kindling for Caldason. He swept them from the plains and hills, and down onto the heads of the advancing armies. He caused fire to rain on the invaders. He turned their black clouds of arrows into silk scarves. He sent them needle-sharp ice slivers in their hundreds of thousands. He harassed their supply lines and spread contagious paranoia.

  Then he moved to the ocean and set about their ships, burning and sinking them at random, strafing the crowded beaches with shards of quartz and raw diamonds. He sowed the sailors’ ranks with venomous serpents and downpours of blood.

  The further reaches of the sea caught his eye. He soared high and saw another mighty, ill-assorted fleet there, unrelated to the empires’, which was heading for the island. And no sooner had he seen it than a surge of attraction swept over him. He wanted to go there.

  But something changed. He began to experience a falling away of his power. The possibility of his corporeal existence became an issue again. He felt less indomitable.

  He headed back to the ground, his energies bleeding. The island rushed in all directions to meet the horizon, became a rough map, then showed its detail. He saw the redoubt, a box surrounded by armies he’d only begun to decimate. The fortress’s inner square was visible, and shortly, the people in it.

  Caldason, almost fully himself now, drifted down to land in a clearing the islanders had pulled back to create.

  There was some cheering and applause. But just as much silent amazement or trepidation.

  A little delegation pushed through the crowd. Karr led it, Disgleirio and Phoenix at his side. Kutch and Wendah were there, and best of all, Serrah. She embraced him.

  ‘That was…fantastic, Reeth,’ Karr said, plainly amazed. ‘You did brilliantly. You’ve dealt a grievous blow and thrown them into disorder.’

  ‘You were awesome,’ Kutch volunteered.

  ‘But what went wrong?’ Phoenix asked. ‘Why did you stop?’

  ‘I had no choice in the matter. One minute I had the power, the next it was being taken away. Just after I saw the new fleet.’

  ‘New fleet?’ Disgleirio echoed.

  ‘Another one’s on the way. Not from either empire. I don’t know whose it is.’

  ‘Another force coming against us and your power’s failed. What’s going to protect us now?’

  ‘Perhaps it was my lack of expertise,’ Caldason offered. ‘Maybe if I try again–’

  ‘No,’ said Phoenix, ‘I don’t think so. Something else is happening here. The scrap of Founder magic in me makes me feel it. You should too, Reeth.’

  Caldason remembered the feeling he got looking at the unknown fleet, and the attraction it held for him. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘We can sense something,’ Wendah piped up. ‘Well, more me than Kutch actually, because I’m more sensitive.’

  ‘I’m getting it a bit,’ Kutch assured them.

  ‘Can you describe it?’ Karr asked.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Wendah replied. ‘I’ve not had this feeling before and it’s all wrong.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Phoenix agreed.

  They all fell silent after that, as though there was a mass perception of something imminent and strange.

  Then somebody said, ‘Hear that?’

  Everyone strained to listen. It wasn’t so much something that could be heard, as felt.

  The first they knew about it in Rintarah was a deep rumbling, similar to an earthquake.

  In many ways, an earthquake would have been preferable. It would probably have been more benign.

  For most, it started with the energy grid. The lines began to glow, pulsate, crack, and in some locations erupt in geysers of raw magic. Instances were so numerous that the licensed sorcerers and emergency glamour-dousing crews were overwhelmed. The pure magic, lacking restraint or expert direction, manifested as hordes of random glamours. Town streets and hamlets’ cobbled lanes swarmed with exotic, grotesque, surreal, frequently dangerous nightmares. The sky was filled with their flying brethren.

  Everything that depended on magic began to malfunction or fail. Lights went out, impossibly beautiful courtesans vanished in puffs of lavender-scented smoke. Public statuary froze, or ran amok. Fountains spewed molten lava. Lavish, shimmering gowns faded to drab rags. And all the while the populace was under siege from running, crawling, flying, swarming, exploding, melting, scalding, freezing onslaughts.

  As the magic escaped in ever greater quantities, its absence from the very structure of the environment began to be felt, very much like an earthquake. Tall towers were the first to go, their great weight no longer stable. Buildings collapsed, bridges swayed. Fissures opened up in country lanes and city boulevards, big enough to swallow horse-drawn carriages.

  What became apparent, to those able to observe it, was that in fact the magic was being negated; not leaking but ceasing to be. And with it went everything it supp
orted, in all senses, so that public anarchy and civil disobedience added to the chaos in normally well ordered Rintarah.

  In the capital, behind the rulers’ forbidding walls, things were no better. Jacinth Felderth, the empire’s most powerful individual, was in his beloved rose garden when catastrophe struck. The spectacle of witnessing his elegant blooms wither and turn to dust was made all the more unedifying for knowing the same was about to happen to him.

  All over Rintarah, but most especially in the capital, the families of the ruling elite, which is to say surviving Founders, were suddenly seen as they really were. The rapid onset of the ageing process, making up for the countless centuries cheated, informed an outraged populace. Tyranny they could tolerate. Being ruled by something not quite human was a different matter. The scales fell from their eyes and there was something akin to a general uprising, fanned by remnants of the Resistance. Their task was made the easier with the disappearance of the authorities’ magical defences.

  Gath Tampoorians first had an inkling of what was to come when many observed a deep rumbling, of the kind an earthquake makes.

  Overall, their experience was very much the same as Rintarah’s. City and countryside saw the wholesale escape of magic. They had their cracks and geysers, too, and a plague of glamours. Their proud buildings and shunned hovels fell, just the same. Dams broke, forests burned and streets were ripped up with the force of it.

  Like the citizens of their rival empire, they saw their rulers in their true light. Indeed, some of them met their ends at the hands of their own subjects, notwithstanding the ageing acceleration process would have got them anyway. There was much bewailing of the loss of magic, in common with Rintarah. And here too, the people fell to insurrection, aided by what was left of the Resistance. A prolonged period of uncertainty and confusion was predicted, and the fate of the empire was by no means assured at the end of it. In this respect, Gath Tampoor also mirrored Rintarah.

  Empress Bethmilno was at the matrix pit in her palace throne room trying to reach her Rintarahian counterpart, Felderth, when the pit erupted. The subsequent discovery of what was left of her corpse threw no light on the case. Her family suffered similar fates, or speedily aged to dirt.