Key to Magic 04 Emperor

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  "One of the cousins will be taking his place?" Erskh prodded the vice-commander. It might have been more prudent to leave the matter to languish for the nonce and extract the information through normal channels (spying, bribery, and extortion) but he wanted to see if he could crack this apparently imperturbable vice-commander's composure.

  "It has been determined that the method for selection of the command authority of the Imperial Army should transition from the traditional scheme and to a more professional and merit oriented system."

  Erskh waved a hand negligently to discard this convoluted answer and cut to the heart of the matter. "Who is currently in command of the Imperial Army?"

  Relvhm awarded him a slight bow in acknowledgement.

  This was an interesting development indeed. It suggested that some thirty odd senior officers -- granted that practically all of them held their posts due to familial and political connections -- had been passed over, had retired, or possibly had suffered "apoplexy." It remained to be seen whether this reorganization would present a challenge to the prerogatives of the Viceroy's Personal Guard and his own position within the ruling structure. The question of whether it would improve the effectiveness of the Imperial Army was irrelevant to Erskh.

  Just for good measure, Erskh raised a curious eyebrow but the legionnaire officer offered nothing further, regarding the Commandant with guileless patience.

  "Right. We should proceed. Captain Naelsyen, signal the fortress that we are ready to begin the meeting."

  As the Viceroy's representative, Erskh could lay theoretical claim to leadership of the delegation and he fully intended to assert this prerogative without soliciting input from either this upstart legionnaire or the brooding patriarchs.

  His aide spoke to a waiting guardsman and that fellow unfurled and raised a plain green banner. A matching banner immediately rose from the upper platform of the right-hand gate tower and within moments the large, well-maintained gates were swung open. He watched with interest and calculation as the Mhajhkaeirii'n party exited the fortress.

  They came armed, of course, but as far as he could tell their weapons were simple swords and not the fantastical armament he had half-expected. Marching in an ordered square, they numbered exactly the previously agreed two score and ten to match the count of the Khalarii delegation. Their armor was all well-oiled leather and battle-scarred steel. None of these warriors were concerned about how history would record their appearance.

  And none of them were scribes, bureaucrats, bodyguards, or merchants. Erskh could readily judge -- by the constantly watchful eyes, the scars, and the well used weapons -- that these were all armsmen that had not only seen numerous battles, but won them.

  He had expected no less. Whatever had drawn the southerners north, it was not some prince's passing fancy, jingoistic impulse, or drink-induced whim.

  The Mhajhkaeirii were led by a very large man bearing unfamiliar insignia -- at least it was not derived from the imperial system -- on his armor. This officer halted his formation about forty paces out from the gate, a distance that was obviously within easy bowshot of the walls of the fortress. Moving out five paces ahead of his men, he settled to wait without visible sign of impatience or agitation.

  Erskh noted with a slight trepidation that the Mhajhkaeirii officer bore as a weapon a huge double-headed axe that was longer than the Commandant was tall.

  Before either Vice-Commander Relvhm or one of the patriarchs could step forward, Erskh signaled Captain Naelsyen and Khai to join him and moved out to meet the man. With the initiative already taken, the other delegates, Relvhm with his four legionnaires and the four patriarchs and their bodyguards in a clutch, had no choice but to follow passively.

  As he neared the Mhajhkaeirii officer, Erskh found his head tilting backwards of its own accord as he tried to maintain eye contact and began to realize how truly gargantuan the invader was. Rather than be forced to crane his neck at an uncomfortable angle, he stopped at better than two and a half times a normal conversational distance. On impulse, he discarded his planned lengthy opening speech and chose instead to offer a simple salute.

  "I am Erskh of the House of Dhent and I represent Viceroy Ghreghten XI. These gentlemen are Vice-Commander Relvhm, Imperial Army, and the merchants Hwraldek, Erhtrys, Czerag, and Faegniy of the Assembly of the Patriarchs."

  When the Mhajhkaeirii returned his salute, it was crisp, exact, and near awe-inspiring. "Captain Mhiskva, Mhajhkaeirii'n Royal Marines."

  Erskh had considered several ways of approaching the meeting, all of them involving bluster to some degree or other, but something about this gigantic armsman told him that anything but frank discourse would be futile. Contrary to his habitual manner, he decided to be simple and straightforward.

  "Why are you here and what do you want?" he asked baldly.

  Vice-Commander Naelsyen looked mildly surprised and Hwraldek and the other patriarchs all tensed, but none of them spoke up or made move to interfere.

  The Mhajhkaeirii captain's unreadable expression did not waver. "We have come to rescue our king and this we have done."

  As far as Erskh was concerned, the man might as well have said "we have come to plant white daisies in yellow cheese", for all the sense his actual statement had made.

  But was a king any more fantastic than the reality of flying -- dare he think it, magical -- ships?

  Assuming that he must accept the statement at face value, who was this Mhajhkaeirii'n king? How and why had he come to be in Khalar? And from what or from whom had he required rescue?

  Asking those questions aloud, however, might cause him to appear comically ignorant and that would certainly reflect badly in the historical record.

  There was one obvious question that seemed safe (historically speaking) to broach and for the moment he could think of nothing else to ask. "Will you now depart?"

  The large man let his eyes rove dispassionately over the assembled Khalarii. "The King's wishes regarding the fate of Khalar have yet to be made known."

  This statement, sounding very much like a denunciation, brought Erskh up short. The clear threat was that if they so desired, the Mhajhkaeirii could level the city. Looking up at the impressive giant, he had no trouble believing that they could do just that.

  Projecting a business-minded air and using a reasoning tone, Patriarch Hwraldek stepped forward a pace to speak. "Were you to detail the nature of your King's grievance against Khalar, then perhaps we might be able to mutually determine a means to repair or alleviate any unintended insult that has been done him."

  Erskh sneered. Hwraldek could quite handily feign the toady when it suited him.

  Captain Mhiskva gazed at each of them in turn: Erskh, Hwraldek, and Relvhm. The Commandant felt both accused and dismissed at the same time.

  "Agents of this city," the Mhajhkaeirii officer told them, "have confined our king, subjected him to beatings and other abuse, and attempted to put him to death by crucifixion and burning."

  Erskh shrunk inside himself. This explained the destruction of the House of Justice! The Viceroy's Personal Guard had suzerainty over civil order and the dispensing of justice within the city. As a direct consequence, all courts fell under his direct, personal supervision. But, surely, he would not be held personally responsible for this unauthorized assault on the Mhajhkaeirii king?

  He glanced at Hwraldek, saw the man eyeing him appraisingly, and felt a chill crawl up his spine. Of course, the Patriarchs would not hesitate to cast Erskh up as a sacrifice!

  "All perpetrators responsible for this heinous crime will be summarily dealt with!" Erskh blared in sudden panic. His thoughts began to tumble one after another in a rampaging stampede. Without plan or purpose, he stumbled on, searching for some way to divert blame and any possible repercussions from his person.

  "No villain ... no ... conspirator will escape! All ... traitors within the Viceroy's Personal Guard will be caught and executed! This plot to ... disrupt ... the ... er ... reunion of Khal
ar to the south ...to the Empire ... and the ... ascension of ... the lawful and just Emperor ... the rightful heir, the one true ruler --- the Great and Merciful King of Mhajhkaei!"

  Carried away by the rush, he dropped awkwardly to one knee and made what he hoped was a passable imitation of the ancient imperial salute, then spat out a more or less quote of something he had read as a child. "I declare true allegiance to the Splendid Emperor of the Glorious Empire, the Gods Anointed King of Mhajhkaei!"

  All of the patriarchs twisted about to look at him, aghast.

  "The Imperial Army declares its complete and unconditional support for the new Emperor!" Relvhm roared suddenly, kneeling to mimic Erskh.

  Captain Mhiskva just nodded, almost as if he had anticipated this very outcome.

  Erskh relaxed slightly and tried to gain control of the rapid tattoo of his heart.

  Whatever happened from this moment forward, History, at least, would record that Erskh of the House of Dhent, Commandant of the Viceroy's Personal Guard, knew how to save his own skin.

  SIX

  1634 Before the Founding of the Empire

  Mar surged into a sprint as the guardsman who chased him stopped bellowing and started blowing his drill pipe to call in assistance.

  Dodging around a startled bondswoman clutching a bushel of unshelled peas, he leapt, bounced off the top of a pickle barrel with his left foot to gain more height, caught the edge of the lintel of a sundries shop's door with his right to propel him further upwards, and then sprang with arms outstretched to catch the top rail of a second floor balcony's balustrade. He used his momentum to carry him up and over, twisting to land upright with nary a bobble. Grinning broadly, he released the rail and raised both hands to make a particularly vulgar gesture at the upturned, sweating, and anger-flushed face of the Imperial standing impotently better than a manheight and a half below. Several shoppers and barkers amongst the booths of the neighborhood market smirked, pointed, and began to laugh.

  The outraged Guard responded by blowing his pipe all the more strenuously and in the process made his face turn a shade to match the bunch of grapes that Mar had just stolen.

  For good measure, Mar pulled the grapes from the billowing cloth at the waist of his ragged shirt and made a production of plucking one to eat. The grapes were not fresh, having been cut the day before or the day before that, and Old Lady Marimylle would have given them to him just for the asking, but he had snatched them in plain view of the overbearing and arrogant guardsman just so he could tweak the cretin's nose.

  Without putting herself in view, a woman of indeterminate age hissed at him from inside the apartment window just behind him. "Boy! You'd better get going! Look down at the corner to the left!"

  He hurriedly stowed the grapes and whipped his head about. Four Imperials were rounding the corner, knocking pedestrians aside in their headlong rush. Two were carrying crossbows. Time to disappear!

  Sucking a sharp breath, he immediately ran to the far end of the balcony, jumped up to the top of the rail, balanced for a second, them hurled himself along the building wall. He put out both hands, but only managed to catch a hold on the downspout that was his target with his right, and swung about wildly and smashed into the brick alongside it, nearly jarring himself loose.

  Whooping at the sudden flare of excitement that drilled through him, he scrabbled to catch the pipe with his free hand. Once his hold was secure, he braced his bare feet against the sun-splashed brick and started to work his way upwards. When a quarrel smashed off the wall to his left, he scurried up so rapidly that he nearly lost his grip several times. Reaching the sharply gabled roof, he danced along the fascia gutter, with one eye on his route and one on the guardsmen in the street below. Seeing one of the Imperials throw his crossbow to his shoulder, Mar ducked just in time for the bolt to flash over his head, then ran on to dive over the pigeon spikes of the parapet of the adjacent flat-roofed building. He tucked into a practiced shoulder roll, came up on his feet without stopping, and took off at a dead run, laughing joyously.

  He might be penniless, homeless, and devoid of family, but what he did have was a sure set of hands, an agile pair of speedy legs, and the perfect balance of an acrobat! As long as he had those, there was no doubt in his mind but that he could overcome any obstacle that life or the Forty-Nine might throw at him.

  SEVEN

  For the third time that night, phantom pains in his absent legs woke Mar.

  He lay quietly for several moments, thinking of nothing and staring into the darkness above him. There was very little sound through the ship: occasional distant footsteps, a murmur of a light wind against the hull, the almost imperceptible creak of timbers torqued by magic.

  His bed had been requisitioned from some villa in the Old City. With a frame that was a masterpiece of artistically shaped red oak and a mattress that was a sybaritic wonder of goose down, it had to be without a doubt the most lavish and comfortable bed that he had ever slept in.

  But that did not mean that he gotten any rest while occupying it.

  Reaching out with his right hand and the stub of his left arm, he cast back the thin sheet covering him and rocked around to struggle into sitting position. The missing weight and leverage of his legs had left once effortless movements difficult. He massaged his aching right thigh with his hand, feeling the puckered tissue of his scars and the still tender flesh of his stump. He had learned to accelerate the healing of his skin by manipulating flux, but he had not discovered a magical way to improve the ghastly appearance of his amputated limbs. He knew rationally that he was lucky to be alive, but he certainly did not feel lucky.

  “My lord king,” Chaer spoke in a quiet tone from out of the dark. “Should I call for Phehlahm?”

  Mar twitched flux to light the lamp on the table beside his bed and the sudden yellow light revealed both Chaer and E’hve sitting upright in their chairs, fully awake.

  “No. How long till morning, do you imagine?”

  “A good hour yet of first light, my lord king.”

  “Was there any news while I slept?”

  “No, my lord king. Number One has not returned.”

  Meaning that Telriy still patrolled the outskirts of the city. He had sent her no message. He would not ask her to come to him.

  Balancing with his good arm, he bounced about to move to the edge of the bed. “Call for Phehlahm. I'm going out and I’ll need some help getting into my clothes. And one of you go find me a brigandine.”

  Phehlahm came in almost immediately; he was never far away now. E'hve returned with the brigandine in less than another moment and not unexpectedly brought a crowd along in his wake -- Mhiskva, Wilhm, Lord Hhrahld, Ulor, Berhl, and Aunt Whelsi, with a good dozen marines and legionnaires skulking outside the cabin door.

  Though wearing naught but his small clothes, Mar experienced no embarrassment under the older woman's gaze as she straightaway began examining his stumps and scars. His own mother -- if he had ever had one -- had not seen more of him that the witch had.

  Phehlahm, who had been openly instructed by Aunt Whelsi to make sure that he took a meal at every opportunity, had brought a breakfast tray and the marine placed it on a stand in front of Mar as soon as the nurse was done. The serving dishes were sterling silver and the utensils gold, likewise no doubt tribute from the Old City. The marine had brought enough milk, tea, eggs, bacon, toast, porridge, and melon to feed three men.

  Mar ignored the tray. "I'll eat later. I'm going out."

  "Your body can't heal without being fed," Aunt Whelsi scolded.

  Wilhm, who had taken his customary seat on a sturdy chest in front of the portside windows, a position that relieved him of the need to duck his head constantly, stirred slightly. "It's best to mind Aunt Whelsi."

  "Aye, lad," Lord Hhrahld agreed. The Lord-Protector, whose improved mental state had apparently become persistent, leaned against the starboard wall, hunched over nearly double. "The witch knows best."

  For his part, Mhi
skva, crouched low with his head tilted to clear the ceiling, just offered an encouraging, somewhat sideways, nod.

  Mar studied the increasingly strengthening flux fields enwrapping the three Gaaelfharenii, then asked of Mhiskva, "Have you grown taller?"

  The marine captain's forehead crinkled. "I would think that highly unlikely, my lord king."

  Mar grunted. "I wouldn't. Not in the least. Since all of you came to watch me put my clothes on, you might as well help. Berhl, Ulor, pick me up so I can get my trousers on."

  Phehlahm, Chaer, and E'hve actually had to slip his trousers on while the two stout marine officers held him above the bed and then all five whisked him into his shirt and brigandine. He endured the care in silence. Baring a miracle of the non-existent Forty-Nine Gods, he would need such assistance for the remainder of his natural life. He spelled the leather quickly and nodded to cause the armsmen to release him. His control of the ether seemed to have recovered to its full former strength and he hovered effortlessly.

  "My lord king," Berhl mentioned. "If you've a mind to take a stroll -- I mean to say, turn about the deck, I'd like to let all the crew be topside. It'll do them all good to see their king up and about."

  "I'm going to do better than that. I'm going to take a turn about the whole city."

  This ignited a general storm of respectful protest. Mar just shook his head till the hubbub quieted.

  "I'm as fit as I'm going to be," he told them. "My control of the flux is as strong as it ever was." He waved the stump of his left arm at them. "This doesn't affect that."

  "My lord king," Captain Mhiskva said quietly, "no man can watch his own back and magic cannot always substitute for an armsman with a sharp sword." He did not look down at the empty trouser legs hanging loosely below Mar, but he might as well have.