Key to Magic 04 Emperor

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Then an unseen force slammed the novitiate, his stool, the far talking disk, the desk, and Plehvis, all in one confused, tumbling mass, into Traeleon. Driven backwards, he managed to activate his personal ward just before the force slammed him into the stone wall behind the dais.

  The ward kept him from injury, but the force -- his own sense of the ether suggested that it was a broad wave of flux -- pinned the ethereal bubble against the wall, trapping him in place. The interaction of the pressure magic and the ward splattered purple sparks in erratic showers that snapped and cracked as they burned, causing an acrid smell to stain the air. Plehvis, the novitiate, the stool, the chair, and the desk were crushed. If the two men did not die instantly, they lasted only seconds. Their ruptured flesh went pasty as a flood of blood spewed from their compacted bodies.

  Traeleon flashed a look beyond the sparks and immediately identified the source of the attack.

  Brother Fhsuyl stood just shy of the dais, waving his arms repeatedly in the same two sweeping gestures. He had locked his gaze on Traeleon and neither the enervated bolts blasting from the hand held throwers of his adjacent comrades, the cloth ripping, ear splitting sounds of those bolts, or the screams of the dying and dodging members of the Conclave distracted him.

  Traeleon did not let the possibility that he faced a true sorcerer, the first that he had ever seen up close, unsettle him. With a smooth, much practiced motion, he rotated the gear-shaped mount of the silver signet on his right hand. Instantly, he fell into shadow, as if someone had thrown a gauze curtain over him. Unless the magic had malfunctioned, he had just become invisible to everyone in the hall. Traeleon watched Fhsuyl for a reaction and grinned when his assailant looked startled, the slight hesitation disrupting the rhythm of his gestures.

  Abruptly, the pressure field relaxed and Traeleon rocked forward as the freed ward righted itself. Knowing that the charge on the invisibility shroud would last only another ten to thirteen seconds, he deactivated his protective ward and dove out to his right, rolling off his shoulder to a crouch. Without pause, he raised his left hand, making a fist, aimed the gold and emerald ring on his forefinger at Fhsuyl, and pressed the firing stud with his thumb.

  No sound or physical display accompanied the activation of the spell, but Fhsuyl stiffened, gaped in shock, and then burst into black flame. In another second the cretin was dead, charred from the inside out.

  As Fhsuyl's body crumpled, Traeleon launched himself again, scrambling along the right hand wall of the chamber. The emerald ring had only one shot and took half a year to recharge. The ward would last upwards of an hour, but left him immobile and otherwise helpless. None of his other ancient rings produced an effect that was even remotely offensive in nature. With no cover in the denuded hall and the only exit behind the assassins -- who had not allowed the fall of their leader to interrupt their slaughter -- his only chance was to keep moving.

  Focused entirely on his own survival, he leapt over one body, then another, then flattened as an enervated bolt sizzled over his head. He activated his ward one heartbeat before another struck him dead on. More bolts slammed against his ward, splattering incidental eruptions of red and purple light.

  Then, the most astonishing thing happened.

  Zheltraw, crawling along the floor like an insect trying to escape a boot, saw Traeleon and froze, his eyes flaring as if he had been struck by an epiphany. Then, to Traeleon's utter surprise, the First Promulgator jumped to his feet and rushed at the nearest assassin.

  "For the Duty and the Archdeacon!" the Brohivii cried.

  The First Promulgator's act of insanity placed his body directly between the enervated bolts and Traeleon. Seizing the opportunity, he dropped his ward and sprang up to follow Zheltraw.

  Perhaps given some superhuman resilience by his fanatic belief, the First Promulgator took three bolts full in the chest before he fell. By that time Traeleon had closed with the assassin.

  A sweeping kick knocked the bolt thrower aside, and a hard right punch to the throat took its wielder down. Traeleon leapt for the man's weapon, came up with it, wrapping his fingers around its unfamiliar stock, and spun around to bring it to bear.

  And found himself facing only Bhrucherra, who also held one of the small weapons in his right hand and a stiletto in his left. The other four assassins were dead on the floor, three with stab wounds and one decapitated by an enervated bolt.

  Traeleon had no idea how to activate the bolt thrower, but he trained it on the First Inquisitor nonetheless. Bhrucherra's weapon was likewise pointed squarely at the Archdeacon.

  For a tense few seconds, nothing was said, then Traeleon extended his left hand and said, "The Work."

  Bhrucherra, with a crooked grin, lowered his bolt thrower, crossed the intervening space, stepping over bodies as necessary, and clasped Traeleon's forearm. "The Duty."

  The Salient Covenant sworn, Traeleon looked about to take stock. The assassins had been quite thorough. No one else had survived. Most of the brethren had been struck by multiple bolts. The depleted-flux cores and the ancillary effects resulting from their interaction with the natural and ethereal environments had damaged many beyond recognition.

  "Brother, you must place your thumb on the black disk on the left side of the handle," Bhrucherra told him, "and concentrate on the word pyzotlwycx, in order to fire."

  Traeleon, who had yet to lower his own bolt thrower, had the First Inquisitor repeat the word once to confirm its pronunciation, then said, "I have never seen a bolt thrower of this type before. There is no record of them in the Inventory of Holy Relics. You have used one previously?"

  "No, brother. Today is also the first time that I have held one, but I received a warning in advance. Just prior to the meeting of the Conclave, I was visited by Brother Waleck, who gave me precise instructions on their use, the actions I should take, and the admonition that the only future in which both you and I would escape death would be one in which I followed those instructions precisely."

  "I see." Brother Waleck's predictions to Traeleon had included no hint of this attack, nor had the prophet deigned to mention that he had shared his visions with others. It remained to be seen whether there would be an explanation for these deficiencies and any speculations he might make on the matters at this point seemed futile.

  "What actions do your instructions call for next?"

  "None. Brother Waleck's words to me were brief and he refused to answer any questions. He would offer nothing beyond this moment, with all others dead and the two of us living."

  "I suppose that we must consider ourselves fortunate to have had even that much." Traeleon turned and moved toward the doors. "Let's find out what comes next."

  TWENTY

  The message was left in the usual spot.

  We agree.

  Telriy stared at it for a few moments, then wrote instructions on the back and returned it to its hiding place.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Number Three had taken seventy percent casualties, including sixty-two men killed or missing, in an aerial battle that had lasted, at most, half of an hour. Of the thirty marines of the polybolos crews, the one hundred transported legionnaires, and the twenty odd crew, only forty-four managed to stumble, limp, stagger, or crawl out of the wreck under their own power when Mar brought the remains down on the only open space large enough to accommodate it, the grand plaza outside the north gate of the fort. After the remainder, breathing and not, were carried clear, he neutralized the skyship's remaining flux out of fear that the unstable scraps might spontaneously detonate. The wrecked halves promptly and determinedly collapsed.

  Staring at the heap, Mar told Phehlahm, "Might as burn the rest. None of that will ever find a decent use again."

  "We'll build another Number Three, my lord king."

  Mar let his bitterness show. "What would be the point?"

  Grim-faced, Phehlahm had no response to this.

  The able-bodied, most standing in dazed amazement of their own survival,
gathered around Mar to await orders. He singled out two fuglemen that he knew by name and had them select men to dig through the wreckage for weapons. The rest he set to attend the wounded, who were scattered all about on the hard stone.

  Vice-Commander Dhrasnoaeghs appeared within a few minutes, climbing around the rubble blocked gate through a large breach in the adjacent wall. A young legate who must have come from another post and one of his own grayed fugleman accompanied him. All three were covered in rock dust and soil, no doubt from digging themselves out, and the legate had a blood stained bandage on his left hand.

  "I wondered if any of you had survived," Mar told the elderly officer.

  Dhrasnoaeghs saluted. "We lost better than a hundred, my lord king, and were forced to withdraw into the cellars. Even then, part of the roof fell in on us. We have exhumed three hundred effectives, though, and we stand ready to serve."

  "Bring them out and form a battle line across the plaza," Mar ordered him. As far as he knew, the Phaelle'n legions would continue their advance and would soon near the crumbled fort. The vice-commander and his armsmen, whatever shape they were in, would have to fight.

  "Yes, my lord king. What of your wounded? Should we set bearers to move them into the fort?"

  "Is there anything in there that still has solid walls and a roof?"

  "No, my lord king. The monks' skyships have demolished everything."

  "Then the wounded may as well stay where they are. I'll have my aide Phehlahm and the rest of the survivors from my skyship stay here to take care of them."

  As Dhrasnoaeghs dispatched his fugleman to bring out the fort's defenders, Mar told Phehlahm, "Find something to signal Ulor. Tell him to land."

  The message was sent in short order and when Number Seven came down in the clear area at the center of the plaza, he flew to her steerage to speak with Ulor. As soon as the skyship settled, a section of Ghorn's Defenders began to disembark.

  "Captain Mhiskva thought you might need them, my lord king," Ulor answered before Mar could ask.

  "That one and fifty more. Are the monks still coming?"

  "Aye, my lord king," the subaltern reported evenly. "Their lead elements are only five hundred paces to the south-east, just behind that large villa with the yellow tile roof. There are two parallel columns three streets apart, one of about three thousand men and the other of about two thousand. They are marching in a distributed formation, maybe as defense from aerial attack, with a hundred paces or better between sections."

  "How many spheres do you have left?"

  "What's in the hoppers and maybe one full reload."

  Mar had not had time to create a full magazine of sand spheres for each skyship and had made the decision to allocate the bulk of those available to Number Three, with the expectation that he would naturally take the brunt of any attack.

  "Hold that one reload in reserve in case more of the Phaelle'n skyships show up. Once the legionnaires are all out, take off and use the rest on the larger column. Ration your shots. Destroy them if you can, but no matter what, try to hold them up as long as possible."

  Ulor saluted. "Aye, my lord king."

  Mar nodded and flew back to small, damaged guard post tower that Vice-Commander Dhrasnoaeghs had used to anchor the right flank of his thin line of legionnaires. The oval shaped commons was more than a hundred and fifty paces across at its widest point and the vice-commander's formation was only three ranks deep.

  "My lord king, I have given command of the left to Legate Pyiel." Dhrasnoaeghs pointed to the legate with the bandaged hand. "I shall, of course, command the center. Legate Kyaewyndt will command the right here, holding his fresh section in reserve."

  The sound of sand sphere detonations began to crack from the southeast like rapid very distant thunder.

  Mar quickly summarized the information that he had gotten from Ulor and the instructions that he had given the subaltern. "I don't think that Ulor will be able to hold up the second column long. I expect the monks to take shelter in buildings and not suffer many casualties. But we have a narrow front. They won't be able to throw the full strength of a single legion against us, much less both columns at the same time."

  "All true, my lord king, but the monks will try to drive a wedge through our center and roll up our flanks," Legate Kyaewyndt pointed out. "It is a standard tactic against a battle line that lacks sufficient depth."

  "Yes, I know." A long time ago in Khalar, on the gable of a certain rooming house that looked out on the frigid winter waters of the Blue, he had read about just such a maneuver in a small book entitled Emperor Hwaei and his campaign against the tribes of Blyae. "I'll strengthen the center."

  What exactly he would do, he did not know. But he would do something.

  The sounds of Ulor's bombardment trickled away into silence several moments before the first of the Black Monks appeared at the western end of the plaza. This first section deployed and, without so much as a single shout, released a crossbow volley.

  Hovering at about two manheight so that he could have a clear view over Dhrasnoaeghs' and Kyaewyndt's legionnaires, Mar deflected most by infusing their wooden shafts, but some fell on the periphery beyond his range. Several Mhajhkaeirii went down, but the Phaelle'n did not launch another volley. After a few moments of inaction, another section of monks marched out to join the first, and a third was clearly visible approaching up the same road.

  Humming The Knife Fighter's Dirge, Mar stole time to consider his options.

  He immediately discarded any thoughts of an attempt to ignite ether-fueled fires. From last report, the fires near the Oak Point crossroads on the Elboern highway had opened wide fissures in the earth, swallowing the stream, a long segment of the highway, and a large area of farmland. He would not create another such disaster.

  He knew that the monks would not remain idle while he overloaded the paving stones in front of them. He might manage it by stealing time, but the resulting explosion would also put his own legionnaires and the wounded at peril.

  The range of his ability to manipulate flux would allow him to hold back a large number of attackers by infusing leather and steel of their armor, but that shield would only be perhaps fifty paces wide. The Phaelle'n could easily sweep around it and the schemes he concocted to cycle the shield across the entire line all impressed him as ludicrous and unworkable. If he did choose to protect the center in that way, he could not do it indefinitely. The faculty that he used to control magic had profound depth, but it was not bottomless.

  If he shifted nearer to the buildings on the edge of the plaza, leaving the center unguarded, he might be able to bring some of them down, but he did not see that tactic providing more that a short disruption of the attack. He would run out of buildings before the monks ran out of armsmen.

  He needed something new, a magic that would allow him to strike directly at the enemy from a distance.

  As he continued to ponder at length all that he knew of magic, all of the magic that he had seen, and every magical speculation that had ever traipsed through his thoughts, he noticed that the tune of The Knife Fighter's Dirge seemed to be encountering resistance, as if the flow of time could only be dammed for so long. Apparently, even that magic had limits.

  Realizing that his respite from the coming battle was rapidly nearing a close, he continued to retrace his steps back to his first discovery of magic. From now to then, all of the magical techniques that he had learned could be classified either as utilizations of the tendency of overloaded magical vessels to fail or as imitations of natural flux modulations -- fire, the pull of the earth, the energy of the sun.

  Was there another natural force that could aid him here?

  What of lightning? It had seemed that the lightning had responded to his call when Telriy and Waleck had been abducted from the barge on the Ice, but if he truly had summoned it, he had utterly no conception of how he had done so.

  Could he imitate lightning? Create it from nothing?

  After exami
ning the idea, he decided that the answer to that question was most decidedly no. Even if it were possible to recreate lightning, he could not learn to do so here and now. To attempt an imitation of a thunder bolt, he needed to understand its ethereal nature and that required intense study, something he was unlikely to have the time to do in the instant of the flash. Granted, he might try to steal time at the exact moment of a lighting strike, but that would be difficult feat to accomplish as the spell was not instantaneous. Even more unlikely would be the convenient occurrence of a storm to provide said thunder bolt. With hardly a cloud in the sky and scarcely any wind all day, the chances of a thunder storm seemed overwhelmingly small.

  For a few subjective moments, he allowed his imagination to play with the fantasy of summoning a storm, then followed that trail of thought to a more realistic option. If not a storm, why not the wind?

  It would not bring on a storm, of course, but a strong wind could topple flower pots from balconies -- he had almost been hit by one once -- and five or six years ago an old sailor had wandered into a tavern where he had been sweeping the floor for his supper. The bald and toothless seafarer had had a thousand stories and one of them had been a tale of a monster storm that had smashed into the coast just east of Mhevyr a number of years previous. The wind had been so strong, the braggart had claimed, that he had seen it flip a large man head over heels.

  Coming up with no other possibilities, he let the tune fade, watched with no expression as another Phaelle'n section joined the first two, and delved the inconsistent breeze.

  Finally, when a fourth and fifth section had crowded in behind the first three, the Phaelle'n dressed their line, gave one guttural hurrah, and charged.

  Mar flew forward of the Mhajhkaeirii legionnaires, stretched out his arm and his stump since he felt that the gesture somehow enabled the process, and made a breeze.

  At first, the movement of air, pressing outward in an arc that had him as a center point, hardly seemed to stir the dust, but after a second or two it grew in strength as he continued to draw air in from above and force it outward. Within another second, the advancing wave had grown strong enough to scour the pavement and raise a growing cloud of dust and sand across the breadth of the plaza. Faster and faster, he drove the air, and when the charging monks were no more than twenty paces from the Mhajhkaeirii'n line, the wind was strong enough to flutter their shields and the straps of their armor.