Key to Magic 04 Emperor

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  He stayed in the shade of the well house for another few lazy minutes, drinking his fill and then washing some of the dust and grime from his face, arm, and stumps. Then, instead of departing immediately, he worked his arduously slow way around the commons, resting from time to time in the shade of the old oaks that lined its border. Most of the buildings were simple stone or wood houses following the old imperial style, with outlying rooms surrounding an interior court, but there were also larger commercial establishments -- a brewer, a cooperage, a blacksmith's shop, a stout stone building that looked like it housed a grain factor, and an ale house -- scattered amongst them.

  There was no evidence of the presence of the Brotherhood and apparently the monks had made no attempt to occupy the tiny place.

  Hungry, he ended his circuit in front of the ale house. The establishment had tables out front but no customers this early before supper. The thought of a cooked meal with meat of any sort had considerable appeal after several days of eggs and half-cooked vegetables, and he had money, ten gold thalars in a leather wallet shoved down deep in his pocket.

  However, considering Mar's appearance, the proprietor was almost certain to call for a constable if he attempted to pay for a meal in gold. The obvious assumption being that he had stolen, he had no desire to be forced to disrupt the calm of this quiet place or his own relaxed state of mind with magic.

  An older man with thinning hair and a full beard came out and began to spread tablecloths on the half dozen round tables. When he saw Mar, he waved and smiled, and, after he had completed his task, reentered the ale house. A few minutes later he came out again and walked directly to the bench on which Mar sat.

  Mar smiled in greeting though he expected to be ordered to move out of sight before the man's customers began to arrive. "Good day, sir."

  "Good day to you, young man. Have you a moment to help me? My cook has tried a new stew recipe today and I wanted another opinion."

  "I'm sorry, sir. I can't pay."

  The innkeeper shook his head, grinning. "Oh, no! It'll be entirely free, with the proviso that there are no guarantees concerning the taste and that you give us an honest opinion. I think it needs more salt and the cook thinks it needs less. If you'll just come over and have a seat, I'll bring it out."

  Pleasantly surprised, Mar scooted across to a table and managed to get into a chair with only a small bit of covert magical assistance. Mouth watering, he hoped the stew proved edible, with his current definition of edible being very adaptable.

  Instead of the small portion Mar expected, the innkeeper returned with a full tray. In addition to a crockery bowl with enough thick, meaty stew to feed three, there was half a loaf of dark bread, sliced, covered in butter and still steaming from the oven, raspberry preserves, sliced pears, and what, after a taste, proved to be fresh goat's milk. The innkeeper distributed the dishes on the table, reminded him once more of the experimental nature of the meal, and vanished back into the ale house.

  The stew was perfect, with a grandly flavorful combination of spices and hardly any gristle at all. The bread and preserves were some of the best that Mar had ever eaten and though neither pears nor goat's milk particularly suited him, he left not one drop or slice.

  When the innkeeper returned, he brought with him another much younger man whom he introduced as his nephew, the cook. After Mar proclaimed the stew the best that he had ever eaten, the two put on quite a show, enthusiastically debating spice combinations and quantities, just as if the offer of the meal had been motivated by the stated purpose, rather than by compassion for a legless man.

  After the innkeeper and his nephew wandered back into the alehouse, Mar hid the ten thalars under a table napkin and went on his way.

  He did swing by Number Seven a couple of times to inform Ulor that all was well, but left before any of the other officers could corner him to seek his guidance, content that they were all more than capable of handling any problem that might arise without him.

  At dawn on the eighth or ninth day -- he had not bothered to keep close track -- Mar awoke on the thatched roof of a goat shed, feeling much more like the thief that he had been and much less like the king that he had become.

  He sat very still for a long time, just watching the sun come up.

  Then he flew away and went back to his duties.

  In his absence, as expected, his staff had insured that the apparatus of the newly styled Imperial Army had functioned as it should.

  All the normal business of making war -- training, logistics, and the endless planning -- had continued apace, and the integration of the former conscripts had been completed. One hundred and three conscripts, all but five of whom were Mhajhkaeirii, had requested permission to exit service and been granted leave to do so. The remaining armsmen of the three Mhajhkaeirii conscript legions had been divided up, with two thirds having been absorbed into the flotilla to fill the depleted ranks of the Defenders, the Reapers, and the Mhajhkaeirii'n Marine brigade. The remaining Mhajhkaeirii had been collected into a new scar-bearer commanded legion that Mar, in another improvised ceremony scheduled for the next day, would award the name King's Own. Of necessity, promotions had been liberally applied throughout the Army, with every officer, save for High-Captain Mhiskva, having received at least one bump, and innumerable fuglemen and ceannaires suddenly finding themselves legates/subalterns.

  The most significant recipient of the vicious promotion spree was Dhrasnoaeghs, who had reached the Lower Gray three days after the surrender of its defenders. He had leapt two full ranks to Knight-Commander and been given command of the Imperial I Corps, which included the Plydyrii'n legion Stormfarers, the Droahmaerii'n Stalwarts and Breakers, the Trozaerii'n Sun Eagles, and his own 2nd Khalarii.

  The entire staff, the slightly amazed Dhrasnoaeghs included, was in attendance on Number Seven as Mhiskva briefed Mar on all that had transpired in his absence.

  With some amusement, he waggled the stump of his left arm to signal a pause and posed a question to Commander Relvhm. "No new name for your legions?"

  "It had seemed inopportune at this time, my lord king. We must earn our name in battle."

  Frighteningly, there was nothing pompous or arrogant in the statement. At first meeting, Mar had realized that Relvhm was a man out of his time, a true son of the Empire. He was that practically unique rarity in Khalar, an honestly professional officer that had genuinely studied the military arts. Most Khalarii officers were awarded their exalted ranks at the age of fourteen and then devoted themselves to the ancillary life of debauchery and licentiousness. To Relvhm, from all appearances, honor was not simply a word or a theoretical concept -- it was a way of life.

  An idle fancy or an ethereal vision -- Mar did not know which -- passed through his mind. It showed the intrepid Relvhm dying a heroic, altruistic death on some dark battlefield far from his home.

  "Have you read Emperor Rhwalkahn's Musings by Court Historian Pleordiry?"

  "Of course, my lord king!"

  "Well, read it again."

  The Khalarii looked confused but pledged to do so.

  As the briefing wound down and the officers began to discuss plans to move onward toward Mhajhkaei, a lookout sang out that he had sighted Number Three. Perplexed but pleased, Mar instantly took off to meet the skyship.

  When he landed on Number Three's deck, the first words out of Telriy's mouth were, "Lord Ghorn is dead. The monks have killed him."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Mar studied the flux modulations of the shortened bone, endeavoring to unravel the incredibly complex structure.

  Aael squirmed a bit on his stool. "My lord king, I'm not sure that this is a good idea."

  "Don't worry. I know exactly what I'm doing. I can give us both back our legs. I just need to learn how to make the bones grow."

  Mar prodded a spiral-shaped barking-puce modulation at the heart of Aael's abbreviated left thigh bone.

  The signifier jumped. "I had some pain there, my lord king."

>   "There might be some discomfort." Mar twisted the spiral against its natural flow.

  A vile expletive escaped Aael's clenched teeth and he made to get down from the stool. "It it's all the same, I think I'm better without legs."

  Mar wrapped the retired legionnaire in flux to hold him in place. "Hold on. I think I've got it. Let me just try this." He made a copy of the spiral and added it to the end of the matrix.

  Aael began to scream as bone and blood exploded from the end of his stump. The bone continued to grow at a phenomenal rate, jutting out at weird angles, twisting, and then curling back on itself like some obscene horn and began to pierce Aael's body...

  "Mar!"

  He stirred as Telriy continued to shake him.

  "Mar, wake up. You were shouting in your sleep."

  He opened his eyes to the darkened cabin. After a moment, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her body close to his. "It was a nightmare."

  "What about?"

  "Magic gone wrong."

  "What kind of magic?"

  "Stupid magic."

  "Hmmph."

  After a few more minutes, he said, "I want you to go back to the Monolith tomorrow."

  "Alright. How bad will the battle for Mhajhkaei be?"

  "Bad."

  "Can you win?"

  "Yes."

  The lie came easily enough. With six skyships and less than fourteen thousand armsmen, only an idiot would believe that he could conquer The Greatest City in All the World.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Just after daybreak the day after Telriy left, the flotilla arrived unopposed before the walls of The Greatest City in All the World. During the night, the skyships had ferried the entirety of Dhrasnoaeghs' I Corps to within a league of the main gate on the northern highway. The Knight-Commander's advance was to be supported by a dozen wagon mounted polybolos and two troops of marines, commanded by Berhl, to operate them. The three skyships of the 1st Squadron -- Numbers Five, Six, and Seven -- would spearhead the attack and bombard the defenses as necessary. The rest of the marine brigade, the Reapers, the Defenders, the King's Own, and the 1st Khalarii were crammed aboard the remaining skyships and tows, designated the 2nd Squadron, which would follow and land at preselected points within the city walls. The two Khalarii reserve legions and the Elboern militia would stand back in reserve. The marine brigade would be responsible for assaulting the main gate from the rear to admit the I Corps and the four legions would seize and hold the route leading to the Citadel. For this battle, he rally cry of all imperial forces would be Lord Ghorn.

  "They still haven't put up their skyships, my lord king," Ulor commented as Number Seven rushed toward the city.

  "They can come up very fast from any direction," Mar responded, tense, primed, and anxious for action. "Their best strategy will be to try to catch us by surprise. Let's try to upset their timetable and force them to put their skyships in play. Drive straight in to the Citadel."

  "Aye, my lord king."

  Oddly, Number Seven reached the large plaza at the intersection of the Transverse and the Transept without opposition. Five and Six arrived within moments, also unmolested.

  As the three did a slow orbit above the center of the plaza, Mar had crewmen keep watch in all directions. Presently, a signal flashed from Mhiskva's skyship, Grandmother, hovering near the main northern gate.

  "Gate undefended. Occupied and opened. Advancing toward Citadel," Phehlahm read from the paper that the signalman's runner had brought.

  Mar grimaced, wondering what sort of trap the Brotherhood had set.

  A marine fugleman keeping watch on the port side of the steerage platform waved to get Ulor's attention. "Captain, there's people a gatherin' down below."

  Unable to abide doing nothing any longer, Mar rocketed off the deck and flew down to the group of apparent civilians. As he swooped overhead, most of the men, women, and children scattered like rabbits menaced by a hawk. One solitary older man stood his ground and Mar swung around and descended to confront him.

  "All of you need to find shelter!" he barked. "We've come to retake the city and the fighting will start at any moment!"

  The brave or foolish citizen laughed, clapped his hands thrice in a symbolic manner, and then did a little shimmy dance that Mar belatedly recognized as one of the Thirteen Sacred Wiggles of J'yorstagnoephiactle, Patron of Rat Catchers.

  "No need for that, thank the Great Catcher! The monks have all fled!"

  And thus it was. The Brotherhood had withdrawn from Mhajhkaei surreptitiously and completely. No warning or explanation had been given the Mhajhkaeirii. The populace had awakened the previous morning to an empty harbor and unguarded walls.

  It was presently clear that in conjunction with their departure the monks had stripped Mhajhkaei of all specie and readily portable commodities. There was not one weight of grain or jug of wine left in its warehouses and not one coin remained in its vaults.

  After hasty consultations with his astounded staff, Mar flew Number Seven at a blistering speed ten leagues to the south and east, sweeping the land and sea, but found no sign of his enemy. Upon returning, he found the city in the feverish throes of unrestrained ecstasy.

  The triumph lasted for three days.

  While Mar continually fretted that the Brotherhood's retreat was in some wise a nefarious ploy intended to make the flotilla vulnerable to a sudden attack, the Mhajhkaeirii celebrated, mobbing the boulevards and plazas of The Greatest City in All the World. All of the temples were reopened and priests and supplicants engaged in a veritable orgy of prayer and ceremony, with wine drinking, incense burning, sacred and not so sacred dancing, meditative and spontaneous twirling, impromptu puppet galas, and reverent and irreverent singing proceeding non-stop.

  On the third day, Mhiskva organized a massive parade of all the legions and troops of the liberating army. Beginning at the devastated southern gate of the Citadel, the march advanced up the Transept March to the reclaimed Palace of the Principate. Mar had insisted that four fully manned skyships patrol around the urban limits of the city, but everyone else marched for the accolades of the populace. As many as two hundred thousand cheering Mhajhkaeirii lined the route, showering the armsmen with an endless rain of multicolored paper ribbons, sea blue confetti, and flowers of all shades and hues.

  At the head of the parade rode the Magician-Empress Telriy and the boy Pip in an open carriage, she in a magnificent lavender gown sewn with precious stones and he in a tailored suit of sea blue. The child prince sat between an equally resplendently dressed Yhejia and Tsyl, both of whom had short swords hidden under their cloaks. Ulor and Berhl, both likewise richly arrayed and heavily armed, served as driver and footman. Lord Hhrahld, Wilhm, Mhiskva, and two full troops of marines in burnished armor and high-combed helmets marched close about the carriage. All of the guards wore the newly created imperial tabards -- the sea blue field and blood crown of the kingdom with the addition of a broad border stripe in Mar's chosen imperial color, bronze.

  Telriy, returned from the Monolith as soon as word was sent of the bloodless victory, had accepted her role in Mhiskva's grand spectacle with only minor complaint and indeed seemed to be enjoying the rapturous admiration of the crowd, waving and smiling with considerable enthusiasm. Pip, wearing a garland of white roses on his head in place of the looted Principate crown, waved, laughed, and clapped in glee as he was showered with colored paper and the resounding hurrahs of his subjects.

  A second carriage trailed the imperial group by twenty paces. In it rode the only two surviving senators. This excluded, of course, the seventeen despised traitors who gone into hiding and presumably fled the city. Just that morning, Mar had signed an imperial proclamation that offered a bounty payable in gold for their heads -- one hundred if still attached and two hundred if not.

  Lady Rhavaelei, elegantly coifed and attired, had insisted that she share in the triumph and Mhiskva had advised Mar that granting her this -- undeserved in Mar's opinion -- boon would b
e politically advantageous. The second occupant, Ghob'ihs, had earned his place by anyone's measure. Emaciated, frail, and aged far beyond his thirty years, he had been rescued from the palace dungeons by some of Mhiskva marines. Now he smiled from ear to ear as he heard thousands of voices chant his name.

  Mar flew high above the parade, peevish and watching the skies. He had rejected all suggestions -- including a ridiculous one by Phehlahm involving a white stallion, golden armor, and rose petal scattering odalisques -- that he participate in the procession. While Mhiskva had readily convinced him that an official parade was just the potion that the people of Mhajhkaei needed to help them begin to forget the nightmare of the Phaelle'n occupation, he had had his fill of the pageantry that everyone now seemed to think must accompany his every action.

  Besides, any time he got close to any of the seemingly innumerable priests, priestesses, devotees, hermits, clerics, anchorites, and the like, he found himself anointed -- often inundated -- with consecrated oils, holy water, statutory hugs, mystic powders, sacred feces, leafy branches, and prostrate virgins, many of which left nasty stains.

  The parade ended at a review stand erected in the middle of the Transept just outside the sealed gates of the Palace. Although a balcony on the west side of the Palace overlooked the Transept and had previously been used by the princely family during public fetes, Mhiskva had elected to use a temporary stage, considering the disreputable state of the Palace interior and grounds. During their tenure, the monks had made no attempt to repair the damage done by Mar to the North Tower, had trampled, uprooted, or neglected the gardens, had smashed the statues in the rotunda, and defaced all the murals and frescos. As a final parting indignity, the Phaelle'n' had burned in place all of the furnishings that they did not cart off.

  When the imperial party reached the spot, a band of musicians with more drums and horns than seemed necessary struck up a martial tune that Mhiskva had sworn (to Mar it sounded like a bawdy ballad that he had heard in a tavern once) was the ancient anthem of the Glorious Empire. Telriy and the rest of her party, Pip holding hands with both Yhejia and Tsyl and skipping as he walked, mounted the stage and took seats prepared for them. The Gaaelfharenii took station in front of the platform and the victorious marines and legionnaires formed ranks all about it. The mass of the following spectators filled the Transept from one side to the other and stretched back to the south all the way to the intersection with the Transverse.