Sleight of Mind (Rise of Magic Book 2)

by Stefon Mears

  Like right now. Donal needed almost all of his mental agility to spot and defeat each of the two dozen rings of fire Li Hua had thrown at his head. He forced as many as he could to slam into each other, but resorted to direct opposition to stop five.

  Too many.

  If he continued at that rate, her attacks would drain Donal faster than he could afford. Each such effort cost him a little more of his power and concentration.

  Worse, the rings had been a distraction for the real attack. A kinetic loop tried to trip him and make him fall out of the circle, losing the duel. Fortunately he had been able to jump just as the loop closed and evade the attack.

  Donal had to admit that his strategy was not working. He had hoped to wear her down, let her spend her energy. But her attacks had gotten stronger and tighter, while Donal’s defenses grew slowly weaker.

  Three straight attacks that might have killed him. Lethal, without a doubt. Li Hua did not have enough skill at deception magic to fool Donal. Her fire attacks had been as real as the acidic-looking liquids she sometimes threw.

  If Donal survived this, he would have to join a dueling society. Get some formal combat training beyond the introduction he had taken at U.C. Santa Cruz.

  But that was for later.

  What had he learned so far? She favored two kinds of attacks: kinetic and evocation. Despite her claim about scrying, those had to be her specialties the way Donal’s were deception and conjuring.

  Donal pulled on that second specialty now, using the ceramics of the deck to call forth a gnome, an earth elemental.

  But Donal had the gnome only half-formed, its granite and slate body still taking shape, when Li Hua countered with a gout of fire spat straight from her mouth. The gnome melted before it and Donal half-ducked and half-shunted the fire above him to defeat the counterspell.

  The gnome’s molten core dissolved, absorbed by the magic of the Comórtas Draíocht before Donal could try to tap into it for another spell.

  Meanwhile, Li Hua swept her arms wide and brought them back together, directing a gale force of wind at Donal. She caught him square in the chest, lifted him off his feet. The edge of the circle a scant meter behind him and closing.

  Donal snatched the gale and called from it a massive sylph, the largest air elemental he could control. The sylph, a beautiful naked woman with butterfly wings, formed three meters tall between Donal and the edge of the circle. She caught him and lowered him to the carpet as gentle as a whisper.

  But the attack she carried to Li Hua shrieked and cut like an arctic windstorm.

  Li Hua drew two swords from the air itself, their curved blades composed of green fire a meter long. She whirled in a circle, swinging the swords in tight arcs, and cut the sylph to burning ribbons of floating ash.

  “Thank you,” Li Hua said. “I so rarely get to work this spell into a duel.”

  She threw the swords at Donal and with an incantation quickly in muttered Chinese, caught him from behind with a wave of motion that pulled him toward the spinning fiery blades.

  Donal wanted to use the blades to cut the motive force propelling him forward. Or at least use that force to try to knock Li Hua out of the circle. But he felt certain that she expected the second and he didn’t have time for the first.

  He had to settle for his third option: redirecting the kinetic energy of her rear attack to carry Donal upwards and clear of the swords. He would have a trick landing safely, but at least he would be safe from those attacks.

  Donal needed to find a way to use her specialties against her and exploit her clear unwillingness to resort to actual defense.

  But for now, he had to survive as best he could.

  ◊

  Machado hated sweating. He hated showing visible signs of work at all, especially when he was casting. In his mind’s eye, Magister Ronaldo Machado was a smooth, effortless magician who could produce effects that impressed his peers and astounded the masses, all while looking and smelling good. Much of the time the reality matched that image.

  But this was not one of those times.

  Sweat drenched him now, making him wipe excess from his eyes with a slick forearm, and taste salt while he chanted. Looking good was no longer part of the equation, and smelling good even less so. But keeping these wards at military grade strength took steady casting and a tremendous amount of will. He had lain the groundwork necessary for this stunt months ago, hoped he would never need to use it, but even he could only push his preparations so far.

  Government inspectors came through the ports every couple of months to check over all civilian helioships. They never gave actual spellwork more than a cursory glance. They took only as much time as they required in order to certify the intentions and power level of one hundred spells, chosen at random. Though Machado noticed that “random” system inspections always seemed to include wards.

  But while those inspectors might have given the spells themselves little attention, they watched the related alchemical work like predators at a watering hole. And Machado knew they were right to do it. Advanced spells could be hidden among the standard arrays, but the supporting alchemy they needed stood out quickly to those who knew what to look for.

  So while those pursuing ships had properly supported military wards that their ships’ mages could maintain with a reasonable amount of effort, the Horizon Cusp could only sustain its advanced wards as long as Machado could handle pressing his limits.

  But he could hold. He had to.

  Most ships could not maintain top speed while firing, so either the pursuers would keep shooting until they dropped out of range, or they would give the barrage a rest and Machado would be able to take a break.

  That would happen any second now...

  “Master,” said the smooth voice of Machado’s familiar, Saravá, “a number of zuglodons have begun moving our direction. I believe we have entered their hunting grounds.”

  “What?”

  Machado did not expect a reply, because the ghostly panther would know its master understood, even if he could not believe what he heard. A number of creative ways to kill Captain Jacobs flitted through Machado’s mind in a fraction of a second.

  Just buy me a little time, you said. Just enough to escape pursuit, you said.

  “Aaron, forget the ships! Pour everything you have left into keeping those zuglodons off us.”

  Cromartie looked even less steady than Machado felt. Just an Initiate. Not trained for this kind of extended work, much less fighting off a bunch of hungry space elementals with delusions of grandeur. But Machado had been training Cromartie to deal with zuglodons, just in case.

  If only Cromartie’s deceptions were stronger. If only Machado had a Journeyman backing his play right now. But no, the only two Journeymen on the ship were busy fighting among themselves.

  Machado wiped more sweat from his eyes, took a deep breath, and kept casting.

  ◊

  Jacobs stood with his hands on the rail that surrounded his station on the bridge. His grip had squeezed much of the blood from his fingers, but his voice dripped with calm confidence.

  “Steady as she goes, Mr. Burke. Ease us back toward our course along the alpha line I’ve set up for you.”

  Burke and Grabowski looked pale. Grabowski shook with fear, but so far Burke kept a steady hand on the controls. They had reason for their fear. A pack of four zuglodons had moved within two dozen klicks of the Horizon Cusp’s current location.

  Jacobs could not see them with his own eyes, but he knew well enough what they looked like: giant transparent gray snakes, bloated in the middle, as though they’ve already fed too well. At one end — the head, for all intents and purposes — they had a series of tentacles.

  Grabowski had already told him their relative sizes. Two of the pack were about the size of the Horizon Cusp. The other two were much, much bigger.

  “Damage control, report.”

  “Wards are holding, Captain, but I don’t know how many more volleys they
can handle.”

  “Mr. Grabowski, have our friends decided to join us or are they content to keep this relationship long-distance?”

  “They appear to be holding distance, Sir, but they’re staying inside shooting range.”

  “They’re discussing the matter, Sir,” said Jefferson.

  Jacobs looked down to see his communications officer twisting both hands to pinch together three strands of the snarl of blue-light spaghetti floating in the air above her console; a snarl that represented the entire link network of the Horizon Cusp.

  “You know that for sure?”

  “I can’t hear everything they’re saying, but I can pick up enough. The destroyer wants to let us go. Figures we haven’t seen anything and that they’ve persuaded us not to come looking. But the Orpheus wants us, wants to prosecute us for entering the restricted zone, attempting to escape legal interdiction, and for using illegal wards.”

  “Damned good work, Ms. Jefferson. Relay that information to the ship’s mage. Maybe he can use it.”

  That settles it. Jefferson, my last act before retirement will be getting you trained for promotion.

  “Captain,” said Grabowski, “the biggest one is moving to intercept ... now the others are following. No doubt, Sir. They’ve noticed us.”

  ◊

  Help me, Dagda. She’s everywhere.

  Donal could barely stay upright. Li Hua’s attacks came in without pause. Across the circle from him she seemed to dance, weaving her arms and singing a tune that accented every beat with a new attack, some new hazard from the depths of her mind winging at Donal, battering at his dwindling ability to defend himself.

  Fionn may have spotted flaws in her technique, holes in her defenses. But Donal could not see them. Could not see anything but wave after wave of spells coming at him. Storms of red Martian sand, freezing cold, viselike grips, ghostly pounding fists, sirens that rattled Donal’s ears and teeth, blasts of sound that he only just prevented from shattering his ribs.

  Spells without hesitation. Spells beyond counting. And all without so much as breaking a sweat.

  Fionn might have been able to tell Donal secrets that could have made the difference. But Donal could not imagine what those secrets were.

  Donal clung to the shreds of his confidence. Patched together enough to maintain at least some of his power. Though most of it felt spent and lost to the duel.

  His single, tiny thread of confidence came from defeating the last seemingly indefatigable foe Donal had faced: Imenand bin Zuka. But bin Zuka had failed to counter Donal’s dual-core spell, a spell that called on both his specialties: conjuration and deception. But Li Hua had two specialties as well, and wielded dual-core spells with the same casual efficiency as everything else she did.

  Donal had bought himself time with redirection, even turning the occasional spell back on Li Hua. But she could maintain this pace longer than he could. She would outlast him. Donal would lose.

  That thought loosened something in Donal’s head. Cracked away more of his confidence. Donal could no longer afford to wait. He needed to make his move. Now.

  Li Hua would be watching for deception magic. It was the specialty of Donal’s that she best knew him for. So Donal focused on conjuration, and not what he knew of her magic, but what he knew of her.

  Li Hua loved action above all else. So Donal called on the Morrigan to guide his casting and brought forth a spirit of battle in the form of a huge crow. Added a touch of illusion to disguise his favorite feature of this spirit: the more one opposed it directly, the more powerful it grew. Donal hid that aspect behind the razors of its talons and beak, underscored the common association that gave rise to the collective term for crows: a murder.

  Li Hua exploded a series of stars around the crow, clearly intending to fry it to a cinder. But the crow did not burn. Instead its black feathers flared red-orange, then faded back to onyx as the crow grew half-again as large.

  Donal gathered another spell, tried to press his meager advantage.

  But Li Hua did something he had never before seen in a duel: she dove for the floor, sliding toward him into a roll.

  Donal pulled together a disorientation effect that would make him appear to surround her. It would never have worked if she had kept her place across the circle. But up close it might buy him time. A chance to evade whatever she reached for in the air above her. Time to allow Donal’s battle crow to end the fight.

  Images of Donal popped up in a circle around the crouching, reaching Li Hua. The battle crow banked and dove at her. Donal began a spinning loop that might catch Li Hua in an incomplete moment, force her to repeat ineffective steps and buy Donal more time.

  But Li Hua was faster.

  She once more drew from mid-air her curved fiery sword and spun in a tight circle, carving through the rib cage of not one image of Donal, but all of them.

  Including the true Donal Cuthbert.

  Pain burnt through Donal’s whole body. Radiated out from his ribs through every nerve he had all the way to the tips of his toes and the follicles of his hair.

  Donal saw her smile of triumph. He saw his battle crow fade from existence scant millimeters from her throat.

  And then he saw nothing else.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Machado kept up his chants and timed additional herbs for the incense with the rhythm of his gestures. Every word had its tone and beat, forming a rocking drone as he finished each line, but a haunting refrain as he completed the entire verse.

  Each sound, each movement, each scent had its place in the role of maintaining the Horizon Cusp’s wards at a level more powerful than any comparable ship had ever boasted.

  Any Journeyman could have handled Machado’s words, his movements. Some might even have had the instincts to feel the timing as the casting grew longer.

  But it took a Magister to understand how to channel the soreness such effort had cost his arms and fingers, the tightness in his back, the stiffness in his knees and hips. Every demand the working placed on Machado’s body, he found a way to fold back into his spellcasting to work with the wards instead of against himself.

  And only the Magister who had cast those wards — who knew every thread and nuance of them as he knew the scenes of his favorite books — only he could shift and balance those wards to keep maximum strength at the areas most under threat, while allowing the other zones to ease just a hair.

  Only Machado himself could have handled finding little ways to rest part of his mind even while the remainder of him exerted his talents to his limits.

  From the corner of his eye, Machado saw Cromartie collapse. Hardly surprising. Machado felt past ready to collapse himself. At least Cromartie had mastered Machado’s anti-zuglodon spells to the best of his limited abilities. Machado could only hope the Initiate had gotten those spells in place fast enough to do the ship any good.

  “Attention, Magister Machado.”

  Jefferson’s voice, over the comm link. A pity Machado could not spare a moment to look over at her pretty face, but the spells he maintained had no forgiveness for distraction.

  “Our pursuers argue among themselves. The destroyer does not wish to pursue. The cruiser wants to bring us in. The captain wanted you to know.”

  She grew quiet, but Machado could tell the link remained open. Her silence over an open link irritated him like a grain of sand between his toes. He had no time for such irritation, and focused tighter on his work. So tight he almost missed her final words.

  “Four zuglodons on attack vector. The captain says that if you have any tricks up your sleeve, this is the time. Bridge out.”

  Any tricks up my sleeve? What does he think I’m doing down here? Now I’ve got to maintain the wards to keep those ships off our backs and fight off the ... zuglodons...

  “Master,” said Saravá, “I have a detailed message from Donal Cuthbert.”

  “Hold it ‘til we’re done.” Machado grinned. “I’m going to need you for this next part.”


  Machado swept his arms wide and blew out a breath so great no onlooker would have believed that even Machado’s impressive frame could have contained it.

  As he did, he dropped those military grade wards.

  ◊

  “Captain, our wards just dropped back to normal strength.”

  “Say again, Damage Control?” Jacobs kept his voice steady for the sake of his crew, but it was a near thing because he wanted those words to rage out in disbelief. Those military grade wards were all that kept their pursuers from destroying the Horizon Cusp outright. Not to mention the zuglodons, which were so close Jacobs could see their sparking tentacles when he looked up through the transparent bulkhead of the bridge.

  “All enhancements have dropped from the wards. They still hold steady at main strength for now, but I can’t guarantee how long they’ll last if those ships start shooting again, or the zuglodons reach us.”

  Jacobs covered his eyes. He should never have brought the ship into the hunting ground. Machado had warned that even he could not maintain those enhanced wards for long. But Machado had seemed so able to handle anything Jacobs required of him.

  Magic. This was all the fault of magic.

  In the old days of technology, if one man went down another could pick up the slack. Ships were kept afloat by teamwork, not single specialists.

  Now Jacobs had pushed his mage too far. Machado had finally collapsed, leaving the Horizon Cusp defenseless when Jacobs needed him the most.

  “All right,” said Jacobs. “Speed is now our only defense. Mr. Burke—”

  “I beg your pardon, Captain John Jacobs,” said an ethereal voice over Jacobs shoulder. He turned to see Machado’s spirit panther familiar. It said, “Ronaldo Machado requests that you bring the Horizon Cusp to a halt and maintain that position until I signal you, at which time he requests that you proceed on your course at top speed.”