“They’ve been in battle with the Northmen,” said the king, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He knew that the Norse, with their smaller ships, were still fierce fighters. He didn’t doubt that the fifty-gun great ships had given good account of themselves, and all ten were still present as he counted them. The twenty-gun frigates had not all survived, only nine of the twelve vessels coming in before his eyes.
He continued to study the vessels, fielding questions from his heir about anything and everything to do with ships. I might have to send him out on one of those ships, he thought, cringing at the thought of his son in harm’s way. But the boy seemed fascinated by the ocean and was destined to become the ruler of a mighty sea power. It would be no kindness to protect him against all dangers while stunting his development. He could either protect the boy from everything and end up with a weak ruler after him, or let him take some risks and develop into the kind of monarch Rory would be proud to turn the kingdom over to. And if something happened, much as he hated to think of it, there were two more heirs that could assume the leadership role.
Warrior, the flagship of the fleet, dropped anchor, and minutes later they could see the crew lower one of the longboats over the side. Men came down the rope ladder to the boat, including one in the blue coat of an officer, the cocked hat of an admiral on his head.
“Let’s go greet Admiral Connelly,” he told Mickey, ruffling the boy’s head. Mickey smiled up at his father and followed at his side while Rory walked toward the landing, accommodating his stride to the boy’s shorter legs. A half dozen men-at-arms in chain and surcoats moved with them, while the people along the way shouted greetings and waved their hats at their beloved king. Rory shouted back, always happy to see his people in good spirits, even when he wasn’t.
They didn’t see the merchantman sliding into the harbor behind the last of the frigates. Nor could they guess the import of that vessel even had they been watching her.
Rory stopped at one of the food stalls that fed the sailors and workmen and bought himself and Mickey some meat-on-a-stick. The merchant burst with pride that the king would sample his wares, and turned over two of his heaviest sticks, filled with lamb, peppers, onions and mushrooms. They smelled of savory spice, and the king relished his first bite, looking down at his son, who not seemed to have attention for nothing else but his morning meal. A gold piece to the merchant rendered the man speechless, and Rory waved off his protest that it was too much. The coin meant nothing to the king, and was more than a day’s earning for the man.
“Your Majesty,” said the short admiral whose hair was trending from reddish brown to gray, climbing up the side of the quay on a rope ladder. “Prince Michael.” He gave a short bow to each.
“Admiral,” said the monarch, holding out his hand to receive the first clasp of the sailor. “It looks like you ran into trouble.”
“Aye, my Liege,” the admiral, a scowl on his face. “We ran into some scoundrels chasing a merchantman out of Britania and gave chase ourselves. They led us to a whole damned fleet of those damnable Norse pirates. I lost three frigates before I could join with the main body, and for that I am truly sorry. They fought like scalded wildcats, but we did for most of them before the day was out, sending fourteen to the bottom. I believe two got away in the darkness, though I would wager they’ll rue the day they ran into us.”
“Good job, Admiral. That was your job, and I know how it hurts to lose men and ships, but a victory like that could not come without cost.” The king looked down at Mickey, then back at the admiral. “And now I’d like you to meet your new cabin boy.” He put an arm around his son’s shoulders.
“I thought I was to be a midshipman,” protested the boy, shutting his mouth with a clap as the two men started laughing.
“First, we must make sure you take to the sea, young Prince,” said the admiral. “A couple of voyages as my cabin servant, a year at most, and then you can become a junior officer in training, in charge of men.”
“But, I’m a prince.”
“They wouldn’t care if you were a god, lad,” said Rory with a wink at the admiral, who smiled in return. “These are warriors, who only care about the metal of the man in charge. Prove you can handle the sea, and then you will become an officer.”
“And he understands it will not be all adventure, does he not, your Majesty?” After the king nodded the admiral continued. “There is math to learn, for navigation and the use of artillery. Languages, both our own Gaelic and those spoken by the great sea powers, even a smattering of that barbaric tongue spoken by the pirates. Poetry, literature, music.”
“You have the people who can continue his education?” asked Rory, smiling more as he saw how Mickey was discomfited by the knowledge that he would get out of none of his schooling by going to sea.
“Most assuredly, your Majesty. I will be one of them, and our young Prince will learn that I am not an easy taskmaster.”
“Do you still want to go, boy?” asked Rory.
Mickey looked up at him with a stern face and nodded. “I want to be an explorer someday, before I have to sit a chair for the rest of my life.”
Both king and admiral burst out laughing, and Rory clapped the prince on the back.
“That’s the spirit, lad,” said the admiral, a proud smile on his face as he glanced at his nodding king.
“So, he will go with you on your next voyage, Admiral. How long till you think you’ll be ready?”
“Probably a month, my Liege. It will take that long to repair the damage, recruit replacements, and reprovision.”
“A month then. And I will see you at the palace for your formal report.”
Connelly bowed again, and Rory led his son off, surrounded by the guards. At least his mother won’t be there to cry over him, thought the king, which brought on a sour mood. He would have given anything for her to be there to wail for the entire month about her baby going off to sea. Anything to have her alive by his side. Rory tuned out the city as he walked, his thoughts on the beauty of his late wife. People still greeted him, but he ignored them. Most knew the tale, and realized he was still having a hard time dealing with the death of his queen. But they loved him and would allow him all the time he needed to heal.
The admiral and another officer followed close behind the party. Connelly would report to the First Sea Lord, his immediate superior, where he would present a written analysis of the voyage. It would also give the admiral a chance to clean up in a manner not possible aboard ship, before the state dinner that greeted the return of either of the main fleets.
One of the guards was the first to spot the assassin, leaning over the railing of a balcony with a musket to his shoulder, taking aim.
“Watch out, my Liege,” yelled the guard as he threw himself in front of the king, just before the weapon cracked. The bullet struck the man-at-arms in the upper left chest, pushing through the chain and into the flesh beneath. The guard grunted in pain and fell to his knees, while two of the other alert guards fired their wheellocks at the man on the balcony. The bullets hit the stonework and ricocheted away, while the assassin ducked back out of sight.
No one was paying attention to the rear, and another assassin fired from an alley. His aim was not true, and the bullet slammed into Admiral Connelly in the lower back, severing the spine instantly. The Admiral pitched forward, falling to his face on the cobblestones, his eyes rolling up as he fell. Unconscious.
“Get down, my Liege. My Prince,” yelled the guard captain, running up and pushing Rory and Michael to the ground, kneeling over them with his pistol in hand. People were screaming and yelling, some that the king was hit, while others ran to get out of the area where citizens were at risk of getting hit by the fire.
Rory crawled the few feet to Connolly, the man who had taken him to sea when he was a boy, and the admiral a captain. He cradled the elder man’s head in his lap and looked on the stricken face in anguish.
“Stay down,” said the guard captain as his four
men fanned out to look for the assassins. Feet sounded from up the street, along with the jangle of chain, and a squad of the watch came running into sight, alarmed expressions on their faces.
As soon as the watch had surrounded the royal pair the king gently lay the dying naval officer on the cobblestones and stood up, his face a mask of rage. “I want those bastards found. Do you hear me. Tear the city apart, but I want them before me this night. And they will tell me who hired them, or they will wish you had killed them.”
Rory looked down to see Mickey looking at the admiral who was to be his mentor, tears rolling down his face. The king put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, then pulled him into an embrace, holding the lad, who was now sobbing without shame. The anger in Rory grew, and he wanted to face the assassins himself. Or, even better, the people who had hired them.
* * *
When the mages left their transport, it was like walking onto the surface of another world. The sights, the sounds, the smells; totally different than Aegypt, or even the cities of the Latins. The streets were covered in stone, off to the sides the fish and spice merchants hawked their wares. The people looked happy and well fed, and there were few of the horrid smells of other cities. It seemed an eminently civilized place, and the students wore smiles as they realized that this would be a comfortable place to live.
“Doblas is said to have a sewer system under the streets,” replied Master Aepep when Marcus remarked on the lack of foul odors.
“A sewer system?”
“A series of conduits that carry the wastes away. You will find no slops in the streets of this city,”
Aepep stopped in his tracks, looking around, nostrils flaring.
[Everyone, to the shadows,] sent the master telepathically.
The eight robed figures moved with swift motions into the shadows of the alley that had immediately deepened as soon as the mages headed for it. Marcus and three of the other apprentices had sliding rings on their left-hand ring fingers, the inner ring of which could be moved around the rest of the band, generating energy a little bit at a time. All worked their rings to gain more energy, while Marcus said the words of an inertial field spell. A light rain started to fall, and every drop that hit the field added more energy to his store.
A man in the robes of a priest, a double column of soldiers behind him, stopped in the middle of the square and started sweeping his eyes around the outside of the area. The twelve soldiers had weapons in hand, some blunderbusses, a couple of crossbows, the majority swords, and their own eyes were checking out everything around them. A second priest, this a woman, came walking up on the party, followed by two others a moment later, all appearing alert and ready.
Marcus thought of saying a spell of concealment but realized the master would have done so if he thought it any more effective than the cover of shadows. He decided to follow the lead of his teacher. The priests all were scanning now, and the young mage could feel the touch of magic sweeping over them.
“There,” shouted the first priest, pointing at the alley where the mages sheltered, and the entire party started in that direction at a run.
“Be ready to fight,” Aepep told his followers, moving his hands in the motions that would set a spell, ready for immediately deployment.
The lead priest stopped fifteen yards into the mouth of the alley and pointed a stave toward the hidden mages. A bright beam of light shot from the head of the staff, illuminating the mages and banishing the shadows they were hiding in.
“You are not wanted here,” roared the priest with the staff, his face a mask of rage. “You are not allowed here. The gods have forbidden your existence, and now you pay the price.”
The other priests started to gesture while shouting out words in an ancient dialect of Gaelic that most in the square wouldn’t understand. That didn’t prevent the people who were still in sight of the confrontation from getting themselves elsewhere as fast as they could.
[All of you, defend against the divine magic,] sent the master, who then glanced over at Marcus. [I want you to handle the guards.]
Marcus nodded. The priest stepped forward, his staff continuing to put out light that brightened until it reached an eye hurting brilliance. Light like that was supposed to look like divine power to the uninitiated, even though the mages could duplicate it with no connection to a deity.
The light intensified again and reached the point where it was causing flammable objects in its cone to start smoldering. Aepep waved his hands and darkness descended over the priest, weakening the light and more importantly, obscuring the cleric’s aim.
One of the other priests shot sparks from her fingers, aiming at two of the apprentices. One spark hit the younger of the two, and the young man stiffened and fell to the cobblestones. The other apprentice shouted a word of power and pointed a finger at the priest. Electricity crackled at the feet of the mage, climbing up his legs from the ground below and building a charge. With a clap of thunder a bolt of lightning linked the finger of the mage with the chest of the priest. The priest acted much like her own victim, though her clothes burst into flames instead of smoldering, and her dead body fell to the stones from the impact of much more powerful magic.
“Kill them,” yelled the senior priest from the shadow he was trying to dispel.
Three of the temple soldiers with blunderbusses stepped forward and fired, trying to spray as many mages as possible with the scatter of balls. Marcus raised his hands and the rounds all struck something in the air and fell to the ground, rolling as they hit. The young mage could feel the energy from the balls channeling into his body. Combined with what he already had contained, he started to feel the pain of overload. Soon it would it begin to cause damage and needed to be released. The four crossbowmen fired into him, recognizing him as their primary threat. The four bolts came at him, he absorbed their energy, then flung them away, one striking a priest through the arm, another penetrating the chest of a clerical guard and dropping him dead to the ground.
Marcus stepped forward to meet a soldier coming at him with a raised sword. The soldier struck, the short blade whistling in toward Marcus’ head, to jerk to a stop as it hit the inertial field. Marcus brought his hand to the chest of the armored soldier as if he was going to palm strike him, stopping inches away while the inertia flowed into the guard and tossed him into the air as if thrown by a giant.
Marcus stepped forward again, drawing up the energy in his body and stomping his right foot on the cobblestones. A wave of force swept out from that stomp, ripping up stones, grabbing everyone in the opposition and tossing them with great force twenty yards away. The priests and guards, those still conscious, groaned and clutched at injured body parts.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” called out Aepep, amplifying his voice. “We just want to talk with the king.”
Marcus wasn’t sure that was going to work. One priest and two soldiers were obviously dead, while several more were injured to the point where they would need serious healing. Still, the temple people opposing them here were in no shape to do anything to stop them. As soon as that thought crossed his mind an even larger group of priests with twenty guards came running into the square.
“You will not be allowed to talk to the king, blasphemers,” roared the new head priest, this one in much more ornate robes, a symbol of his god hanging from a heavy gold chain about his neck. The mages could feel the power emanating from the man and knew this was one to be careful of. “Only those dedicated to the gods are allowed to use the powers of magic. Sorcerers must die, and so it will be.”
The high priest, for such he had to be, raised his staff and pointed it at the wizards, and Marcus could feel the great power that was building in that piece of wood.
* * *
Tengri sat the horse he had just purchased at the edge of the square, arguing in his own mind on whether he should interfere or not. He felt a connection to these magicians, unlike any he had ever experienced. It was akin to the connection he had with his o
wn priests, when he had such. But not quite the same. More like they were linked by fate. And why else would he have found himself riding near the docks at the same time they had come ashore from their ship.
His own ship had come into port at a smaller city a hundred miles to the south. He hadn’t wanted the attention of the customs officials of the capital, and the city of Howarc had seemed like a better choice. He had bought a horse, a fine beast, if not as capable as the best of his own people, and had ridden the two days it took to reach the capital at a comfortable pace. And here he was, at the same time the wizards had arrived by ship,
He could sense the powers at play between the two sides. The priests were tapping into the power of their gods, which was potentially strong enough to blot the small party of mages out of existence. But gods were notoriously stingy with their power, not giving it up to anyone without good cause. He knew he had been.
The mages tapped into another power source, the energy of the world around them. They were limited in the maximum potential, but very powerful in what they could consistently access. And he knew that they would need such magic users, as many as they could get, with their distinct repertoire of spells, in the battle ahead.
His mind made up, the demigod spurred his mount forward a hundred yards. He the mount between the two forces, reining it to a stop. The horse stomped its feet nervously, picking up the power in the air and not liking it at all. His unusual chain glinted in the sun that was poking through the cloud cover, and he raised his hands in the air and shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Stop this madness, both of you. There is something on the way that will require both of your groups to work together.”
The mages were staring at him with recognition, and he knew that they were wondering what the warrior from their last ship was doing here. The high priest was staring as well, and his face shifted through a range of emotions as he realized what he was looking at. Fear, amazement and anger were at the fore.
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 7
