The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde

by Doug Dandridge

  “But they do not love the priesthood,” said Ronan, shaking his head. “There is only fear there, and suspicion.”

  “Order the guard to attend to me outside the palace,” said Rory, looking over at his guard captain. “You will do what you need to do to get this man out of their custody for me,” he stated, looking at the mages. “Then, if I need your help to take the patriarch and his council into custody, will you support me?”

  “Of course, your Majesty,” said Aepep, looking over his charges. “And though I hate to bring it up at this time, I need to know your intentions for me and mine. These young people, after all, are my responsibility first and foremost.”

  “Asylum, of course,” said Rory with a tight smile, fully understanding that these people had not been treated well where they came from. They were hoping they would get better treatment here, but unsure if that was true, and needed reassurance. “And I will appoint you as my court wizard, with all the benefits of that position, including quarters for you and all your charges. And, of course, I will want you to train more mages.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Trevor in a tone of protest.

  “Please escort the father to a chamber where he will be comfortable,” said Rory, looking at Lord Ronan. “He is not to be harmed, but I want a half dozen watchers with him at all times. If he looks like he is trying to communicate with other priests, stop him.”

  “How, your Majesty?” asked Ronan, looking confused.

  “Throw water on him,” said Aepep. “Make him move around or play loud noises. Anything to break his concentration.”

  “You heard the man,” said Rory, looking over at his chief councilor. “You can do what you need, as long as you don’t do the priest permanent harm.” He looked back at Father Trevor. “I believe you are still a good man, Father. So, do not make my people have cause to discomfort you.” Unsaid in that was the promise that said discomfort could become very uncomfortable indeed, if need be.

  “How long do you need to get ready?” was the next question out of the king’s mouth, aimed at Aepep.

  “Give us an hour to get our energy reserves built up,” said Aepep. “Magic requires energy, your Majesty. We can’t get something for nothing, and we cannot call upon the divine to give us the power they steal from mortals, like the priests.”

  “Take your hour and ask Lord Ronan for anything else you might need.” Rory clenched a fist as he thought about what he was about to do. No one had ever stood up the priesthood before. It was said to be suicide to do so, since the priests seemed to control the power of the gods.

  But I’ll be damned if I let them strike at my family and my officers with impunity, thought Rory, letting his squires dress him in the half plate that was the customary armor of knights for foot combat. And then it was the wait of the hour the mages requested, standing outside the palace with the four hundred men of the guard who would be coming on this mission. All seemed a bit nervous, but determined. All had heard the story of the treasonous action of the clergy and it angered them. They had sworn their oaths and would fight to the gates of hell for their king.

  “We are ready,” said Aepep at the end of the hour, walking up to the king with his seven charges behind. All were dressed in dark robes, staffs in hand. “I and two of my apprentices will ward you and your men, while Marcus, my greatest apprentice, worthy of the mantel of adept himself, will penetrate the cathedral.”

  Rory noted that the named mage had a brace of pistols at his waist, and a short blade strapped to his side. Aepep followed the king’s gaze and looked up with a smile.

  “Sometimes one has need of resources other than magic. And all of my people know how to fight, if need be.”

  “Then let’s get going,” said Rory in a loud, carrying voice. He started on the way down the road that led to the center of the town, a few guards walking to his front, the rest of the force trailing behind. It wasn’t long before there were people staring at them from the street, or from the windows of apartments above the shops. And Rory knew that the clergy would get word of their coming no matter what he did.

  Let them know we are coming. Maybe it will panic them, thought the king, striding down the street, looking at the domes and spires ahead that marked his target.

  Chapter Ten

  “Here they come, Lord Patriarch,” shouted Father Sean, pointing at the column of soldiers heading up the street. A great noise preceded the force, people talking excitedly as they watched something they were sure would be talked about for years to come.

  High Bishop Pallin looked down from the high tower of the cathedral, eyes wide in disbelief as he watched the line of torches moving down the street. He must be mad to confront us so, he thought as he counted the men quick stepping on the cobble stones.

  While the force the king was leading outnumbered his guard force four to one, and the cathedral was not really made to withstand a siege, they had no magic to contest what the priesthood could throw at them. He had three high priests and a high priestess, as well as a dozen lower ranking clerics and a half dozen acolytes. If given time he could summon many more from the other churches in the city, as well as the myriad of small village parishes scattered about the countryside. But he really didn’t think he would need more. A couple of divine spells and the soldiers would soil their britches as they ran away.

  The king’s guard marched into the square in front of the cathedral and fanned out, musketeers to the front, backed up by the spearmen and swordsmen. The king stepped to the front, along with a trio of robed people, a middle-aged man and two youngsters, a boy and a girl.

  “Patriarch Pallin,” yelled the king, his voice amplified by some means. “We are here to take you and your council into custody on charges of attempted regicide, as well as the attempted murder of a king’s officer.”

  Magic, thought the high bishop, his hackles rising in indignation. “Blasphemy,” yelled Pallin, using his own powers to project his voice. He pointed his staff down at the tall man in robes. “Their kind is forbidden here. You risk your immortal soul by dealing with them, King Rory.”

  “Nonsense,” shouted the tall mage, laughing at the bishop. “You only fear the competition, priest. The king is in no more danger of damnation than are you. In fact, you have a greater risk of seeing hell by trying to kill your monarch.”

  “Lies,” yelled Pallion. “And let the gods silence he who lies.”

  The patriarch pointed his finger at the king, shouting out one of the prayers that would trigger a spell. The eldest of the robed figures raised his staff into the air and shouted something in a language that Pallion could not understand. But he could feel the power of the words, and he could feel his own spell fading before it accomplished its task.

  Impossible, he thought, bringing another spell to mind, one that would strike at the mage directly. I have the power of the divine. There is no way a mere magic user can equal me. He shouted out the prayer, pointing at the mage, and a bolt of blinding light linked him with the wizard in an instant. Pallion growled in anger and anticipation as he waited for the light to do its work, for the wizard disappear in a cloud of ash. Instead, a barrier interposed itself between his light and the mage, and he could feel the power radiating from the three robed figures.

  “To me,” he yelled to the other priests on the walls. “We must combine our power so we can destroy these upstarts.”

  “Fire,” shouted Rory from the square, and a hundred muskets cracked over a three second span. Some of the gunners missed on purpose, unable to bring themselves to actually fire on the priests they feared and revered. Others missed due to the inherent inaccuracy of their weapons. But there were some hits, and two priests fell lifeless from the wall, while another pair crouched down and attempted to staunch the flow of blood from wounds.

  “I wanted to avoid bloodshed, Patriarch,” yelled the king, his voice no longer amplified, but still loud enough in its natural state to carry.

  Pallion tried to see where Rory was at, but the cloud o
f obscuring smoke made it uncertain as to which of the figures in the square was the king, the one he wanted to target with his next spell.

  I will just have to destroy all of them, thought the patriarch, calling upon the spell he had never thought to use, the one that only he knew among all of the priesthood of the kingdom. The last resort, taught only to the head of the church by the gods themselves. He raised his hands into the air and called upon the power of Morrigan, the great queen and chief of the gods. He could feel the power flowing through him as the goddess answered his supplication and fed him the energy he needed to defeat his enemies, and hers.

  With a shouted word the smoke below cleared, and the soldiers of the king, along with the monarch himself, and the blaspheming mages beside him, were revealed. I have you now, thought the patriarch, bursting with power, feeling like a god himself. And I will blast you into the pits of the hells.

  * * *

  Marcus held up his hand, visible to the other four members of his party, if not to anyone outside the concealment field. There was movement ahead, he could sense it as much as hear it. Marcus was not Aegyptian in origin. He had been born of the Scythian people, genetic cousins of the Eirish. Scythians were considered barbarians by most. But their culture was quite advanced in its own way, their people educated in the skills they needed to survive. Though captured in a slaver raid at the age of eight, he had spent his early years hunting and gathering with his people. Aepep had recognized his affinity for magic, and he hadn’t remained a slave for long. He had soon taken the name Marcus, so he would blend in better with the people of the Middle Sea.

  Now he led the other apprentices, all junior to himself, through the maze of passages underneath the cathedral. All had their individual talents, though they also shared some proficiencies through training. Marcus was almost an adept at inertial magic, something none of the others could claim, though all had some facility. But he was also a master of concealment spells, and at the moment everyone was enfolded in a field that obscured their visual signature, bending light around them to show the objects on their other sides. A true master could also silence all sound and obscure their scent. Marcus was not that kind of master, though he could deaden the sounds they made considerably, and only a very sharp nose would reveal their presence.

  “What do you feel?” he asked Hes-ra, the youngest of the group at fourteen.

  “There is detection magic ahead,” said the girl, a native Aegyptian, closing her eyes. The dusky skinned girl was very powerful, and Marcus thought she would surpass him in power as she reached adulthood.

  “Can you get us past it?” asked Marcus in a whisper.

  “I think so,” said the child, whispering as well.

  “Can you or can’t you?” hissed Marcus, looking into her wide eyes. “I need to know now, so we can work our way around it if you can’t.”

  “I can,” said the young woman, her lips in a pout.

  The group moved forward, until even Marcus could feel the magic radiating across the passage. It was a simple revealing spell, one that would sound an alarm if anyone passed through it. What was not so simple was passing through it without setting it off. If it they were found out now, he thought they would have a battle to fight in a terrible position, in the middle of a corridor.

  Hes-ra mumbled the words of her spell, and the concealment field reacted by weakening. Marcus started saying the words to the concealment spell again, strengthening it. He could feel the sweat pouring down his face from the strain of keeping the field in place, and his concern that they were about to give themselves away. If that happened they would probably all die in this hall. The mission called for getting Tengri out no matter what, but Aepep had also cautioned them to avoid bloodshed if possible. Marcus wanted to make sure that if blood was shed, none of it would come from the party.

  “We’re through,” whispered Hes-ra a few steps after the oppressive feeling of the spell also left.

  “Bastet,” said Marcus, looking over at another young woman, this one of seventeen, just a little younger than the leader, “can you locate him?”

  “He’s on this level. Maybe forty yards that way.” From the way Bastet was pointing, it was not straight down this corridor.

  “Can you see a path?”

  The woman closed her eyes for a moment, then started nodding. “We take a right up ahead, then a left at the second passage up that corridor.”

  Marcus nodded and waved the team forward. He didn’t want to become overconfident at this point, but he also wanted to get this mission over with. He didn’t feel safe in this den of divine magic. None of the deities behind the spells here were his gods, neither of his own people or of his adopted nation. They would look on he and his as enemies, and he didn’t think their powers would be a match for a deity.

  They traced the path outlined by Bastet, but Marcus was confused when the young woman stopped in front of a blank wall after they had already passed the first corridor.

  “There is a hidden door here,” said Bastet, pointing at the wall.

  Marcus had to admit to himself that the craftsmanship was amazing. He couldn’t tell, even with mage sight, where the door started. It looked just like a solid wall without a break, and if the girl hadn’t pointed it out, he would have not given it another look.

  “Can you find the catch?”

  Bastet stared at the door for a moment, then started to trace her hands on the stonework. “I can’t get to it.”

  “Why not?” asked Marcus, alarmed that this door that led to their target might not be openable after all.

  “It’s on the other side of this wall.”

  “Show me,” said Marcus, laying his hands on the head of the other mage.

  The image appeared in his head, a piece of the wall on the other side of the door, hinged to push in and activate the mechanism.

  “I have this,” said Marcus, one hand remaining on the head of Bastet while he reached out with the other, pointing at the catch on the other side of the wall. He could feel the energy he had stored before starting on this mission, the inertial force he had picked up from multiple sources. The wind across his skin, falling raindrops, the twisting of his special ring. He projected some of that force, forming an invisible hand on the other side that pushed into the catch. With a grinding noise the door slid back a yard, then to the side, revealing a dark passage.

  They walked forty yards down the passage, coming to another junction, their corridor running into a crossway. Bastet motioned to the right, but Marcus held up a hand and looked down the other corridor. He could feel something that way, power, an energy that tickled the back of his spine.

  “There is a source that way,” he whispered to his companions. “Earth power.” He wondered if the priests even knew of its existence. He didn’t see how they couldn’t know, though it would probably be of no use to divine magic users, and something they would ignore.

  That could wait, he decided, as interesting as it might be. Right now they needed to get the walking god out of here. They continued down the proper corridor, which seemed to go on forever. Seemed to, as Hes-ra raised a hand to stop them for a moment, then waved them through. The party walked through the distortion field and there was a mere fifteen feet of corridor ahead. And at the end of that fifteen feet, a heavy steel door.

  “What can you tell me about it?” asked Marcus of Bastet.

  “It’s thick and strong,” said the young woman, shaking her head as she pressed her right hand against the metal. “A foot of solid steel. With a heavy bar set into brackets on the other side.”

  “Can I lift it?”

  Bastet continued to shake her head, her eyes closed in concentration. “The bar is set into the brackets by a pair of locks. I can detect magic on the locks, a strong spell that I don’t believe an opening casting can affect.”

  “Is it alarmed?” asked Marcus, a plan running through his mind. He didn’t have enough energy to push this kind of barrier out of the way, but he thought there
might be a way to get enough power to do so.

  “I don’t think so,” said Bastet. “I believe they felt the precautions they took enough to keep anyone from getting through, without having to worry about an alarm.”

  That made sense to the young leader in a perverse sort of way. The priests were probably very arrogant in their feelings of security. If he had been in charge he would have put a detection spell on the door. It was simple enough and used little in the way of energy. Here the priests were the only magic users, and they had to believe that none of their brethren, worshippers of the same gods, would try to use their powers to get into a forbidden area of the temple. Forbidden to the ordinary people, but not to the priesthood.

  “Come along,” ordered Marcus, turning to head back through the distortion field. “I want everyone powered up.”

  They hurried back down the corridor and through the crossway, following the scent of Earth power, until they came upon the source they had detected. To the uninitiated, there was nothing different about this part of the corridor from any other section. To the eyes of those trained in magecraft, it was if a stream of silvery green water flowed down one wall and across the stonework of the floor to disappear through the far wall. The blood of the Earth, the energy that flowed from where the plates moved, or volcanoes erupted, to other areas that needed or generated the force.

  Marcus stepped into the stream, and immediately felt the energy flowing through him. With a thought he started absorbing the power, only allowing three quarters of it to move through him, while the remainder infused the cells of his body. He continued to pull in the energy until he felt like he was going to explode, then hastily stepped out of the stream.

  “Everyone else, charge with energy. But be careful not to take too much.”

  They all took their turns, only Ruhak, the youngest of the mages at the tender age twelve, having to be forcibly pulled from the stream as an expression of agony crossed his face.