by Ulff Lehmann
Back when she had studied here, several rooms had been set aside for spellwork training. Judging from the destruction she had encountered outside the library, they probably were gone. These battlespells had to be cast somewhere remote, so as to not needlessly demolish property or kill. The Shadowpeaks would do. She didn’t exactly know where, but from above it would be much easier to find a suitable spot.
Moments later, Ealisaid soared above the green peaks surrounding the ruined Citadel. The Chosen Kildanor had told her how the destruction of the Wizards’ Stronghold had increased the atypical climate surrounding it. The only thing he had forgotten to mention just how far the spring-like zone had expanded. She remembered a hundred-yard-wide belt of green at best, with the grand vista of snow-tipped peaks surrounding the lush gardens. Now, the only white she could see was far to the east and west, around the Citadel’s remains everything was either a luscious green or clear, washed granite. The change in weather had destroyed the natural environment; thawing snow had taken the sparse spots of native vegetation with it. Even now, instead of the blasts of icy wind she had expected, what should have been falling snow was heavy rain in a gentle breeze. “Scales,” she hissed. “What have we done?” The fact she still spoke as if she also was responsible for this destruction surprised her. She hadn’t even been awake at the time of the Heir-War. The way she understood the situation, none of the remaining Wizards had caused the belt to expand. “This, for once, is not the fault of Phoenix Wizards.”
Provided she survived all that lay before her, she decided to bring a normal climate back to the Shadowpeaks. That would be in the future, now she’d better focus on getting used to casting battlespells.
Flying through the downpour was easy; the winds hardly disturbed her. What wore her patience down, however, were her drenched clothes. The wind hardly altered her course, but sodden garments dragged her down slowly.
Before her she saw a plateau, clear of vegetation, although as flooded as most of the area under the influence of the magical spring. A sigh escaped her. The thought of casting battlemagic in spring was nice, but spellwork in a permanent spring rain was less appealing. Even worse was that she already felt the cold wind blowing from the west, from the untouched region of the Shadowpeaks. Ealisaid had no idea how quickly her clothing would freeze stiff in the gales from without. The line between spring and winter had seemed distinct, but the closer she came, the blurrier it got. “Can’t do much more harm here,” she decided.
She landed and considered something she would have dismissed as childish fancy a few days ago. That Ysold had managed to speak out of the spiritworld and had proven many of her conceptions narrow-minded. The sky had the potential of being clear, at least partially. A little window would suffice, or so she hoped. Theoretically she knew how to nudge an explosion out of a few flaming arrows, or to let small thorns tossed at a foe increase in size. The potential was there, but just how to nudge the clouds blocking out the sun to break open, she did not know.
With her feet set apart, gaining steady footing, Ealisaid looked up at the clouds. Rain poured down on her, the constant tattoo of splashes around her threatening to nullify her focus well before she actually began concentrating. She took a deep, steadying breath and closed her eyes. The patter of raindrops faded to the back of her mind, she even grew less aware of the water running freely into her shoes.
From one moment to the next it was as if her view of the world around her had changed. She perceived her surroundings differently, more slowly. Currents of air, very gentle in the center, lessened by distance and the distortion that magic had forced on this part of the mountain, grew the farther her mind wandered out. In this circle where the laws of nature had been suppressed, nature itself was trying to regain a foothold. The cold air without fed on the warmth within, twisting, whirling. Ealisaid felt that the strongest portion of the wind was in the border region where the frost battled the magic-wrought spring. This force of nature was exactly what she needed.
“Come,” she whispered to the roiling air. “Come. Aid me.”
At first there was hardly a reaction. The potential was there, surely, but the wind was so strong it seemed to ignore her. Was it possible…?
She pictured the rain-torn granite landscape, not as it was but what it might look like should the wind succeed. It was similar to how one nudged a fire to explode. A poke here, a prod there, the wind wanted to get in!
Now she felt her skirt and tunic begin to flap, raindrops whipped into her back, the flood surrounding her feet came to life. Her hair lashed into her face, striking harder and faster with every passing moment. The wind howled in her ears. Skirt and tunic beat against her body, first wetly, but in time the strikes became less pronounced as the moisture was beaten out. It was almost like when people drained freshly washed clothes by striking them repeatedly against stone. She hardly felt the fabric hitting her flesh, so enraptured was she with this feeling of primal power.
She trembled with joy, and immediately the wind lessened, raindrops pattered down on her once again. No! Emotions were needed, but she refused to be ruled by them, a nudge, controlled by what she desired, yes, but no more. No joy, no glee, she could allow nothing to halt her concentration.
Another deep breath, and the wind returned, its force once more shoving the rain aside. Her shoes were filled with water, water that now tried to escape its leathery prison. Did she dare and look? “I can’t stand here doing nothing but playing with the wind,” she moaned. Gods, how she wished to remain how and where she was. The feeling was better, stronger than anything she had experienced before. Even the passionate nights spent in bed with Culain diminished in the face of this. “Snap out of it!” she gasped. “Open your eyes!”
When she finally did, the wind still whipping her hair and clothes about, Ealisaid first beheld the tangle of half dried hair whirling before her eyes. Next, she saw the sun brightening her brown tresses to a dark blonde. With trembling hands, she pulled back her hair and bound it in a knot. The plateau was free of water. Around her the wind blew on, its force sufficient to keep the sky above clear.
Elation threatened to bubble up once again; this time, however, she repressed it. Until now she hadn’t considered how to proceed next. A look around revealed that rocks of all sizes were lying on the floor. Potential, she recalled, was not necessarily what something could be, it could also mean what an item had been before. Pebbles hadn’t always been pebbles, years and years of grinding against one another, landslides, erosion had made them what they now were. The rock remembered what it had been before. This she could use.
Maintaining her calm, Ealisaid picked up a pebble, her thoughts focused on the fact that this stone had, in ages past, been a boulder, a part of the mountain itself. The past potential was there, strong and clear for her to feel. She threw the rock, reawakening its inherent memory.
At first the pebble flew unchanged. Then, as she nudged a little harder, it changed in size. It expanded, grew. The shift was slow, gradual, and when the stone hit the ground a good dozen yards away from her it had changed from a pebble no bigger than her thumbnail to a fist sized piece of rock.
“Calm,” she reminded herself. “Stay calm.”
She picked up another. This time, however, she began to nudge its potential as soon as the stone touched her palm. Gently she reminded it of the mighty boulder it had once been, but as one would talk to a child she also told it to remain calm, that its time had not yet come. She threw again, in a wider arc than before. The moment the pebble left her hand she poked.
Unlike her first attempt, the piece of rock increased in size immediately. In the blink of an eye it had grown to almost the size of a human head. Its weight also increased; her strength would never have sufficed to toss such a boulder. The stone landed with a crack a few yards away.
Her shoulders slumped; the wind lessened and once more rain pattered down behind her. “Calm!” she snarled. The shower grew harder. Gods, how was she supposed to get this right in suc
h a short time when generations of Wizards before her had needed years to complete this training?
“Stay calm,” she whispered, remembering how she had felt before, controlling the wind, even the joy she had felt when she’d created the illusion while in Culain’s arms. Deep, controlled breaths rattled through her chest. The rain lessened, vanished.
Having no one to teach her, she began to analyze the problem. It was possible for her to make a pebble grow back into a boulder, but the boulder had considerably more weight than the shard of stone, mass that her muscles could not handle. She doubted she could even lift such a stone. Maybe she was approaching the problem the wrong way.
The rock had the potential to grow, that much she had already proven, but it did not have the potential to fly like a bird. Unlike fire, which could leap and jump and set things aflame, or wind that could break clouds apart. Nudging an object into being something that was not in its nature required oneself to think differently.
Rocks only flew when they fell. Maybe she could convince the boulder it was flying down a cliff! A raindrop struck her face. “I have got to stay calm,” she scolded herself with a smile. Any event could unsettle one’s equilibrium. Best to shut out anything and everything not connected to the task. This was easier thought than done.
“No joy, no anger, no pain,” she muttered and was about to add “no pleasure” when her mind wandered to Culain and how much she desired him. Another raindrop hit her. “Scales!” The growl brought forth another tattoo of drops striking the nearby ground. “Calm down. Calm.” A steadying breath or three later and the prattle ended once more. “Just stay calm.”
Her hand found a new pebble. In her mind she formed the image of a boulder, wider than a man was tall, tumbling down the mountainside. On its way it struck rocks, bits of stone splintered off, shattering into yet tinier shards. It unleashed a whole cluster of stones to follow in its wake. “Remember,” Ealisaid told the pebble. Then she threw.
The result could not have been more impressive. The little rock expanded in size, but despite its obvious weight it flew on, rumbling as if it struck the cliff’s side along its way. Shards sprayed in every direction, clattered on the ground and lay still. At one point, it was now a hundred yards away, the massive boulder splintered into several smaller fragments that, in turn, shattered into more pieces. At about four hundred yards from her, the flying avalanche came to a cracking, thunderous halt. In mid-air! Ealisaid gasped but reined in her elation.
This last part must have been the pebble remembering its end. If she were to throw a handful of pebbles on an advancing enemy, several lines would be ground to pulp. Just like in a true avalanche. With this tiny piece of rock, she would have caused more destruction than she had with the exploding timber. Still better was the fact that she felt no more tired than she had when she had teleported out of the library.
To test her skill, she tossed more pebbles. The results remained the same. She convinced the shards they were flying down a slope, and they behaved as she desired. If she thought of a steeper cliff, the rocks flew faster and farther. Soon she had tried every way she could think of, and still she was as awake as she had been when the rain had drenched her.
Now that she had mastered stone, water was the obvious second choice. Up here there was abundance. The problem, she realized very quickly, was that she had never seen either an ocean or real waves, and book-knowledge was no replacement for true experience when one tried to nudge potential out of a thing. Fire seemed easier, since she had already seen a house or two burning. Now that she thought of it, she had already manipulated air. The broken cloud cover above was ample proof of that.
Blinking Ealisaid stared up into the sky. Behind a curtain of light blue stars began to glimmer. She turned west and saw the sun making its final dive behind the snow-capped peaks. Gods, had she really spent the entire day up here? The Palace with her meager chambers could never compare to the massive library underneath all this stone, but now it was her home. Not only that, but she had promised the Baron she’d return as soon as she knew battlespells that would defend Dunthiochagh. She had to return.
Teleportation to the Citadel had been easy. Prudent Wizards had designed the empty arrival chamber; still intact, magic had kept it bare ever since. The Palace had no such feature, and it would have been suicidal just to jump to any spot. Any place might be occupied by someone or something. Jumping back to a spot above the Palace was a much wiser choice.
Now Ealisaid had to concentrate on three things: she had to maintain the zone of calm around her, tickle the magic to allow her to fly, and cast the necessary spell to transport her back to Dunthiochagh. Could that be any more difficult than making a pebble believe it was a boulder again, hurling down a cliff? A smile blossomed. It should be easier.
It was. The study and her true understanding of what it meant to be a Wizard pushed away doubts she hadn’t known she still harbored. Steadily she rose into the air, the pocket of calm around her held despite her shifting focus. Next, she concentrated on the teleport. When the images of a spot above the keep were firmly in place, she cast the spell.
A moment later, the sun’s last rays briefly illuminated her before plunging the world into darkness, and she appeared above the tower.
Immediately a consciousness slammed into her. Ysold! “Where have you been? Never mind! They are attacking! You are needed in the slums!” From the relative calm of the Shadowpeaks she was thrust into the ruckus of people screaming, slingthrowers creaking, steel ringing on steel.
The noise seemed everywhere. Dunthiochagh was at war.
CHAPTER 54
This morning was as gloomy as any other, and Anne had to restrain herself from grinning in triumph. The Danastaerian had succeeded. Mireynh had not spoken to her directly—how could he, given that she had never been officially put under house arrest—but Gwen had been called to the High General’s tent after last night’s horror had been overcome. House Cirrain was once more in King Drammoch’s good graces.
That had been yesterday evening. Most of the warriors she saw spent less time in the trenches; the digging that had been so frenzied in the past days trickled down to almost nothing. Instead, the engineers had directed most of the people-at-arms to the far side of the encampment. She was tempted to go and see what all the hammering was about but dared not. The distrust sown in past weeks would linger.
The High General had announced he intended to take Dunthiochagh by escalade, today.
She walked past the half-finished southern siege-castle where warriors tossed sacks that contained the walking corpses’ remains onto carts, the train was on its way back to Harail. Was Mireynh so certain of victory? From what Gwen had told her the hacked gobs of human flesh were to be fired by ‘thrower before the actual charge began. The two war-engines were not sufficient to create a sizeable breach. Rumor had it that somebody had suggested using the bodies of their warriors killed in the ghostly attack two nights ago, but both Mireynh and the priests of Eanaigh had forbidden this. As if their own dead were more valuable.
“Morning, Cirrain,” a voice greeted her from behind.
She turned and saw Duncan of House Argram lifting a sack onto a wagon. The noble wore none of the clothes that would have distinguished him from the freeborn soldiers. Instead, he had donned a commoner’s rough spun tunic and trousers. Only his boots, albeit muddy, were of the fine make preferred by the aristocracy. “Argram,” she replied, inclining her head. “Instead of raping innocents you’ve decided to haul our former allies’ remains?”
Argram’s strained features hardened. With a final grunt he tossed the sack onto the cart. “You wouldn’t understand, woman,” he snarled, taking a new bag from the wheelbarrow.
“I guess not.” Even to her ears the retort sounded weak.
“Let the wench be, chief!” another man called from atop the wagon. More heads turned her way, accompanied by gruff chuckles. “War’s a man’s business, so are the spoils.” Those warriors attending, all men, agre
ed throatily. All but Sir Duncan; his coloring had frozen somewhere between ash-grey and fury-red.
“Keep working, you dogs!” Argram roared. Then, in a whisper, he added, “There’ll be enough spoils for those who survive.” Anne wasn’t sure if he had meant for her to hear, though she saw that none of the others had.
She frowned, shook her head in disgust, and walked away. Maybe the whipping had done the man some good. As she came to the frozen ruts of Trade Road, she was forced to stop once again, this time for traffic. Two wagons out of a hundred remained. Each was loaded with slingthrower-parts, as was evident by the girth and size of the wood. Wrapped in oilcloth for protection against the cold, the timber behemoths were still a sight to behold. According to Gwen, Lord Commander Trileigh had procured the weapons in Harail. Had they not been stashed away in the royal palace the ‘throwers could have posed a threat to the invaders. Courtesy of corrupt nobles, the slingthrowers had never been assembled. Now Mireynh planned to use the Danastaerian engines to gradually lob the carcass chunks into Dunthiochagh. It wasn’t so much the threat of spreading disease that the High General wanted to unleash–the chunks of flesh were frozen stiff, so he would have to wait for spring to get results—rather the assault with pieces of human flesh was meant to sow terror amongst the enemy.
As if the Danastaerians hadn’t already noticed that the trench work ended in two pits meant for siege engines. So far, the slingthrowers of the enemy had been silent, but Anne doubted they would remain so once it was clear that machines were being assembled outside the walls.
The walking corpses… Any thought of them made her shudder. Seeing dead upon a battlefield or in linen prepared for burial was one thing, but the shuddering, halting gait and empty holes staring was quite another. The stories her grandma had told her when she was little had been frightening, true, but not a single one of them could compare to the real thing. Back then she had not believed the tales. Today, having hacked apart corpses of people she had superficially known, the horror of seeing the animated dead had left its mark. The carts passed. Anne continued toward her warband.
