War of Powers

by Robert E Vardeman;Victor Milan

  'I ask for no pardon.' 'Thank you, Chiresko. You may dispense with the protestations. I require only facts.'

  He turned around to behold a pale youth with bright, bloodshot eyes and a shock of black hair. His intensity and sallow complexion reminded Uriath of Colonel Chalowin, and Chalowin had always made Uriath nervous. Still, Uriath was a businessman and knew he had to make the most of the resources available to him.

  'I do not know, lord,' he said slowly, trying to erase the perplexed look on his face. 'The confusion was all you could have asked for. We waited at the distance you ordered. When the time came to make sure things went properly, there were too many people between us and the Skywell. That groundling was more a man than I thought; he had Princess Moriana away from the altar and into the crowd before anyone could react. And Rann, damn him, bought Synalon the time she needed to dismiss Istu's spirit from his Vicar.' He scratched a boil at the side of his neck. 'What I don't see, lord, is why we were supposed to prevent. . .'

  'Enough,' Uriath said sternly, raising his hand in a peremptory gesture. 'It's not for you to see. It's for you to obey. That's how you serve your cause. Or do you doubt the sacredness of our mission?'

  Chiresko stiffened. 'Never!' 'It is well.' Uriath folded hands over his paunch and lowered his head in concentration. 'I've bad news for you, Chiresko. Word has reached me that you are wanted for questioning in connection with the rescue of Moriana.'

  'They'll never capture me! I'll die before I surrender!' Sweat streamed down the thin face.

  'One hopes that will be unnecessary. Still, it would be best for you to remain unseen for a time. Possibly even to go to ground until the situation eases.' Agony etched Chiresko's face at the prospect of exile to the surface. Uriath turned to the table and ruffled through a sheaf of documents before saying, 'I've arranged a temporary hiding spot for you, Chiresko. It is in the warehouse of Councillor Elura, near the starboard cargo docks.'

  For the third time in a week the residents of the City in the Sky thronged its narrow streets for a royal spectacle. The first had been the funeral procession of Queen Derora, culminating with her skull being placed in the pavement of the Skullway among those of other past rulers of the City. Next had been the Rite of Dark Assumption, unperformed for five millennia.

  Now Synalon, elder daughter of Derora, was to be crowned queen.

  Normally a coronation occasioned great joy. Men and women dressed in their finest clothes, apprentices raced and tumbled through the streets, wild with glee at having been freed from their chores for the day, and even the shaven-headed mages relaxed their professionally dour countenances into smiles. A coronation was a time of spectacle and merriment, a doing of bright magic, and feasting at the expense of the new monarch. Coronation Day was banners and bright streamers and the old songs of glory.

  The weather seemed prepared to accommodate the usual spirit of the day. The sun shone, unhindered by clouds, and the rapid approach of winter slowed in deference to the occasion. The wind blew only enough to animate the pennons strung along the four broad thoroughfares of the City, emanating from the Circle of the Skywell.

  The bands had turned out with their drums and flutes and wide-mouthed trumpets enameled in a thousand colorful designs. Behind them stood the massed ranks of the Sky City's soldiery.

  First was a glittering like a forest of glass spires: the brightly burnished halberds of the Palace Guard. Next the City's infantry with shields, spears and conical helmets awaited the order for the procession to begin. Then the huge hounds of the Sky City cavalry, flown up by balloon from compounds on the surface, bayed at one another, avid to be freed from their riders' constraint. Last were the Monitors, sullen in the anonymity of their helmets. The whole parade coiled like a spring around the open area by the aft docks of the City into which the boulevard that followed the floating metropolis's long axis fed. Above it the City's bird-riders orbited in a carousel of wings, the drafts of their downbeats stirring the Palace Guardsmen's ornamental plumes. Higher still, the small circle of the Sky Guard's eagles slowly rotated.

  Crowds framed the four great avenues, held back by Monitors and infantry. Others jostled for position in the penthouses of the City's highest buildings. It was only a matter of time before an incautious spectator, like one of those who formed a living wreath around the spire of the Lyceum in the City's first quadrant, would fall to his death on the hard stone streets.

  But though the onlookers crowded each other as vigorously as ever, a sullen stillness overlay the multitude. Anticipation touched the air, but it was not the restive, eager anticipation of some pleasurable event. It was the kind of anticipation that might greet the growth of a gigantic black cloud belched forth from the Throat of the Dark Ones, the volcano Omizantrim.

  'Ah!' The City's populace sighed with one voice. The skyward-tumbling tracery of the Palace of the Skyborn dominated the horizon; its mightly central tower could be seen from any spot within the guardwall. From its apex a pair of wings unfolded, as black as a necromancer's robe.

  The eagle took flight. Its fellows in the air above kept still the raucous cries of greeting or challenge with which one war bird customarily met another. Itself in silence, the jet-black bird flapped slowly around the perimeter of the City. On its back rode a slender figure, black hair streaming behind her.

  The eagle circled the City once. Returning to the Pake, it flew past. It climbed in a spiral, passing the ring of common bird-riders, and boldly confronted the living crown that was the Sky Guard. A bird detached itself from the flock and flew to meet her. In appearance it was twin of the one the woman rode; the only difference was a fiery red crest on its head. Its rider was diminutive.

  The rider of the crimson-crested bird voiced a challenge. Magic crystal set about the City caught his words and resonated them until it seemed the City itself spoke.

  'Who dares intrude within the sky above our sacred City?' 'Your queen,' came back the haughty reply. 'By right of birth and justice.'

  'Then pass.' They turned back to join the circling Guard. The woman dropped her mount lower to be met by one from the ring of less exalted sky riders.

  'Who dares spread wings among the towers of our blessed City?' 'Your queen, by acclamation of People and Council.' 'Descend.' The watchers inhaled slowly as the black eagle wheeled down toward the waiting procession, wondering how the third ritual challenge would be answered. A soldier, by custom of the lowest rank, stood forth with halberd held horizontal to bar the way of the rider who grounded before him.

  'Who dares set foot upon the streets of our most holy City?' he cried, his young voice shrill with emotion.

  For five millennia of their rule, the Etuul had answered, Your queen, by that peace my mothers brought you. The raven-haired woman swung off her mount and placed herself in front of the Palace Guardsman.

  'Your queen, by the favor of the Dark Ones who rule all!' A shudder passed through the throng like ripples on a pond. For five thousand years those words had gone unuttered. What did they portend for those on whose ears they fell?

  Tears gleamed on the young soldier's cheeks as he knelt in wordless acknowledgment.

  Synalon turned. A Palace Guardsman took the reins of her eagle Nightwind and led the fierce giant to stand out of the way of the procession. Erect, taller than most of those over whom she placed herself this day, the princess strode toward the Circle of the Skywell.

  With the parade following behind in a thumping of boot-heels, clamor of trumpets and snap of banners in the rising breeze, Synalon came to the Circle, paced slowly around the yawning Well of Winds and walked on along the wide way to the forward-most point of the City. There she knelt alone on the parapet, head bowed, speaking to herself the words of a secret incantation.

  She rose, returning slowly to the procession. Musicians and soldiers broke ranks to let her through. Then they silently followed her back to the Circle.

  There she turned left and paced to the starboard edge of the City. The process repeated itself, and
soon she was back in the esplanade surrounding the Well. There she stood before the Council of

  Advisors, who sat upon bleachers carved from black onyx, and recited the oath of allegiance. To the ancient creed she appended the words, 'I swear by the blood my mothers shed upon these stones to return the City to the greatness it once knew.'

  Face impassive, Uriath rose, took the winged silver crown from its pillow of state and walked to the princess. She fell to her knees before him. As Councillors Tromym and Elura draped the royal robe of black and purple feathers about Synalon's shoulders, Uriath rested the crown gently about her temples.

  'All hail Synalon the First, Queen of the City and the Sky, Scion of the Skyborn, Mistress of the Clouds.' He did not shout, but his voice rose as loud as all the trumpets.

  The crowd's answering hail seemed less loud. Synalon rose. Uriath fell to his knees and abased himself. The other councillors stood up from their seats and did the same. Under the watchful eyes of the Monitors the rest of the City's inhabitants dropped to one knee. The air quivered with the cries of eagles proclaiming the new queen.

  Thus far she had deviated only slightly from custom. Now Synalon added an innovation of her own. She raised her arms above her head and voiced a high, discordant cry.

  Like noisome spores from a bloated toadstool, ravens with talons dipped in dark poison burst from the eaves of the City in the Sky. Crying their own replies to their mistress's summons, they coalesced into a cloud of blackness above her head. The watchers reacted once more in unison - this time with loathing.

  Synalon shed the simple slippers she wore. Barefoot, in deference to her ancestors, Synalon the Queen walked slowly over the skulls of the City's former rulers toward the open portals of her Palace.

  Eagles fell from the sky like autumn leaves. Relieved of the awesome burden of ceremony, their riders called to each other across the rapidly filling Circle.

  Herded by Monitors with lead-tipped staves, the Sky Citizens poured into the Circle. A banquet awaited them. But the quantity of food and drink weighting down tables set around the Well seemed less than suited to the majesty of the occasion. The festive mood of the throng, none too evident to begin with, faded further as the citizenry discovered the scant repast given them to celebrate the ascension of Synalon I.

  Having shed solemnity along with his own feathered robe of ceremony, Uriath permitted himself a sardonic smile. He knew the reason for the niggardliness of the feast. Food and drink were expensive in the City since almost all had to be imported from the surface. The luxurious fare that usually accompanied a coronation cost a fabulous amount. Synalon did not intend to spend such a sum. She was determined upon war, and that demanded austerity in all things of minor import.

  Her warlike intentions were supposed to be secret, known only to her innermost circle of advisors. Uriath's smile broadened. Near the center of the web of intrigue spun about the Palace, Uriath prided himself on keeping well informed as to everything happening along its strands.

  The jet-black eagle landed nearby with an ear-straining screech of talons on pavement. Uriath nodded politely and looked away, pretending to engage his fellows in conversation. Preoccupied with the hunt for the fugitive princess and her lover and impatient to be off, Rann nodded briskly and strode off toward the Palace.

  A second bird, egg-grey with flecks of slate, touched down near the prince's mount, Terror. Its rider swung down and handed the reins to a lackey. He was about to follow Rann when Uriath stepped forward and touched his sleeve.

  'Colonel Chalowin,' the red-faced councillor said. 'A word with you.'

  The colonel's left cheek twitched almost hard enough to close his eyes. 'What is it?' he snapped. He had no time for courtesies, even to a high councillor.

  Uriath studiously ignored the affront. Chalowin was a strange man, tall for a Sky Citizen and agonizingly thin. His brow high beneath dark hair and his cheekbones' wide flanges, he looked more like a Josselit monk than one of the Skyborn. He was the sort of man to hurl himself at a problem and wrestle it down; in conversation his manner was that of an aggressor.

  Except when the speaker was Rann. Then Chalowin settled into a curious calm, gazing at his commander with the mixture of fear and adoration common to all bird-riders. Chalowin worshipped the prince like an acolyte paying homage to his god.

  Devoted as he was, the acolyte was less deadly perspicacious than his master. Uriath moistened his lips, made a conspiratorial sideways flick of his eyes and leaned closer.

  'The queen and I have had our differences, Colonel,' he said, 'but I cannot countenance treason. Or traitors. There, I have something to tell you.'

  Chalowin cocked his head. His left eyelid fluttered like the banners that bedecked the City. His fingertips drummed on the lacquered scabbard encasing his sword.

  Uriath brought his lips near the other's ear. He smelled the rank-ness of his breath. Uriath repressed a shudder, thinking how much this man seemed like a hunting bird, even to the stench.

  'A plotter?' hissed Chalowin. Uriath nodded. 'Perhaps one privy to the nefarious scheme that allowed the criminal Moriana to escape her due punishment.' 'Where?'

  Uriath whispered briefly. Chalowin's head jerked back. His eye was almost shut. His left nostril pulsated in time with the tic. He shook himself and stalked off toward the Palace with no further word to Uriath.

  'What was that about?' a voice called out. Uriath suppressed a panicky start. He turned, his heart as spastic as the muscle in Chalowin's cheek.

  'Nothing, my dear Tromym,' he said. He accepted the vessel of golden wine his friend offered him. He squinted at the pewter mug cynically, then raised it. 'A toast, good Tromym.'

  'What to, Uriath?'The high councillor only smiled. 'Great Ultimate!' shrieked the girl with the short blonde hair. 'They've found us!'

  Three men looked up from their game of draughts just as the door crashed inward in a cloud of splinters. A man stepped into the cavernous warehouse, his movements as sharp and sporadic as a lizard's. He wore tunic and trousers of purple and black.

  'Him,' he said, pointing with the naked blade in his hand. 'Take him alive. The rest don't matter.'

  The girl lunged at him with a heavy knife. His scimitar turned it with contemptuous ease. Steel whispered. The girl looked down in surprise and disbelief at the stream of blood hosing from her throat.

  'Shishol!' shrieked one of the youths as she sank lifeless to the sawdust-powdered floor. He charged, hands outstretched like claws, to impale himself on the javelins of the men who stepped in behind the swordsman.

  The other conspirators bolted. They dodged for the rear of the warehouse, scrambling in and out among elephantine bales of cloth. The plumper one staggered and fell against a bale. He yipped with fear as a flung javelin grazed his calf. Then he recovered and dashed after his black-haired friend.

  The emaciated black-haired youth burst out into an alleyway. To his left rose the four-foot guardwall marking the boundary of the City. Twenty yards in the other direction lay a street swarming with black-and-purple-clad soldiers.

  He raced away from them, intent on reaching the short wall. His companion hesitated, uncertain of his friend's intent. A broadheaded arrow nailed him to the door. He died with the shadow of wings across his face.

  Chiresko heard the hollow boom of wings stop as the Sky Guardsman dropped into the narrow space between warehouses. The confines of the alley left no room for the bird to flap its wings. With a leap Chiresko gained the top of the guardwall. Tottering on the brink of emptiness, he slumped against the corner of Elura's building.

  The eagle shot by him like a living missile, claws stretched to clutch his torso. The bird missed by scant inches and plunged over the wall, its angry cries filling the narrow alley with hideous echoes.

  Shouts sounded up the street. Time moved like molasses for him. He saw his pursuers spill into the alley. He saw his friend's dead body sagging against the door, head slumped to the side. He saw his own death approach.

&n
bsp; Wings pounded air. The war eagle had recovered from its dive and returned intent on vengeance. As it neared Chiresko, its rider banked in toward the City's wall and grabbed at the black-haired rebel.

  To his astonishment the boy leaped gladly to meet him. The bird-rider shouted hoarsely as Chiresko wrapped mad-strong arms about his neck.

  A riderless eagle spun skyward, crying like an orphaned child. When the other Guardsmen reached the wall, all that remained was the wisp of Chiresko's laugh, stretching thin into the distance below.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A small fire crackled fitfully inside the circle of rocks. The sere, scrubby grasses that grew in the shadow of the Ramparts burned smokelessly, so Fost pronounced it safe to build a fire. Fost took great care in making sure no stray spark would set ablaze the surrounding dry vegetation.