Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  Farid watched in horror. He had been luckier when the pattern had taken his body.

  ‘Mogyrk spells,’ said the man next to him, a captain, by his insignia.

  Farid could still feel the edge of the pattern-command, sharp and full of harm, cutting through the soldiers’ will. Now he knew how to find the man who had cast it – but there was something he must do first. He glanced at the battle – the Yrkmen had lost their wards and red-robed austeres were struggling to replace them under a hail of stones and arrows. But they were undeterred, as were their archers, focused on their duty.

  Farid sensed the pattern that trapped Govnan’s fire-spirits, its signs and strokes, and knew it to be the same kind of barrier that the high mage had used against the Storm. The spirits could not sense it and therefore could not break it. He wondered if that was what had kept Meksha’s well hidden for so many years. He saved the pattern to his memory before twisting it, lifting the lines from their places in the sand and freeing the efreet.

  At once a green and violet fireball spun into a group of Yrkmen archers and they screamed as the conflagration exploded outwards, consuming them. Farid stared in shock: those men had died because of him. He felt the light of their lives leave the world. Four more efreet followed the first, three moving quickly and the other slow, taking a human form. The fire moved among austeres, swordsmen and archers – it did not matter; it took them all, one and then the next, and the next, and he stood in horror, careless of the arrows aimed towards the wall, towards him. He had seen that a bound mage felt pleasure in his spirit’s kill, but he felt only sickness.

  The Yrkmen began to run in confusion, but only in the confined area before the gate. The battle was larger than that, spreading beyond Farid’s view. He would have to leave the rest of it to the soldiers who were trained to battle, greater in number and less sensitive to death. He turned away from the fighting and followed the line of pattern-casting. He would find the mage who had destroyed the Tower.

  54

  Sarmin

  Their carriages rumbled along the streets, bumping over stones and against wall in their rush, barely slowing for the turns, then rushing onwards again. Sarmin rode in the first; his remaining sword-sons were in the second. Grada sat opposite him in the gloom, still clenching Adam’s arm. Since he had been released from the prison she had not let go of him, as if given only half a second the man would betray them. Adam looked comfortable nevertheless, leaning back in his seat with a resigned air. Sarmin squinted at him in the dim light. He saw in the austere a willingness to cause harm, but only to satisfy the zealotry that outweighed every other trait in him.

  ‘I hope that through my cooperation, you will see the greatness and mercy of Mogyrk before it is too late,’ Adam said to him.

  Sarmin did not reply.

  The carriage slowed and Grada poked her head out, looking for danger. In a moment she drew back inside and said, ‘It’s Farid, the pattern mage.’

  ‘Farid? What is he doing here?’ So he had found his way out of the well.

  Grada opened the door and the young mage peered in, saw the emperor and began to kneel on the road. Sarmin waved a hand. ‘Speak.’

  ‘I am following the trail of pattern-work,’ said Farid.

  ‘And so are we. We will fight this man and end this battle,’ said Sarmin, projecting more confidence than he felt. Both Didryk and Adam had said the first austere knew secrets no other pattern mage had access to – but so had Helmar, and he had beaten Helmar. Farid climbed in beside him and the carriage continued towards the southern quarter, where middling merchants kept fine houses. Sarmin checked the street and hit the carriage roof. ‘Stop – stop,’ he ordered. The horses were making too much noise. They would walk the rest of the way. Grada climbed out first, checking the road for dangers, and the sword-sons had surrounded Sarmin’s carriage before he had even placed a hand on the door. Adam climbed out last, struggling without the use of his hands.

  ‘Untie him,’ Sarmin ordered, and Grada obeyed without comment.

  They moved forwards, Grada and the sword-sons listening while he, the mage and the austere used a different sense, reaching out for pattern-work, for its movement and colour, until they came to the wall enclosing a square three-storey house.

  ‘In there,’ Sarmin hissed.

  Farid came to a sudden stop. ‘No …’ He looked down at the street, and Sarmin saw rising to the surface glowing triangles, circles and lines in shades of blue and yellow. In seconds a glimmering circle the length of three men had encompassed them all.

  ‘How could he hide such a pattern from us?’ he asked as Farid knelt down, his eyes fixed on the bright shapes.

  ‘The first austere holds Mogyrk’s secrets,’ said Adam in a monotone: words he had likely memorised long ago and now repeated by rote. But Sarmin watched him with concern, wondering whether he might yet betray them.

  Farid breathed out, and the pattern’s triangles drifted away like petals on the wind.

  Sarmin had never seen it done before, the breaking of a pattern, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The first austere’s designs were not unstoppable.

  ‘Look,’ said Grada. Through the gate was a courtyard surrounded by high walls, with a statue of Mirra in the centre. It looked empty, but he blinked and made out a hint of movement. The first austere, dressed in a mix of dull colours, had camouflaged himself against the stones like a moth. Now he stepped before them and Sarmin’s vision resolved, showing a muscular, grey-haired man just past his prime. He had expected another austere like Harrol, white and chilling.

  He held out a hand to keep his sword-sons from attacking. Not yet.

  The first austere smiled, holding his arms out to either side. His grey hair was still difficult to see against the street-stones, and Sarmin wondered whether that was even his true colour. It struck him that although he could see into men’s souls, he could see nothing in the first austere.

  The man’s pale eyes swept over their group. ‘Adam. Come to me.’

  But Adam did not move; he was frozen in place, as if torn between kneeling to his superior and killing him.

  Sarmin felt a shift in the street, a tug along his consciousness. ‘No!’ There was yet another pattern hidden beneath them – but the first austere gritted his teeth with effort, for Farid was working against the pattern even as he attempted to loose its destructive power. The newly risen symbols wavered and crumpled.

  The first austere lifted a hand, and from it flowed a torrent of lines and shapes, red and menacing, sharp as razors. Sarmin dodged out the way, but the pattern grazed his shoulder, drawing blood.

  Finally Adam reacted, spreading his fingers and causing a circle of shapes and lines to appear around them, though he had drawn nothing. He stumbled; it had not been easy.

  Their attacker renewed his efforts, lifting his other hand and beating against the ward with a sickly-yellow stream of shapes, and Adam fell to his knees, beaten back by the onslaught. The austere had not yet been able to harm them, but neither could they harm him, stuck as they were within Adam’s hastily constructed circle.

  ‘I will kill him,’ Grada murmured and stepped forwards, her Knife held out in front of her like a shield. But she had put too much faith in the spells wound into that ancient blade, for as she stepped past Adam’s shapes, the yellow pattern-stream lashed out at her. She dodged, jumping sideways to avoid the worst of it, but it a crimson line appeared above her sash and spread rapidly, staining the grey linen of her robes. She fell, a stunned look on her face.

  ‘No!’ Sarmin cried, and drew Tuvaini’s dacarba from its sheath, but Grada shook her head at him from where she lay on the street-stones, trying to stop him from running towards the first austere and being killed. He knew he could not send his sword-sons either.

  But Farid stepped out before Sarmin could stop him, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The enemy focused his attacks on the young mage, the yellow and red patterns melding together, but the shapes fell away, bent and broke apart
before they could harm him.

  Farid could not last long; sweat had already broken out on his brow and his whole body was trembling.

  ‘Now!’ Sarmin shouted, and the sword-sons rushed as one, their weapons raised, and Adam rushed forwards too, though he held no weapon, and his green and blue shapes scattered apart across the stone. But the first austere’s skin mottled brown and grey and his pale blue eyes changed to rusty pebbles. Half a moment later he had faded into the walls and road behind him. When the men reached where he had been standing, they found nothing but street-stones.

  The sword-sons turned in a slow circle, looking for a sign of movement, listening for a footfall. But after a time they lowered their swords. The first austere was gone.

  55

  Farid

  Nobody spoke when they re-entered their carriage. The emperor was lost in thought, his copper eyes shining with frustration as he helped Grada into her seat. She pressed a hand against her stomach. The bleeding had slowed, but she looked pale. Adam appeared shaken, and for the first time Farid felt some sympathy for him. Attacking the first austere must have been to Adam what attacking the emperor would be to him.

  Before climbing up into the carriage Farid looked north – and he drew in his breath; all the pattern-work of war had drawn the Storm over the northern wall. It now stretched out over a third of the city and west across the dunes, taking up half of the world, and he realised it did not matter if they won, for the emptiness would take them all, just as Adam had predicted. He entered the carriage still staring at the wall, lost in the realisation that his life was likely over.

  ‘You must pledge yourself to Mogyrk now,’ Adam said, addressing no one and everyone. ‘The end is near.’

  The emperor ignored him and directed the driver towards the Storm Gate.

  They travelled in silence. Farid told himself to be brave. He had faced down the first austere, but the advancing void frightened him even more, and now they were heading straight for it.

  At long last the carriages stopped. Farid was nearest the door. He did not know the protocol when travelling with the emperor, but he thought that on this day it did not matter. He let himself out into a group of wounded soldiers being tended to by a round priest. The emperor climbed down beside him. Farid bowed and said, ‘With your permission, Your Majesty, I will join my fellows on the wall.’

  Sarmin dismissed him with a wave and he ran up the stairs, dreading what he might see. Before he had reached the top he heard screams, high and desperate, and several men ran past him down the stairs, their eyes wild, running in fear. His stomach clenched in terror, but he continued to the top and looked out over the parapet. As he expected, there were no heroic soldiers standing out on the dunes; no flags had been planted in victory. But the Yrkmen were moving away – whether from the Storm or from the walls, he could not tell. Charred corpses, bloody corpses and patches of sand melted to glass covered the land beyond the wall. He saw the white-clad austere with whom the emperor had spoken; an arrow was sprouting from his chest. In the distance, the larger elementals rested on the dunes as if sated, ignoring those retreating soldiers forced to pass nearby. Farid looked away from the one that had taken the form of a shapely woman; it disturbed him.

  But the smaller efreet were not resting; they were making a meal of the Cerani on the wall. He heard a crackle to his right and ducked just as a ball of flame, bright as a tiny sun, darted over him. The elementals took a running archer here, a crouching captain there, their movements teasing and malicious. Soldiers scattered before the grasping fires.

  Farid crawled over a charred patch of stone, his mind coiling with dread as he wondered who had been standing there – the captain who had spoken to him? An archer collecting arrows? Mura or Moreth?

  With relief he saw his fellow mages standing unharmed beside the barrel, now empty. The arrows had been used up and there had been no one to replace them. As he quickened his steps he saw the rock-sworn press one hand into the stone. Mura held Moreth’s other hand, and together they brought forth a churning wall of sand towering high over the parapet, running so far north that it nearly intersected with the Storm and so far to the south that Farid could not see the end of it. Grit stung his face and he covered his eyes with both hands. But the fire was on the other side, giving their soldiers a reprieve.

  ‘I can trap them,’ Farid shouted. ‘I remember the pattern the Yrkmen used.’

  ‘I can trap them.’ It was not Moreth’s voice but Rorswan’s.

  ‘Moreth,’ said Mura, looking down at the rock-sworn. ‘let me talk to Moreth.’

  But the sandstorm shifted, concentrating around the forms of the small efreet, and denser and denser it churned, hissing as it adhered to their shapes, trapping them inside spinning cages. The sand turned to molten glass, gleaming violet, green, and orange, the colours of the fire inside, and with a pop the glass turned into stone and fell to the sand.

  Moreth sighed with delight, his spirit pleased with its meal, but the two larger spirits now stirred, their attention focused on the wall, and the protective sandstorm was gone.

  ‘Moreth,’ said Farid, ‘I can trap these two.’ But sand rose up in a rush around the burning forms of the efreet, shifting and falling upwards until the fires were no longer visible, not the green-and-black of the eldest, nor the molten brass of the other. Farid wondered how something so changeable as sand could hold the ancient efreet, but with a loud snick it solidified, became smooth, reflecting the light of the sun in its gleaming, pink-brown surface. Moreth made a grating sound deep in his throat, like two rocks rubbing together, and when Farid turned to look at him he had gone still.

  ‘Moreth?’

  Mura turned as well, and shook the rock-sworn’s shoulder. ‘Moreth!’

  His colour faded, and at first Farid believed it to be the pale sickness, but it was a different hue: the colour of his stone, the colour of Kobar and the other statues that had once graced the Tower’s hall. Moreth had been taken by his elemental.

  Mura fell to her knees.

  Farid kept a hand on the rock-sworn’s shoulder as if comforting him. Perhaps he was still aware, trapped inside the rock as the rock had been trapped inside him. ‘He saved us from the flame,’ he said through numb lips.

  Mura nodded and took Moreth’s stony hand in hers. ‘He didn’t have long enough – he never learned …’

  Farid put his other hand on her shoulder. ‘What will we do?’

  But Mura had no answer for him. Even if they fought off Yrkmir and stopped the Storm there would be no Tower, and only two mages remaining. With the fire gone the soldiers on the wall resumed their business with a disturbing calm, returning the odd shot from persistent Yrkmen archers or preparing their stations for the next attack.

  Farid sighed. They had not defeated the first austere, but his army was broken, at least for now. Bodies burnt almost to cinders were scattered across the sands, but he knew the morning had been won by more than just fire; it had also been the archers, Moreth and Mura, and the overall hard work of Cerana’s army. He had helped too, by destroying their wards. But most of all there was the Storm, obscuring the sky and rushing forwards at each use of the pattern. Surely that had affected Yrkmir’s morale and made them hesitate to use their main strength – their patterns – against Cerana. Whatever they believed, the austeres were only human.

  He took Mura’s elbow and helped her up. Their work was not yet done.

  56

  Didryk

  Didryk had set up his station by the Storm Gate, where he had been busy wrapping wounds and setting minor patterns to start the soldiers’ own bodies healing, but every time he glanced over his shoulder, the Storm looked closer. Now he helped to load the men onto wagons and move them further south, though he knew they could not outrun it forever. His hands shook as he gathered up his bandages and pushed them into the chest High Priest Assar had brought him. It also contained needles and thread, herbs and queenflower for pain. Just as he shut the lid someone pulled a
t his arm, and he turned to see the emperor.

  ‘Your Majesty!’ He looked past him for Azeem, but saw only his sword-sons, each one of them nearly tall as himself and more muscled. Even the woman who normally followed Sarmin like a ghost was not there.

  ‘You are a physician, Didryk.’

  ‘Not …’

  ‘I need you to heal Grada.’ Sarmin motioned to the carriage.

  ‘What has happened?’ Didryk stuck his head inside and saw the woman laid out across a bench, her robes stained with blood, a hand pressed to her abdomen. She blinked at him, her eyes dull.

  Sarmin jostled his arm as he too pushed his head in to look at Grada. It struck Didryk that he cared for her more than an emperor should care for a guard or an assassin. ‘The first austere cut her,’ Sarmin said, his own face pale. ‘We did not defeat him.’

  Didryk felt a twinge of fear: so the first austere still walked the city, laying his patterns … he could take one of them at any moment, or worse.

  Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand. ‘Get her into the light.’ Ignoring the approaching Storm, he allowed the sword-sons to pull Grada from the carriage and lay her out upon the stones. Gingerly he opened her robes and examined the cut, then looked up at one of the guards, a brown-eyed, thin-nosed young man. ‘Get me needle and thread from that chest.’

  ‘Do you not have a pattern that will fix it? I would have—’ Sarmin stopped, biting his lip.

  ‘It does not work that way. It takes time.’