Harmonic Magic Series Boxed Set

by P. E. Padilla

  As he watched, he saw his forces being pushed back. It was almost inconceivable that it could be so. It was clear, however, that without help, the victory would belong to the Zouyim. Shaking his head, he started moving toward the front lines. If the soldiers couldn’t handle it, he would have to do so himself.

  Ardu Sett’s brow furrowed in confusion and consternation. What kind of general would sacrifice so many of his own men in an archery flight like that? As he heard the bowstrings hum, he had grabbed the solider in front of him, spun the man around, and hidden behind him, using him as a shield. Fortunately, the man was much larger than the Grandmaster, so although he was able to spin him easily using a joint lock and proper leverage, the man made a very good shield to keep the arrows from him. One crossbow bolt came through the man’s back and almost reached him, but hung up on a rib so it didn’t pass completely through his shield of flesh.

  He looked around and saw several of his brothers and sisters had done likewise. Others had dodged or deflected most of the arrows, but there were those who were struck as well. There was nothing he could do for them now. The battle must be finished and then they could tend to the wounded.

  There was suddenly a strong burst of rohw from the area beyond the front gate, strong enough for the Grandmaster to feel it where he was. There were only one or two monks with that kind of power. Had Rindu returned from Marybador? If he had, he would be sorely needed. From what he could tell, half of the Zouyim were dead or injured and the soldiers seemed to have no end.

  Four more attackers came at him, interrupting his musings. A metal bound club, a spear with a sharpened metal point, a ceramic glass sword, and a bronze sword were coming at him simultaneously.

  He dipped his head to the side to narrowly avoid the spear tip coming at him. He kicked out with his right foot to strike the club-wielder’s arm, jamming the club’s swing. At the same time, he slapped the side of the sword coming down at his head with his left hand, and punched to the throat of the other sword user, causing the man to drop the blade as he put his hand to his throat to ease his crushed wind pipe. In the same fluid motion, the Grandmaster snatched the spear before it could be pulled back and swung the end to rake the other sword user’s eyes. Then he pulled the woman holding the spear toward him into a savage kick that crushed her chest. Spinning, he caved in the skull of the club-wielder with the butt end of the spear.

  Looking around him for more opponents, he saw none. He kept the spear and went to aid another monk who had six attackers coming at her.

  Another pulse of rohw grabbed his attention. This time, he could see figures moving where the energy was used. It was not Rindu. In fact, the energy was not being used on behalf of the Zouyim at all. It was being used against them.

  The Grandmaster watched in horror as the black-garbed figure, who could only have been the Gray Man, waded through his fellow Zouyim. He was not fighting physically, not striking at anyone with his fists or feet. He was merely focusing his attention on a particular Zouy and then that monk would drop dead. Each time it happened, Ardu Sett could see a strong pulse of rohw. The villain was projecting his energy into the monks and bursting their hearts in their chests.

  He began to move toward the Gray Man but then stopped. He wanted desperately to go and try to help his brothers, but knew he must remember his duty to Gythe, to the people the Zouyim had sworn to protect. Clenching his teeth, the old monk turned and hurried the other way, toward the center of the temple.

  As he moved, he quickly found himself alone. The fighting had coalesced into one large knot of combatants and there were few individuals prowling around the edges. Three times, he had to stop to dispatch a lone soldier who tried to attack him.

  Once more, he sensed an arrow coming from the darkness and spun to dodge it, throwing his spear at the archer in the same fluid movement. He felt guilty at the pride he felt at hearing the weapon strike home and the archer fall to the ground. He knew his aim had been true and the archer now lay lifeless in the temple courtyard.

  He arrived at his destination. Hurrying to open the door to the message bird aerie, he sat in the tiny cell that contained only a small desk, a chair, and writing supplies. The monks made their own paper and ink and kept this message desk well-stocked for writing missives.

  He scribbled out the same message on two separate pieces of paper: “GRAY MAN ATTACKED. ZOUYIM DESTROYED.” Perhaps it was a bit premature, but if the night ended with their victory, it would be a simple thing to send more messages to explain.

  The Grandmaster snatched up a bird, affixed the message to its leg, and threw it up into the air. A second bird carrying the other message soon joined its comrade.

  That responsibility being fulfilled, Ardu Sett turned back toward the main courtyard and the battle. He would join his brethren there now. He prayed that his rohw would be powerful tonight. With a sorrowful backward glance at the remaining message birds, he took a deep breath, wiped some stray hair from his face, and charged into the battle.

  Chapter 9

  The Gray Man was tiring. There were very few soldiers left and the few remaining Zouyim monks were now focusing on him. He felt himself fortunate that the monks normally disdained traditional ranged weapons like bows or crossbows. They could use them, but many felt that it was dishonorable to do so in a close-quarters battle. He was a rohw user, not a warrior. He could deflect or stop arrows with his power, but it was tiring.

  Another monk charged him from the left, launching himself into a flying kick aimed at the Gray Man’s head. He lifted his palm and projected rohw from it, buffeting the monk and sending him off course. The Zouy was skilled, though, and regained control of himself, turning a twist and landing lightly on his feet. He came again.

  The Gray Man could feel his power weakening. When he was fresh, he didn’t have to wait for the opponent to get so close. No use in dwelling on it, though. The situation was what it was. So he stood there, waiting.

  The monk finally made a move, rushing in to fight hand-to-hand with him. Just a little closer. Just a bit more. Now! He raised his hand again, projecting rohw through his palm and into the man mere inches away from him. The monk moved, spoiling his aim, but he readjusted. There. He closed his fist and watched the Zouy drop to the ground, his heart burst.

  Looking around, the Gray Man saw that the battle was winding down. The few archers left were teaming up, striking the tired Zouyim with arrow after arrow. The battle was won, though it was a near thing.

  But no, maybe he was mistaken. Off to his right, he saw Dodson, still up and fighting. Even in the pale moonlight, the Gray Man could see that he had blood trickling down beneath his helmet where a large dent had been made. But he was still fighting. As he thrust his sword into the dying monk at his feet, he turned to his leader, looking tired and worn.

  Suddenly, Dodson’s eyes grew wide and he opened his mouth to scream. Instead of words coming out of his mouth, however, the Gray Man saw only blood and the tips of three fingers, arranged in a triangle. The monk to whom the fingers belonged pulled his hand back and allowed the commander of the forces of the Gray Fortress to slump to the ground, the light leaving his eyes.

  Then the Gray Man got his first look at who could only be the Grandmaster of the Zouyim order. The fine white hair hanging from his lips and chin waved slightly from his movement as he turned to lock eyes with him.

  Shordan Drees roared a savage yell after seeing his father fall. He began rushing toward the monk, but the Gray Man stopped him with a thought, using his rohw to wrap the big man in a power that prevented movement. He would not lose both his commanders tonight. The younger Drees looked around wildly, his eyes white in the moonlight, his breathing harsh. He fought against the force holding him, to no avail.

  “I will take care of this, Shordan,” the Gray Man said to him. “This is beyond you.”

  The monk came at him, rushing in to attack. The Gray Man put his palm up again, attempting to buffet the monk aside, but his force was split somehow, ba
rely slowing the man. Red-rimmed eyes narrowed in concentration, fighting the fatigue he was feeling.

  The monk’s eyes narrowed as well, pushing with his own rohw.

  The two stood there, mere feet apart, looking to all the world as if they were only staring at each other. But there was so much more going on beneath the surface. The Gray Man felt the ebb and flow of the rohw, going back and forth from one to the other. This other man was strong, though not nearly as strong as himself. If only he wasn’t so tired.

  He tried to project his energy, to grab hold of the monk’s heart, to burst it and end this game, but it proved slippery. Just when he thought he had it, the monk would use his own rohw to nudge the attack aside, keeping him from getting a good grip.

  The monk, for his part, was trying to cut through the shields the Gray Man had erected for himself, to use his own attack against him and burst his heart. He almost succeeded. If he couldn’t defeat this monk soon, he would be too weak to carry on. He would be defeated. He simply couldn’t allow that.

  Taking a sharp breath, the Gray Man gambled. He poured every bit of will power he had into a complex attack. He aimed it for the monk’s head, trying to damage his brain to make him unable to fight effectively.

  The Grandmaster, obviously using every shred of his own energy, blocked the attack, just barely, but didn’t see the true reason behind it. While distracted, the Gray Man had come up closer, right next to the old monk. While he was blocking the attack toward his head, the Gray Man casually reached out, touched the Grandmaster’s chest, and poured the last of his energy into it, bursting the heart that was beating within the old man’s chest.

  Eyes wide in alarm, the monk realized too late what had happened. Those eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the ground, no longer among the living.

  The Gray Man stumbled and almost fell as well, just managing to put a hand down to catch himself as he fell.

  Shordan Drees was there, then, helping his master back to his feet and allowing the Gray Man to lean on him as he walked back toward the front gate to the temple. As he made his way out of the courtyard, the Gray Man looked back to see the last few monks being killed. It would be an hour or more until they could hunt down all the monks and kill them, but the battle was done. The Zouyim were no more.

  Dodging through the bodies and the few remaining combatants, Shordan Drees helped the Gray Man to the area where he had left the bell artifacts. By the time they got there, his leader was supporting almost his entire weight himself. He seemed to get stronger with each footstep.

  “I’ll rest here for a moment, Shordan,” he said as he sat next to the bells. “Go and organize the forces as they finish off the last of the monks. Make sure they’re all dead.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Shordan snapped to attention and saluted. He headed back toward where the remaining few monks waged a losing battle against the archers and foot soldiers.

  As he went, he thought about his father. They were never close, not really. He respected the man and his abilities, but theirs was not a family that showed affection. He had trained his son, educated him in the ways of war, and set an example. It was enough. He recalled a discussion they had several weeks before.

  “Shordan,” his father had said, “there’s nothing much more a man can hope for than a life of service and a good death in battle.”

  “Better a life of service and a good death in battle many, many years from now,” the younger Drees chuckled.

  “I would have to agree to that.” He lifted his mug and tapped it to his son’s. “Here’s to good service, a good death, and a good long time between them.”

  The hint of a smile flitted across Shordan Drees’s face. Yes, his father had a good long life and he made his end in a battle that would be talked about for hundreds of years. Maybe he could find one of those musicians that made up songs to write something about his father. That would be nice. The old man would have liked to know that people sang about him.

  The cleanup efforts went quickly. He put a group together to sweep the entire compound looking for monks that had not quite died yet. They were to finish them quickly, killing them and moving on. There was no time to make them suffer. More the pity. By the time he returned to the Gray Man, not even an hour had passed.

  “My lord,” he said, walking up to his leader, “it is done. There is not a monk left alive.” As he finished speaking, he noticed that the Gray Man was standing straight, unaided. He looked tired, but he seemed to have some of his normal vitality back. It was scary that he could recuperate so quickly. Shordan was glad the man was on his side. Strike that. He was glad he was on the Gray Man’s side.

  “Very good. Organize the men here, off to the side.” He pointed to the open area next to where the bell artifacts rested.

  Shordan Drees barked out several commands and the soldiers moved as quickly as they were able to the area specified. Many could only make it that far before having to drop to their knees or sitting down hard on the dirt. They didn’t collapse exactly, but it was a near thing.

  “Stay back from me,” the Gray Man said. “And wait here. There is one thing left to do.”

  He walked up to the wall just to the side of the gate, and placed something carefully on the ground twisting and jiggling it to work it into the snow and mud there. Shordan wondered what it was, where it had come from, but then noticed a small sack that the Gray Man was holding. Apparently he had picked it up from wherever he had hidden it while Shordan was gathering the troops. It had probably been stashed with the bell artifacts.

  The Gray Man went through the gate and stopped at three more strategic locations, all near or within groups of buildings. He stepped over bodies as if they were stones, not paying them any mind. At each place he chose, he repeated his earlier actions, working something—Shordan thought it waas some type of ball, about as large as a man’s hand—into the soil and snow at the base of one of the structures.

  The rohw master’s shiny pate bobbed as he made his way back out the gates and toward his men. He stopped, turned toward the temple, and took two deep breaths, letting each one out slowly.

  The Gray Man was motionless for a moment, seeming to gather himself. Then, he gestured with both hands toward the balls he had placed. Shordan could hear his master’s deep breathing as he continued to move his hands in complex gyrations, working up to a forceful finale. The balls placed around the temple began to glow, dimly at first but then more brightly. After what had to have been several minutes, the Gray Man held his right hand out, still gesturing with the left, took in another deep breath, and exhaled forcefully as he clenched his fist tight.

  The balls exploded soundlessly. Shordan could see the concussion by the flying debris, but there was not the loud sound he would have expected. Instead, he saw the walls, building, all the structures on the temple grounds, start to fall. There was a loud crack followed by a roar, and then it finished with the sound like an avalanche. In moments, there was nothing but rubble where the temple of the Zouyim order used to be.

  Shordan looked at his master. He knew his shock must have been etched clearly onto his face. The Gray Man raised his eyebrows.

  “A device the Arzbedim were kind enough to leave records about,” he said to Shordan. “They are torturous to create and are slow to activate once made, but one can’t argue about their effectiveness.”

  The Gray Man turned to walk back toward the men, leaving Shordan to wonder if there was a limit to what the man was capable of.

  “That will be a testament to what happens to those who defy me,” the Gray Man said as he sat roughly next to the bells.

  Shordan Drees looked at his master with newfound awe. He knew the man was powerful, but he had no idea just how strong he was. Until now. If he could do this tired, what was he capable of when fresh? He took an involuntary step away from the man.

  “Shordan Drees,” the Gray Man said. “You are now the commander of all my forces.”

  Snapping to attention and clapp
ing his fist to his heart in salute, Shordan said loudly, “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

  “Organize your men, those that are left. They don’t have to move far, but we all need to link as before. I have just enough strength to use the artifacts to get us back home. Decide who will come. If a man will die anyway, it will be better to leave him here or to end his life quickly. You have a quarter hour and then I will leave, with or without you and your soldiers.”

  Within ten minutes, Drees had organized the men so they were all linked and ready. Some had been put out of their misery rather than to have a lingering death at the fortress, but most of those still alive would return with them.

  “Nineteen soldiers left,” the Gray Man said, “all of them injured in some way. A heavy cost to eliminate an enemy.”

  Drees remained silent. He himself had several shallow cuts to areas not covered by his armor.

  The Gray Man rose to his feet and stepped over to the bells. Allowing Shordan Drees to clasp his shoulder to bring him into the circle with the others, he repeated the ritual, striking the bells in the proper series and chanting under his breath. He struck the final bell and the now-familiar disorientation came upon the men.

  Shordan looked around in time to see the other soldiers vibrate slightly, shimmer, and then disappear a scant moment before he himself did, going back to the fortress they called home.

  Chapter 10

  The deep blue of Zyrqyt Lake made Regi Sparks smile. She could see the clouds drifting by reflected perfectly in the still, calm water. It was days like today that made her happiest that she lived here in Marybador, the headquarters of the Sapsyra Shin Elah.