Key to Magic 02 Magician

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  “Indeed, we are brother,” Pzu’gh responded. “Who shall give the Rite?”

  “I will.” Both of the other officers nodded in understanding. Receiving the Rite directly from their commander rather than a subordinate, as was customary, would signal the brethren that this mission was of extraordinary importance. Success seemed assured, but he would leave no precaution undone. Many in the combatant ranks of the Salient Order were zealots and the fire of their zeal required constant stoking.

  Eu turned and strode to the edge of the platform to face the assembled cloisters, more than one hundred and fifty solid brethren waiting quietly in ranks.

  “My Brothers,” he called, letting his words soar to fill the chamber. Eu had a strong, resonant voice, and had often been called upon to lead prayers as a neophyte.

  “We go soon to accomplish the task set to us. Our Work and Sacrifice will bring nearer the Day!” He paused, allowing the tension to build, then raised his voice even more, “WHAT IS OUR PURPOSE?”

  “WE EXIST TO WORK!” slammed back the response from all present.

  The Salient Rite was different from the Common, and in times passed some Archdeacons had had it suppressed as heresy, condemned as a corruption of the words of the Founder by the major orders, but it had never successfully been expunged. Since the ascension of the current Archdeacon, the Salient Rite could once again be celebrated openly.

  “WHY DO WE WORK?”

  “BECAUSE OF THE DUTY!”

  “AND WHAT IS OUR DUTY?”

  “THE RESTORATION OF MAGIC!”

  Eu waited until the echoes had died and then made the blessing of the Thrice Divided Circle, but without using his left hand. This version of the Tripartite was still forbidden, but it brought, as he had known it would, an ear-shattering roar of approval from the brethren.

  Eu stepped back from the edge of the platform and nodded to Pzu’gh and Aear. Veteran Brothers shouted orders and the teams began assembling in a queue that circled the platform, climbed its stairs, and stopped within a few paces of the entrance facet of the Emerald Gate.

  Eu glanced at the waiting First Archivist and gave a quick nod. With a look of complete concentration, Brother Trhalsta made a fist and hammered at the air in front of him thrice. With no sound or fanfare, the Emerald Gate misted for a short time and then cleared, revealing an interior scene beyond.

  “Now!” Eu barked.

  The first team broke forward and passed through, the next immediately on their heels. The hold rang with the crash of boots on the metal deck and the jostle of equipment, but not voices. His men were very well trained.

  Eu’s own combat team gathered around him. His team numbered ten, rather than the standard eight. The two extra brethren were Procurators armed with heavy crossbows. Their primary function was to spot and eliminate rallying enemies.

  Eu quickly scanned the familiar faces. All had been with him for years and all knew their duties well. “Brother Ehbre, you are to proceed at the forefront with brothers Mownglyr and Zhornaigh. Veteran Brother Khorsk, you are to defend our rear with the brothers Procurator.”

  Veteran Brother Khorsk grinned. He was a thickset man and slower than most, though difficult to stop. “As always my brother.”

  The last two members of his team, Veteran brothers Gzim and P’hg, whose name meant fish in an obscure dialect, were armed with short handled double-headed axes for close-in work. They acted as Eu’s personal guards.

  Eu turned his attention back to the Gate, counting. As the last brother of his fourth team crossed through, he signaled his men with a quick gesture. As one, they sprinted by Trhalsta and his intent assistants and through the rectangle of the Emerald Gate, crossing the unseeable threshold between the platform and their target.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Ridiculous! I will not disarm my men nor abandon my positions.”

  Commander Porhst’s smile did not waver. “The order comes directly from the Council of War with approval from the Senate, my lord. It has the Senatorial Seal.”

  Lord Purhlea crumpled the document in obvious contempt, his face a stony mask save for a prominently distended vein near his eye patch that fluttered spastically, and tossed it back though one of the square openings in the portcullis. The missive bounced and landed at Porhst’s boots.

  “But it doesn’t have the Prince-Commander’s seal and when I spoke with him not four hours ago, he made it clear that the Phaelle’n terms would be rejected.”

  Porhst did not react to the insult. He glanced significantly at Commander Tresh, who stood expressionless at the Knight-Commander’s side. “My lord, perhaps we should speak in private?”

  The Knight-Commander of the West had met Porhst and his four-man guard detachment at the closed portcullis of his primary fortress, the Western Tertiary Redoubt. Shaped like a bubble in the Tertiary Wall, the Redoubt possessed its own encircling curtain wall and defensive towers. It was the strongest of three independent fortifications in the Citadel’s Western Quadrant and straddled the main gate there. Commander Purhlea and his legionaries had arrived mounted, riding west up the Transept March at a gallop. They had carelessly scattered the groups of men that had begun to gather in the street to await the noon ration wagons, and had swept an anxious stir through the women, children, and elderly watching from the balconies of the apartments to either side of the road. Porhst had leapt from his horse, demanding entrance, but the armsmen manning the gate, all of Purhlea’s own house legion, the Reapers, had refused to admit him immediately. At Porhst’s insistence, they had summoned their commander.

  When Lord Purhlea did not reply, Porhst stepped closer to the sturdy timbers of the portcullis and lowered his voice.

  “There are political matters which have arisen, my lord, of which you need be apprised.”

  Lord Purhlea seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded sharply at Thresh, who moved back several paces and signaled the men standing by the winch. As soon as the portcullis had raised above Porhst’s head, the commander of the Stalwarts stepped swiftly toward the Knight-Commander.

  Lord Purhlea’s short sword, an ancient and revered blade passed down through many generations of his family, sprang from its sheath and plunged upward between two overlapping plates in Porhst’s chest armor. The blow was struck with such force that the razor sharp point passed all the way through the legion commander’s body and pierced the thinner metal of his backplate, tenting his gold embroidered sea blue cloak before ripping through.

  Arrows flew from murder holes before Porhst’s startled guards could do more than shout, and the legionaries dropped to the pavement, their horses bolting.

  Porhst’s whole body twitched, then his mouth spewed blood that splattered an unflinching Lord Purhlea. The legion commander’s expression registered neither surprise nor fear, but his eyes seemed to shine for an instant and Lord Purhlea recognized the glee of the martyr meeting death. Finally, those eyes darkened and Porhst slumped. A stiletto, the very same that had killed Lord Zhelorthoz, slipped from Porhst’s limp hand and clattered at his feet.

  Lord Purhlea used his boot to push the treacherous Porhst from his sword and the man sagged into a lifeless heap. The Knight-Commander sheathed his weapon without bothering to wipe Porhst’s blood and bile from it. Reaching down quickly, he flopped the dead man over and worked his right boot off. It took only an instant to discover a small dark tattoo of the thrice-divided circle on the center toe of the traitor’s foot.

  “This scum was Phaelle’n!” Lord Purhlea snapped nastily. “Check the others!”

  In short order all were revealed to possess the same mark.

  Lord Purhlea grabbed his adjutant’s arm. “Order the Upper Reach gates sealed! The Citadel is breached!”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Though ornate, the chair was comfortable. The chance to rest his leg pleased Ghorn, though he maintained a stern expression.

  Knight-Defender Chor’lhanhz, commander of the Palace Guard and High Warden of the Principate, poured w
ine from a decanter into matched gold-rimmed crystal set on the table between them. The Warden had doffed his plumed helmet in recognition of the social nature of the meeting. His archaic imperial armor, stained blue and trimmed in gold and silver, gleamed.

  They were alone in the salon, with both Ghorn’s aides and a quad of Chor’lhanhz’s Guards relegated to the attached waiting room. Paneled in cream stained oak and trimmed with elaborate molding that sprouted somewhat ludicrous, gilded grape leaves, the walls demonstrated the conspicuous opulence of the chamber. The white marble of the floor, each individual hexagonal flag outlined with thin splines of rust colored stone, had been waxed to a mirror finish.

  The Prince-Commander, thinking that Chor’lhanhz’s unblemished armor and spotless salon was somehow an obscene repudiation of the sacrifice of those who had died in Mhajhkaeirii’n service the previous day, accepted his glass, but pointedly waited until Chor’lhanhz had taken a healthy swallow before allowing himself a small sip. Chor’lhanhz, a hereditary denizen of the Palace, would have been thoroughly surprised had his guest not refused to imbibe until the wine was proven.

  “Excellent,” Ghorn commented approvingly. He actually found the wine bland and unimpressive, but knew that Chor’lhanhz possessed an exceptional conceit concerning the purported quality of his personal cellar.

  Chor’lhanhz nodded in acknowledgement. He was a gruff man and had a reputation of seldom being known to smile. He maintained a severe appearance as well, with close-shaven head and face.

  “This is last year’s vintage from my cousin’s patrimony in Llegnia. The hills there are ancient soil, you know.”

  The Official Station of the Warden was one floor below the Residence. It had originally been a guardroom situated to protect the family of the Prince but was now a spacious luxury apartment decorated and furnished in the richest style. All vestiges of its former use had been removed, including strong doors and stored weapons.

  Ghorn nodded, taking another sip of the wine. Before the Phaelle’n attack, he had known the High Warden only distantly. They had exchanged words perhaps twice a year at required state functions and by chance may have attended the same diner at another aristocrat’s home, but little else. Then, Ghorn had been but a minor noble of an ancient house and a subordinate officer of the High Council for War. Chor’lhanhz’s position was largely vacant of real power and his interaction with the High Council was minimal. Neither man would have found any profit in an acquaintance, and Ghorn preferred to make friends of men he could actually respect.

  Now, to Ghorn’s intense displeasure, the situation had changed. The machinations and connections necessary to sway key senators was Chor’lhanhz’s stock in trade and Ghorn needed the Warden’s cooperation to prevent the Senate from taking any undue action.

  Chor’lhanhz was a schemer and a blackguard, continually involved in social plots and petty assignations. To Ghorn’s mind, Chor’lhanhz was simply a product of his environment – scum grows in the sewer, after all -- but he had never heard anything that would lead him to believe that the man was incapable or inept. The Prince-Commander had spent nearly the entire morning trying to persuade various senatorial factions, certain groups of which continued to dispute within the throne room even now, to align with his position on the Phaelle’n terms. From the start, a clear majority had been determined to reject the terms outright. Thankfully, only a few vacillating cretins had argued for further negotiations, but their efforts had seemed to flame the desire of the majority for an immediate refusal. Already, the philosophers were urging that the Court reconvene as early as this very evening. Ghorn needed to forestall that action until the last possible moment. It was his plan to squeeze as much time from the process as possible. His men required that time to finish the earthworks that he had ordered built to cover the smashed southern gate. As well, the young magician would need at least a full day to complete his skyship and any additional time gained would certainly benefit the evacuation.

  His personal opinion of the man notwithstanding, Ghorn was prepared to utilize any leverage he could.

  “As you requested, my lord Prince,” Chor’lhanhz offered ingratiatingly, “I have dispatched all but a single troop of my most trusted men to assist with the defense of the Southern Quadrant. You understand that I could not strip the Palace bare.”

  Ghorn refrained from pointing out that the “request” had actually been an order. The Warden could -- and most likely would, if Ghorn had any say in the matter -- be removed later, if Mhajhkaei survived. For now, the Prince-Commander would have to tolerate the popinjay. However, the slight emphasis that the Warden had placed on the words “my most trusted men” struck Ghorn as curious.

  “That would be five full troops to the Southern Quadrant?”

  “Indeed,” Chor’lhanhz confirmed.

  The door of the salon opened as the two men sipped their wine and studied each other. A bondsman, a stout fellow with quick eyes who wore the livery of the palace, entered and approached the Knight-Defender. He extended a note then stepped back, so that he stood several paces to Ghorn’s left and slightly to his rear.

  “Thank you, Bhurndry.” Chor’lhanhz placed his glass on the table and unfolded the note. Ghorn watched the Warden but the man’s expression did not change as he glanced at the paper. As he lay the paper aside, though, Chor’lhanhz smiled uncharacteristically, though perhaps it was more of a smirk.

  “Good news?” Ghorn asked.

  The Warden gave a slight shrug. “For me at least. My sister’s son, who was thought lost in the fighting, has been found hale.”

  Ghorn raised his glass. “To your fortune.”

  Chor’lhanhz’s smiled broadened as he retrieved his own wine and raised it in response. “To fortunate events.”

  A flash of movement in Chor’lhanhz’s crystal caused Ghorn to cut his eyes. The eye flick revealed a glimpse of the bondsman, Bhurndry, leaping toward Ghorn, knife swinging. The Prince-Commander rolled, hurling his glass at Chor’lhanhz and throwing one of his crutches – the closest thing to hand – up to block the descending blade. Bhurndry’s weight crashed down upon him and the light chair collapsed beneath the both of them, the delicate wood shattering. The fall trapped the prince’s scabbard beneath his body as he struck the floor.

  Without thought, Ghorn thrust a stiffened finger into the bondsman’s eye and, when the other screamed, clutching at the spurting orb, used the crutch to wrench the knife from his assailant’s hand. The knife skittered across the slick marble flooring before Ghorn could catch it, but he struck immediately at the bondsman with his fist, driving the man’s own hand into his injured eye socket. With his assailant shivering in shock, the Prince-Commander twisted in an attempt to shove Bhurndry’s pinning weight away. Barely in time, Ghorn caught sight of Chor’lhanhz drawing back his sword for a thrust, his wine drenched face clenched in anger. The Warden, never a true armsman, stood feet spread within reach of Ghorn’s good leg. The man went down with a yelp as Ghorn’s boot caught him squarely in the groin.

  Finally managing to roll the convulsing bondsman off him, Ghorn struggled to get to his feet. He freed his sword barely in time to parry Chor’lhanhz’s next blow. The Prince-Commander turned Chor’lhanhz’s jewel encrusted ceremonial blade with ease and would have sneered at the other’s comically poor technique if he had not been intent on turning his wrist to slash at the Warden’s neck.

  Chor’lhanhz ducked in time, but still Ghorn scored a deep cut across the man’s ear. Chor’lhanhz retreated, thin blood leaking down over the silvered steel of his breastplate, but the prince was unable to advance on his injured leg.

  The Warden, apparently realizing Ghorn’s weakness, circled to the left away from the table and dashed in for a straight thrust at the Prince-Commander’s midsection. Ghorn cut his sword to bat the blade away and slashed again at Chor’lhanhz’s unprotected head.

  This time the Warden was an instant slow in dodging, and the side of his necked gaped open where Ghorn’s shortsword struc
k. Bright arterial blood spewed forth, splattering the polished floor. Chor’lhanhz staggered back, holding his bloody neck with his off hand and his guard wavering, but already his face was whitening as his life flowed away. A moment later the Warden’s legs gave way beneath him and he fell heavily.

  Ghorn took a long breath to slow his racing heart, and watching both the now still bondsman and the expiring Knight-Commander, knelt carefully to retrieve his crutch.

  A booted foot crashed through the thin paneled white door, knocking it open. Legate Rhel staggered through, dragging the limp form of Qhiyemahr. Rhel lacked a cheek guard from his helm and had a gash only the thickness of a finger below his eye, but Qhiyemahr’s head hung limply and blood covered his entire front, wide smears of it trailing behind the pair. Beyond them in the waiting room, Ghorn could see the bodies of two of Chor’lhanhz’s Guards.

  Rhel was frantic. “My lord! Thank the Gods that you are well! The Palace Guard attacked us!”

  Ghorn had been too intent upon his own battle to realize that another had been taking place in the waiting room. Without sparing breath for a curse, he hobbled toward his subordinate, avoiding the bodies of his own attackers.

  “Set Qhiyemahr down, Rhel. He is dead. What about the other two Guards?”

  The young legate looked suddenly devastated, almost on the verge of sobs. “Are you sure, my lord? He saved my life!”

  “He is not breathing, Rhel, and no man can lose that much blood and survive. Now, Legate, tell me where the other two Guards are?”

  With tears leaking from his eyes, Rhel gently lowered Qhiyemahr to the floor, then straightened and tried to gain control of himself. “They fled, my lord, after I killed the other two.” The young man shivered, his cheeks glistening. “Qhiyemahr took a thrust that was meant for me. We were friends.”

  “Qhiyemahr did a man’s duty both to his friend and to his city,” the Prince-Commander stated. His words were not consolation but simple fact.