“Your recent strictures banning attacks on non-combatants have slowed movement, Preeminence,” Lhevatr replied. “The major arteries of travel are jammed with citizens of the city.”
The Archdeacon examined the Martial Director’s face, looking for any sign of rancor. The man was a valuable asset, well respected in all Colleges and an expert at tactical warfare, but Traeleon would not hesitate to have him removed should any disloyalty surface. Lhevatr’s placid gaze was unchallenging.
A novitiate appeared and handed the Commander of Legions another note. He scanned it quickly. “Pickets from the Second Battlegroup report that the earthworks sealing the southern breach have been abandoned. Commander-of-Legions Uhrlogv requests that he be given permission to occupy the zone.”
Traeleon looked down the table to catch the Chief Skryer’s eye. “Can you determine where the defending forces have gone?”
The aged brother studied his glass. ”The indications are unclear. There are no longer any large groups of Mhajhkaeirii along the fortifications in the south. There are some stragglers, but the bulk of them have moved north into the warrens. The interior of the Citadel is a wash of life signatures and the armsmen have vanished into the general mass. I can no longer distinguish them.”
“Bhrucherra, have you received word that any of the special activities have succeeded?”
The First Inquisitor steepled his fingers. “Not directly, Preeminence. Brother Eu is thirty-seven minutes overdue with his report, but his last message indicated that his mission was proceeding according to plan. As yet, though we should not reasonably expect confirmation for some hours, none of the brethren assigned to the critical task have signaled. In addition, none of the converts assigned to the secondary tasks have arrived at the prearranged meeting places. Our last information was that all plans had been put into action, but it is too early to judge success or failure. The retreat of the defenders from the earthworks, however, would suggest that efforts to damage the Mhajhkaeirii’n command hierarchy have succeeded, at least in part.”
“Chief Skryer, have you relocated the apostate?”
“No, Archdeacon. His signature remains obscured.”
Traeleon thought for a moment then turned back to Bhrucherra. “What was the nature of the Mhajhkaeirii’n forces in the southern zone?”
“We know that the veteran legion that was the linchpin of the southern defense was in the process of being withdrawn as of this morning. A loosely organized brigade composed of several newly raised and untrained troops and approximately half of the Palace Guard took its place. The units in flanking positions were militia and city guards. The morale of these particular units would be low and they would be vulnerable to the types of deception attempted. It is likely that they have indeed been routed.”
“Lhevatr, analysis.”
The Martial Director pointed to several map locations in turn. “The veteran legion was transferred to this central fortress. We have information that indicates that at least two other units have been given orders to move there. Apparently, the Mhajhkaeirii are reinforcing the fortress. As they had no warning of our efforts in the east, it is logical to assume that they would have expected our next attack to come at the weakest point of their defenses – the south. The blocks of warrens in these areas adjacent to the earthworks – here and here -- present an effective barrier to our infantry. Most of the streets are narrow and many have no direct connections outside of their neighborhoods. The only significant invasion path is this wide avenue, which they call the Transverse March. It passes along the central fortress at this point, within close bowshot of the walls. A strong force in the fortress would likely be able to deny use of the avenue to our legions. I think there is a high probability that the Mhajhkaeirii have fallen back to set up a defensive line with the fortress as a center point.”
“What do you believe would be gained by such a maneuver?” Traeleon could see the advantage himself, but wanted to test Lhevatr’s response.
“Time, Preeminence. The defensive line would have a much narrower front, perhaps only as wide as this avenue, and therefore would be able to hold longer against our attacks. Perhaps they have expectations of the apostate producing other magic weapons or restocking his concussive vessels.”
“It is also possible that they are trying to gain time to construct another flying craft,” Bhrucherra suggested. “An initiate in the service of a carting merchant reported that a considerable quantity of timbers and planks was moved to the central fortress late last night.”
Traeleon made his decision. “Send to Brother Uhrlogv that he may advance, but prudently,” he directed. “Who commands the First Battlegroup?”
“Commander-of-Legions Szerius,” Bhrucherra replied.
“An esteemed member of the College of Promulgators,” Vice-deacon Kleghaier inserted, earning a dispassionate but lengthy glance from the First Inquisitor.
Traeleon took special note of the interaction. “Martial Director, order Brother Szerius to proceed at all speed. This is not the time to show timidity. He is in a position to flank the Mhajhkaeirii defensive line and should do so immediately.”
THIRTY-TWO
The cart launched itself, surging skyward despite the considerable weight of Mhiskva, Phehlahm, and the quad of crossbow wielding legionnaires - Borlhoir, Cuhlhin the Short, Brihstof of Brhaal, and Dhun. The close walls of the alley and also, thankfully, its smell – the refugees had used it as a temporary middens – fell away behind them as Mar directed the rickety sky raft toward the Transept.
Mhiskva appeared unfazed by the rapid ascent. The others displayed various degrees of anxiety, from the exaggerated care of Cuhlhin, a gray-haired hulk who, despite his name, was taller than everyone but Mhiskva, to the white face of Dhun, a grizzled veteran of stodgy demeanor who had almost leapt from the cart as it took off.
“Everyone alright?” Mar called over his shoulder. He crouched by Phehlahm on the splintered, unpadded bench seat. The young marine, clutching a large shield, sported a broad grin and an enthusiastic energy that smacked of an absolute confidence that Mar did not share.
The four-wheeled low-sided produce cart was a derelict with a broken rear axle and a missing right front wheel, but it performed sufficiently well as a sky raft. Quick work with swords had hacked away the useless tongue. The wood was weather-beaten and cracked, but the cores of the rough sawn boards were solid white oak and it harmonized sweetly in umber and puce crescendos. Some of the nails and bolts were missing, however, and the cart tended to warp along its length as Mar inflamed the umber that pushed it away from the ground.
“None have suffered mishap,” Mhiskva assured from his place near the missing tailgate. It had seemed prudent to place the big man at the stern, to balance the load. None of the others bothered to comment.
“If we can catch Ulor before he reaches High Street,” the captain suggested, “then he and his men should be able to get back to the keep on foot.”
“He could not have gotten far,” Mar replied. As soon as the cart had cleared the roofs of the adjacent buildings, he banked to the north, taking care to avoid abrupt changes in direction, lest he pitch one of his passengers over the side. Just a few seconds of flight over gabled tile roofs brought the Transept March into view.
“That must be half the city down there,” Phehlahm commented, leaning out slightly to peer at the moving mass below.
“Everyone that was quartered east of here, anyway,” Brihstof, a thin ranker of indeterminate age, amended.
“Anyone see Ulor and his men?” Mar questioned, growing concerned that it would be impossible to find the marines in the flood below.
“Look sharp,” Mhiskva ordered.
“There!” Cuhlhin piped up after a moment from his side of the cart. “At the corner.”
The captain swung his head. “Aye, it is them. Do you see them, my lord Magician?”
Mar made the cart hover and turned to look. The main press of the crowd was near the center of the Transep
t, with fewer refugees along the edges. Ulor and his men, with swords drawn, were working their way determinedly east along a small villa’s outer wall, forcing the panicked populace to give way.
“There’s no place to set down there,” Mar pointed out.
“Can you come down directly above them, my lord?” Mhiskva asked. “I will be able to shout to them if we are near enough.”
“I can get you right on top of them,” Mar promised, already rotating the cart and allowing it to descend until only a few manheight separated them from the heads of the throng.
Almost immediately, the refugees, some of whom scurried faster, but many of whom simply stopped to stare, noticed the cart. People collided with one another, gaping, and children began to scream. The commotion instantly produced a logjam of sorts, as the flow of bodies from the east continued unabated.
Ulor turned a surprised face upwards and waved his sword. “Captain!”
“Withdraw to the keep!” Mhiskva yelled. “We have another plan!”
“Aye, sir!” Ulor responded with apparent relief, immediately turning to urge his men back the way they had come.
Recognizing the Mhajhkaeirii’n colors of the captain and his men, many of the refugees began calling up to them, demanding rescue.
A young man in the robes of a scholar waved a fat purse above his head. “Take me! I’ll pay you!”
An elderly woman, sobbing uncontrollably, raised a small child up. “Save Beherail, her mother is dead!”
A rising babble swallowed similar shouts as hundreds of desperate citizens pleaded for aid.
Mar stood and waved his arms, feeling that he must try to calm them. When the noise quieted somewhat, he shouted, “Head west! We’re going to fight the Phaelle’n! We’ll stop them and give you time to escape!”
A stone as big as a fist sailed by Mar’s head. The crowd burst into cacophonous shouting again as the increasingly agitated citizens began to hurl other stones at the cart.
“They will not listen, my lord,” Mhiskva shouted. “Fear has claimed them. We should go and do what we can to hold the Monks.”
Mar sank back to his seat, realizing as he gazed upon the mass of angry and frightened faces that the captain spoke the truth. Another stone struck one of the cart’s rear wheels, smashing a spoke. Tightlipped, Mar threw the cart upwards, driving it with a surge of speed to the east. Neither he, nor any of the others, looked back.
After two blocks, the crowd below began to thin and after three the Transept was nearly clear, with only solitary individuals – the aged, abandoned or lost children, or the lame – trudging along hopelessly.
“That is High Street,” Mhiskva identified. “The next intersection is Berghaern Cross, and there, up ahead, is Armory Number Four. Above its southern corner, you can see the Dangling Tower. The Eastern Redoubt is just beyond to its left.”
Mar followed the captain’s pointing arm and studied the Armory, considering an idea. The building was massive, with a central edifice and imposing wings to either side, and had been built solidly of stone and brick in the imperial style. At least four storeys tall, it dominated a long section of the Transept, with much smaller buildings of all sorts surrounding it. There were no paralleling avenues for a goodly distance to the north and south of the Transept, just winding streets and narrow alleys.
“Is that smoke?” Mar asked, staring hard at the upper widows, where white wisps emanated.
“Eh?” The marine captain levered himself up and leaned sideways to look around the other men in the sky raft. The cart bed leaned frighteningly as the big man’s weight shifted, and Dhun, clutching nervously at a rusting tarp spike, paled.
“Aye, you are right, my lord,” Mhiskva confirmed. “Someone has set the building afire, perhaps the quartermaster and the guards burning records.”
“Is there much in there that will burn?”
“Unlikely. Some oil in casks, perhaps some furnishings. The walls are thick and the weapons lockers small. The building has survived accidental blazes in the past."
“Would there be anyone left inside?”
“I doubt so. The quartermaster and his men have probably withdrawn.”
“Let’s hope so,” Mar responded, letting the cart settle toward the pavement. “We don’t have time to look.” He pointed far down the Transept, where the first maroon and gray ranks of the approaching Brotherhood could be seen.
“You have a plan, my lord?” Mhiskva inquired, pulling his axe from his back as the cart came to rest.
As Mar hopped down from the cart, the Mhajhkaeirii bailed out of either side onto the street, Phehlahm hurrying with his shield to stand beside Mar.
“I’m going to bring the Armory down. It should block the Transept all the way across to that building there.”
“Won’t they just climb over it?” Phehlahm asked.
“Not if it’s on top of them,” Mar assured him.
“Are all magicians so bloodthirsty?” Cuhlhin inquired sweetly, grinning.
“I don’t know. I’ve never met any.”
Mhiskva glared the others into silence. “How long will this take, my lord? The Monks will be here in but moments.”
“Not long. Wait here.” Mar started toward a tall iron fence that circled the Armory. Mhiskva and the other Mhajhkaeirii ignored his request, pacing him as he advanced along the pedestrian walk at the side of the way.
The face of the Armory was black brick, laid in decorative courses, with cantilevered false gables protruding above the wide door and the narrow windows that appeared above the ground floor. Mar began to sense the flux currents raging through the brick when he was only thirty paces away. He knew instantly that the brick was impossible. It would crumble at the first touch of screaming red, but behind it lay good, dense stone, nearly an armlength thick.
“They’ve seen us,” Cuhlhin, watching to the east, cautioned. “The forward ranks have changed pace.”
“You have no more than three minutes,” Mhiskva agreed.
Mar did not reply, concentrating as he infused several unseen layers of stone along the front of the building and as far back along its sides as he could confidently control the flux. Then, because it felt easier, he stepped off the pedestrian walk and knelt in the gutter to place his hands on the large interlocked paving stones of the Transept.
“Ready bows,” Cuhlhin ordered. All of the legionnaires braced their crossbows against the ground, pinning them in place with their boots atop the steel arches of the bow, and began cranking on windlasses to cock them.
Raising his shield, Phehlahm made to step forward, but Mar thrust his arm out to block him. “Back up. Don’t step on any of these stones.”
Eyes wide, the marine retreated gingerly.
“One hundred paces, my lord,” Mhiskva informed calmly.
Mar ignored the captain, delving deep into the underlayment and roadbed.
“Volley at range,” Mhiskva ordered after another moment.
“High mark!” Cuhlhin called softly, elevating his own weapon to take aim. The other legionnaires matched him.
“Fire!” Mhiskva barked.
The crossbows twanged in unison. Without pause, the legionnaires cocked again and pulled bolts from belt quivers to reload.
“Fifty paces, my lord.”
“I’m done,” Mar declared, standing. “Let’s get out of here.”
Phehlahm dashed to Mar’s side and swung his shield up. An arrow stuck the shield, skittered away with a clatter. Other arrows stuck all about. Dhun grunted as an arrow ricocheted off his brigandine and then fell heavily without a sound, a second feathered shaft protruding obscenely from between his eyes.
Mar cursed, tried to get to the legionnaire, but Mhiskva intercepted him, grabbed him up, and ran with leaping strides toward the cart. The other Mhajhkaeirii followed, leaving Dhun where he had fallen.
As soon as Mhiskva threw him onto the seat of the cart, Mar made to jump back down to go to Dhun.
Mhiskva restrained him once more.
“Dhun is dead, my lord, as we all will be if we do not withdraw immediately.”
Mar sank back, sick with the realization of the truth of the captain’s warning. As soon as Mhiskva and his men had vaulted into the bed of the cart, Mar launched it skyward. When he looked back toward the receding body of the legionnaire, it was with a great deal of fierce satisfaction that he watched the first of the Phaelle’n march across the enchanted paving blocks.
THIRTY-THREE
“Should we fire the buildings, brother?” Commander-of-Cloisters Bhertryn, taking long strides to keep up with his much taller superior, asked
Szerius considered. “There is no need. Most of the civilians have fled. A conflagration would destroy goods and property that can be made to pay the costs of the Work and might hinder our advance. As the Archdeacon has commanded that we advance at all speed, this would certainly be a subrogation of our Duty.”
Bhertryn issued commands to a subordinate, who dashed away.
After they and the cloister of Salient Combatants who guarded them had marched scarcely another full block along the Transept following the well ordered marching ranks of the 22nd, a runner appeared from a side street and passed Bhertryn a note from his pouch.
“Brother Gh’symyl’n, in command of the Ninth Scout Cloister, has captured numerous prisoners. He requests instructions.”
“Are there civilians amongst them?”
“He does not specify.”
“It is of no import. Send that they should be offered the Fraternity of the Great Phaelle. All that refuse are to be executed. Inform all commanders that no further prisoners are to be taken till we have secured control of the entire Citadel. The Work must not be slowed by those who oppose the Restoration. Our Duty requires us to be swift. Also, order the 22nd to increase their pace.”
“It shall be done, brother.”
THIRTY-FOUR
“Run, Bhalrgam curse you, Mahryn!” Quaestor Eishtren yelled, drawing the bowstring and the feathers of his last arrow to his cheek. He saw the gray-haired and heavy fugleman straining to increase his speed, his face flushed and his mouth gasping. From the very beginning, Mahryn had not been able to keep up.
Key to Magic 02 Magician Page 17
