Key to Magic 02 Magician

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  The gyrations of the earth subsided as suddenly as they had begun, but before Eishtren could stand, a chunk of broken brick shattered a span from his outstretched hand. A shower of similar missiles rained down, some striking his legs and ricocheting off the back of his cuirass. He scrambled up and tried to run.

  A larger chunk of masonry impacted to his left, blasting a small crater in the pavement. “Get to the lee of the building!” he shouted to his Mhajhkaeirii.

  Descending at great speed, a slab of building stone crushed Baerdryd as he rose, burying much of his body in the ruptured ground. Not enough of the young man remained to check for life. The bombardment began to intensify, with larger and larger pieces of debris falling onto the intersection and the buildings around it. When struck, some of the houses, fractured already by the shocks of the tremors, sagged, shedding their façades in showers of granite. A building just across the street collapsed inward in a fountain of glass, splinters, and brick dust.

  Truhsg and Dhem dragged Aael, chair and all, into the nook formed by the stoop of his house and its front wall. Eishtren shoved C’edl and Kyamhyn ahead of him toward this doubtful protection and shouted at Scahll and Taelmhon to move. He crowded behind them and made the armsmen crouch with him to present smaller targets as the hail of murderous projectiles continued, slacked quickly, and abruptly ceased. The entire disaster could only have lasted a moment or two.

  Eishtren got to his feet unsteadily and looked about.

  The Phaelle’n formation had been decimated. A huge mass of brick and cornice – the wall of some building – had plunged squarely on top of them. A few moved weakly in the wreckage.

  “Fugleman, we are moving. Get the men in order. Aael, lead us to the children.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The Black Monks, the dreaded fanatical armsmen of the Brotherhood of Phaelle, and their traitorous Mhajhkaeirii henchmen had begun to chop through the last door with axes. The heavy planks thudded with the blows, but the hardwood bars and their iron anchors continued to hold. All the crossbow bolts were gone. There would be no way to hold them back once the door gave way.

  Ghorn took a deep breath to still the quaver in his sword arm, eased as much of his weight off his throbbing leg as he could, and counted the remaining defenders. There were only five of the corsairs still standing, spread back along the short corridor, though there were a dozen wounded laid out in the bedchamber at the end, including the unconscious Lord Hhrahld, who had been swarmed in the final charge and taken a blow to the head. All of the able-bodied pirates slumped against the wall or squatted on the floor, too raggedly tired to do anything else. Rhel, his constant companion for these last two desperate hours, had also managed to fight his way into this final refuge.

  Ghorn studied the legionnaire. Covered in blood and sweat, the young legate breathed hoarsely as he leaned against the wall. He had taken a thrust into his side in the retreat and blood leaked through the fingers of the hand he held pressed into the deep puncture.

  “Go back down the hall and stand with the Prince, Legate.”

  Rhel grimaced. “I can fight, my lord. I would rather remain with you.”

  Ghorn shook his head. “No room for that here. The hallway is too narrow for the Monks to come at us more than one at a time. One man can hold the door. Your duty is with the Prince.” He let his tone indicate that this was a command.

  His reluctance plain, Rhel saluted, but made no immediate move to depart.

  “Go and protect the Prince, Rhel,” Ghorn told the young man kindly. “This is my task.”

  The legate nodded, tight lipped, and then edged by the corsairs and staggered down the hall.

  As the blows upon the door increased in tempo, Ghorn looked all about and finally locked his eyes on the plaster ceiling. Turning to the man nearest him, he beckoned. The fellow was older and heavy, not quite gone fat. He had ribbons, most now splattered with gore and shredded, tied to his armor. “You are Ghesev, are you not?”

  “Aye, s’me. M’the Capin’s Bordin’ Mate, y’am.”

  The corsair’s accent was so thick that it took Ghorn a moment to decode it.

  “You have been guarding the Prince?

  “Aye, Y’ve ben carin’ fer th’ boy.”

  “Take him and get up to the roof.”

  Ghesev gave Ghorn an odd look. “Wot? How’s y’m ta do tha’?”

  “Cut a hole through the ceiling in the bedchamber. Climb up into the attic space and then go out through a gable.”

  Ghesev coughed out a weary curse. “Heh, wot good’ll tha’ do? They’d jus’ fin’us. I’d be mer mindin’ dyin’ right her.”

  “You swore an oath, did you not?”

  Ghesev’s face clouded in quick anger. “Aye, m’did. ‘No harm’ll com’ ta th’ boy whil’y’m drawin’ breat.’”

  Ghorn leaned forward on the balls of his feet and tightened his eyes threateningly. None of the corsairs respected anything but brute strength.

  “Then get to your duty, man.”

  Ghesev grunted, plastering half a grin on his face. “Aye, then, y’m goin’ ta do’t, tho’ i’d be daft.”

  As the corsair turned, Ghorn caught his arm. “Take the rest of your men with you and get the wounded up as well.”

  Ghesev peered at Ghorn in surprise. “Who’d be holdin’ th’ door?”

  “I will guard the door.”

  “N’how long be y’holdin’ out?”

  “As long as necessary.”

  Ghesev cursed again, but grinned with a full set of discolored teeth. “Aye, luck ta’y.” He swung about. “Up y’sots! Y’herd th’ man!” He started shoving and chivying the other corsairs, driving them into the bedchamber beyond.

  Ghorn checked his armor, tucking a dangling plate back into place and tightening the slack from a strap. He sheathed his sword, pulled out a piece of cloth that he had cut from the shirt of a dead Phaelle’n, and used it to clean sweat and grime from the hilt of his dirk. He had pulled the long knife from the back of a fallen corsair and it had served him well. In these close quarters, two blades would stand him better than a sword and shield, he thought.

  He gripped his thigh, wincing as a particularly heated surge of pain raced up his leg. He could not run, but he had found the strength to walk, and thankfully the leg was near numb much of the time. Hopefully, it would not give way before he had bought enough time for the magician to arrive.

  He did not know for certain that the young Khalarii would come, but it did appear possible -- if the boy were not fighting elsewhere or already dead. It seemed a safe guess that the Monks had attacked the Citadel from without as well as from within. He had known the offer of terms to be only a ruse, but he had expected that it would gain him at least a day.

  That had not been his only mistake. He had never suspected that the Monks had gained converts within the Palace, had not, in fact, even considered it possible. Chor’lhanhz’s betrayal had been an utter surprise and the invasion of Palace had caught him completely off guard. The manner by which the Monks had smuggled their men into the Seat of the Principate was a vexing mystery, but implied a well establish network of traitors.

  In all honesty, he had never believed that he could successfully defend the Citadel for long, but now even that limited hope seemed to have been foolhardy. Only the magician and his magic could save anything at all now. The Khalarii was certainly the only hope of keeping Prince Davfydd from the hands of the Black Monks.

  However, even if no rescue should come, there would be no surrender to the Brotherhood. Not for him, at least. He had long since resolved not to live to see The Greatest City in All the World fall. Just as his brother had, he would honor his oaths and would do his duty to the end.

  He slid the dirk back into his belt and leaned against the wall, stretching out his leg. Within seconds, a huge concussion sounded in the distance. Several breaths later, a heavy vibration passed through the entire structure of the tower. Wondering what magery had been unleashed in the Citadel, h
e hoped fervently that the young magician had been the author of it and not the Monks.

  With a loud crack, a large splinter flew from the door and struck the wall by his head. In its place, the rasped silver of whetted steel showed through a narrow split just above the upper bar. Immediately, the axe blade was wrenched away and then slammed back into the door with three rapid blows to widen the hole.

  Cautiously, Ghorn took two steps back.

  A barbed spear burst through the jagged gap, jabbing almost a full manheight into the hallway.

  Ghorn deflected the spear with his dirk, pivoted, pulling his sword with his left hand, and slashed down at an angle. His blow severed the spearhead from the hardwood shaft and sent it spinning across the floor. Before the men on the other side of the door could recover, he dropped the dirk and yanked on the spear shaft with all the strength that he could summon from his back and shoulders. The door bounced as a body struck it from the other side and the shaft came free into his hand.

  There was no sound of complaint from the other side of the door. The Black Monks had apparently not entrusted their Mhajhkaeirii lackeys with this task. One of the traitorous Guardsmen would have cursed.

  After only a brief pause, the axes once again attacked the door.

  Ghorn leaped forward, snatched up the dirk, and slammed it through the hole. He struck nothing, but for a moment the axe blows ceased. Snatching the knife back, he danced backwards as a saber was thrust repeatedly through the hole.

  He played this game, harrying the attackers to slow their assault on the door, for some time, he did not know how long. He did them no real damage with this tactic, he was sure, but did withdraw the dirk on one occasion with blood along one edge. Eventually, though, the Monks succeed in hacking through the upper bar, opening the breach enough to give them a plain view of him, so that he could no longer approach the door with impunity. At this point, the Monks began using what looked like the heavy post from a bedstead as a ram.

  Ghorn moved back to the center of the hallway to ready himself, holding his sword in his left and the dirk in his right, as large pieces of wood were smashed from the disintegrating door.

  Within moments, the remains of the door fell inward and a Monk, his hood thrown back so that his tattoos were visible, rushed through, saber held at the ready. Behind him were more of the same, all with the darkened mail, black leather, and distinctive markings of the Black Monks. Beyond them, skulking in the far end of the Prince’s sitting room, were the few remaining Palace guardsmen.

  The Phaelle’n halted, taking an aggressive stance with sword at guard, and barked, “Yield and your life will be spared!”

  Ghorn laughed without amusement.

  “I know that you are Prince Ghorn,” the Monk rasped. “I am Senior Assault Brother Eu of the Salient Order. On my personal honor, if you and your men surrender, I swear that no harm will come to you.”

  Ghorn simply shook his head.

  Faster than a snake, the Monk sprang at Ghorn, arm straight in a practiced thrust. Ghorn parried and lunged with the dirk, but Eu sidestepped the blade with ease, exploding with such a fierce series of blows that Ghorn, barely managing to deflect the Monk’s flashing sword, had to give way. The Monk drove Ghorn backwards, first a step, then a full pace.

  Ghorn flinched as his full weight landed on his wounded leg, recovered quickly, but not before his opponent had recognized his weakness.

  Eu slashed at Ghorn’s neck, a feint, forcing the prince to raise his guard, then the Monk rolled his wrist and cut down at Ghorn’s forward leg. The Prince-Commander interposed the dirk, but this was only another feint.

  Eu charged.

  Ghorn felt himself struck across the wrist and lost the dirk, then Eu’s shoulder slammed into his chest, knocking him from his feet. The prince landed on his back and tried to roll upright, but Eu’s boot stomped down on Ghorn’s wrist, pinning his sword to the floor. Ghorn swung his free arm around to strike, but the Monk’s sword batted it away and then shifted to point unwaveringly at the exposed flesh between Ghorn’s chin and his armored collar.

  Ghorn looked up into Eu’s face. He had half expected some type of evil sign, disfiguration perhaps, but aside from the tattoos, the man could have been a Mhajhkaeirii.

  “I will make it quick,” Eu told him quietly.

  Ghorn slumped to the floor as if in defeat, and then lunged for the man’s wrist, thinking gratefully that his death, at least, would come at the hands of an armsman and not at those of a sorcerer.

  Eu’s blade plunged.

  Mhiskva’s great axe – Ghorn knew the double-headed monstrosity well – flew between the prince and the Monk, shattering the Phaelle’n sword and whipping around on the backswing to strike Eu squarely between hip and shoulder.

  The captain did not pause as the monk, the light from his eyes already fading, slammed into the wall. Taking a long stride over Ghorn’s prostrate form, Mhiskva laid into the Phaelle’n at the door, his shoulders blocking the hall completely as his weapon scythed with unstoppable force.

  Hands gripped Ghorn’s shoulders before he could rise and hauled him upright within the bedchamber. Some of his own Defenders stood around him. Several pressed on into the hallway, but could do nothing but look at Mhiskva’s broad back.

  Ghorn, judging that Mhiskva would win him several desperately needed moments, demanded, “How do we stand?”

  A grayed fugleman – Cuhlhin of the Fourth Troop -- saluted. “The magician’s on the roof with the cart. Lord Hhrahld and his cutthroats are up there and the Prince as well.”

  “Cart?”

  “That’s how we came, my lord. You know, he makes things fly.”

  “What of the Citadel? Are we under attack?”

  Cuhlhin shook his head sadly. “We’re done, my lord. The blasted Monks are in from both the South and the East, though from what I saw as we flew here I think the West is holding. The magician blocked the Transept just east of Berghaern Cross by bringing down the armory there, but it won’t take them long to get around.”

  “How did they break through the East? Magery?”

  The fugleman shook head again. “We think it was treachery, my lord. Some of the militia said the gates were opened for the Monks.”

  “What of the Old Keep?”

  “Sealed and not yet under attack.”

  “Can the cart take all of us, including the corsairs?”

  “No, my lord. It’s just big enough to carry seven or eight. We picked it up on the way here.”

  Ghorn pointed to the mound of furniture stacked on the wide bed beneath the bolt-hole that Ghesev had smashed to get to the attic. “Go up and tell the magician that I want him to take off the wounded and the Prince first. Tell him to fly to the Old Keep as quickly as he can and return.” He tapped a legionnaire on the shoulder. “Borlhoir, go with him. Guard the magician.”

  “What of you, my lord?” Cuhlhin asked. “Wouldn’t it be best if you went first?”

  “No. Mhiskva can’t hold forever. The rest of us are going to help him hold off the Phaelle’n.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “The Mhajhkaeirii have retaken the upper floor. Brother Eu and his combat team have perished in the service of the Duty. The remainder of his cloister has withdrawn to a lower floor of the tower.” The young proselyte Mhajhkaeirii who brought the message seemed dazed.

  Senior Coordinator Aear felt equally stunned. “How did this occur?”

  “I was told that the unbelievers received reinforcements.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Brother Kerryhl did not say.”

  Brother Zhel made the sign of the Tripartite. “It is surely the Apostate. He has used his flying artifact. We must utilize the Relic.”

  Aear slowly nodded his head. “The Work.”

  “The Duty!”

  “The Restoration!”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Gods be damned! Look at that!” Borlhoir shouted, throwing his arm out to the north.

  “
It’s a Bhrekxa!” Phehlahm gasped.

  “A what?” Mar demanded, whipping his head about.

  “It’s a fantastical creature, my lord,” Phehlahm explained in a rush, “A myth! My grandmother used to – “

  “Where? I don’t see it!”

  “Up there! It’s flyin’, my lord!”

  Mar swung his head up, searching, saw a dark blot closing from slightly above. It was indeed a beast of some kind, very large and furred. It had no wings, but it soared.

  “It’s going to hit us!” Borlhoir raised his crossbow and fired as the thing filled the sky. The injured legate, Rhel, struggled to pull out his sword.

  One of the wounded pirates stood, weaving on unsteady legs and raising a sword as long as Mar’s leg. Blue and orange snakes twined about the pirate’s arms from fingertip to shoulder, and, by some strange trick of the light, these serpents writhed as if alive. Blood from a wound on one shoulder leaked from under a dirty rag and dripped to the deck. The man’s long silvered hair fluttered in the breeze and his eyes blazed with a strange fire. As the beast swooped, the pirate began to sing at the top of his lungs. The words were in some incomprehensible tongue, but the song was clearly a challenge and soon crested to an all-defying roar.

  Many things happened at once. Mar abruptly pitched the cart to the right and down as the beast’s shadow covered them. Ten bleeding pirates, including the still unconscious Lord Hhrahld, packed shoulder to shoulder overloaded the craft. The weight made the cart wallow and change direction with ponderous slowness. Ghesev, cursing, shoved Prince Davfydd, who began to scream and cry at the rough treatment, down to the bottom of the cart and covered him with his body. Rhel climbed to his feet, raising his sword to protect Ghesev’s exposed back. Phehlahm braced himself, interposing his shield between Mar and the beast.