It worked for the hawks, perhaps it would work for him?
The spheres had proved all but soundless as they fell, their almost perfectly smooth surfaces parting the air without resistance. With little or no warning, none of the Phaelle’n had been able to anticipate his attacks and it seemed unlikely that they had appreciated the danger he and his raft presented. They had experienced shock and alarm, but not fear. No man could fear something, or know that it was dangerous, if he did not realize it existed.
He reached down and plucked a sphere from the raft. Air passing at speed through a small hole would create sound; anyone that could whistle knew this. Tiny voids in the surface of the sphere should cause it to emit sound, he felt sure. After pondering for a moment, he began to experiment.
Sometime later, after he had modified five spheres, he once again aligned the raft for a run down the boulevard. He kept to an elevation above bow range of the ground and watched the foremost Phaelle’n legion carefully for any sign of arrows. He released his first missile when he was but a hundred paces from the first rank of Phaelle’n swordsmen.
The change was dramatic. The sphere immediately began whistling shrilly as it left his hand, greatly increasing in pitch and volume with each second of fall, till just before it stuck the sound reaching Mar was painful enough to cause him to cover his ears.
When the sphere struck, the world blinked.
TWENTY-SEVEN
17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension
(1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
Aerlon nh’ Rhe, Commander of what he still thought of as the Seacrest Legion, which originally had been sworn to Plydyre and now sported the cursed Phaelle’n colors and a number in place of its hallowed name, watched pitilessly as his worm of a prince, Dralkor, sweated.
“My Prince,” he repeated, “We must withdraw. This new magic of the Mhajhkaeirii will destroy us --just as it did the 12th Legion.”
The 12th had come from the former Princedom of Whalgheir, an island neighbor to Plydyre in the Bronze Archipelago. The legion had been known as the Whalgheirii’n Royal Marines prior to the suzerainty of the Phaelle’n Brotherhood. Aerlon had known them to be disciplined and courageous, a courteous foe or steadfast ally, depending upon the politics of the moment. He had watched in utter astonishment as the blasts of the Mhajhkaeirii’n spells consumed those unfortunate stalwarts in explosions of fire and dust. He doubted that half of them survived.
Aerlon, himself, had no expectation of surviving this Gods’ cursed day. If Trhoozh, Master of Luck, was with him, he would -- mercifully -- fall in battle, but his end might come much sooner. He gambled with his life even now, daring to speak of retreat in the presence of the Archdeacon of the Phaelle’n Brotherhood. Foreign officers who failed to please the monks often vanished without a trace.
The Archdeacon, still smiling, turned emotionless eyes on Aerlon for a moment. Traeleon the Dutiful, eighty-seventh Archdeacon of the Brotherhood of Phaelle, stood in the center of the pavilion surrounded by plainly attired but powerful brethren. These half dozen men were the senior monks of the Brotherhood of Phaelle, and, though Aerlon hardly dared think it, sorcerers.
Traeleon had thrown back his hood, revealing the shaved and tattooed skull that marked his origins in the Brotherhood’s much feared and highly secretive militant order. He was the youngest Archdeacon in a generation – and certainly the most hated. Gossips whispered that he had traded his still beating heart to the daemon wizards of the Outerworld for a single book of vile spells.
Aerlon could well believe that the Archdeacon had no heart; he had seen him order terrible punishments on rebellious villages and peoples. Neither women nor children had been spared. According to other accounts, one small town, for the crime of rejecting an envoy of the Brotherhood, had had its entire populace crucified, from infant to hag, its buildings burned to ash, and its fields sown with salt.
The tasseled awning above their heads flapped in a gusting draft from the burning buildings up the boulevard. Prince Dralkor jumped at the sound, cast a fearful sidelong glance at Traeleon when the other’s head was turned, wiped sweat from his forehead with an unsteady hand, and continued to vacillate silently.
Aerlon held nothing but unvoiced contempt for his prince. Dralkor had been a beacon of exuberance and bravado when they had advanced from the harbor. His façade had crumbled when the magic of the Mhajhkaeirii had annihilated the 12th.
The Prince of Plydyre was somewhat young, though not so young as Traeleon. A thin man with a wisp of a mustache, he was not, by anyone’s estimation, a tenth the man his revered sire had been. He had sold his Princedom – and his soul as well, many said – to the Phaelle’n Brotherhood in exchange for titular rule over the entire Archipelago. With the foul magic of the Phaelle’n to back him, his small navy and army had, almost bloodlessly, forced the submission of the other major and minor islands. Today, the Phaelle’n proclaimed him High Prince, with a dozen or more once rival princes made – under threat of Phaelle’n sorcery -- to bend knee to his throne. Publicly, his absolute rule extended over an area of the Silver Sea that stretched from the Nharlae Peninsula fifty leagues east of Mhajhkaei southwest through the island chain almost to the southern continent of Szillarn. The truth, Aerlon knew, was that his prince dared not make water without the leave and oversight of the Phaelle’n Brotherhood.
Traeleon smiled at Aerlon, but his smile held no kindness. “Calm yourself, Commander. This development was not. . . unexpected.”
As he spoke, the Archdeacon rather casually stroked one of the large rings on his left hand. Aerlon had always wondered at that. Though Traeleon wore the simple drab clothing and hood that was the standard uniform of the monks, with no other ornamentation, he sported gold and silver rings, some with large precious stones, on nearly every finger of his hands.
Without turning, the Archdeacon spoke to the commander of the 3rd Legion.
“Lhevatr.”
“Yes, Preeminence?”
Lhevatr, a tall man with graying hair, saluted. Though dressed in gray armor and maroon cape, with the badges of a senior commander of legions, he was Phaelle’n, a senior priest – though they called themselves “deacons” -- of that order in his own right. 3rd Legion was Phaelle’n to the core, manned with fanatical adherents of the secretive doctrines of the Phaelle’n sect and commanded by a cadre of monks. It was no accident that the 3rd Legion had assembled in the rearmost position facing the smashed gates of the Mhajhkaeirii’n Citadel. Nor that the two conscript legions of Bronze were at the forefront of the battle.
“Has Deacon Khlotr been summoned?
“Yes, my lord. He is in the plaza to the south, making preparations.”
“Fetch him.”
Lhevatr saluted again and strode from beneath the awning, his aides and guards following.
Aerlon subsided, internally seething. He had known that Dralkor had not the spine to oppose the Archdeacon, but his own sense of duty had demanded that he attempt to preserve his command. The Seacrest Legion seemed surely doomed. His legionnaires had no defense against the mysterious Mhajhkaeirii’n attacks from the sky and could not retreat with the 3rd Legion blocking the way. He turned stiffly to face Dralkor once more.
“My prince, have I your leave to return to my men?”
Prince Dralkor opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing, flicking his eyes to Traeleon.
“Pray tarry but a moment until Lhevatr rejoins us, Commander,” the Archdeacon requested amiably. “We will face the magic of the Mhajhkaeirii with powerful magics of our own.”
Aerlon knew that despite the light tone, the Archdeacon had given a command that he dare not ignore.
After some moments, Lhevatr returned with his retinue, accompanied by a middle-aged monk wearing a workman’s leather apron over his simple clothing. The latter bore a small rosewood chest bound in elaborately chased gold. The Phaelle’n had always shown reverence for their relics.
“Brother Khlotr,” the Archdeacon inquire
d, “the device is ready?”
“I believe so, Preeminence.”
Traeleon raised an eyebrow. “It has been tested?”
Khlotr frowned. “As well as we can. The enchantment triggers properly, but it has spent millennia in the bottom of a tomb and some degradation is to be expected. The vessel does not show outward damage.”
“The Binding is in order?” Traeleon demanded sharply.
“Our best savants were unable to delve the complexity of it, my lord, but all peripheral indications are that it is indeed sound.”
The Archdeacon seemed to consider this. “Which brother will operate the device?”
“I am most familiar with the key sequence, Preeminence.”
“Is that wise? Perhaps one of your assistants. . .”
“None have the ability required, I fear.”
“Ah. Then –” the Archdeacon made a small sign. “The Work,” he intoned.
“The Duty,” Khlotr responded.
And then all the Phaelle’n present, guards, officers, and attendants, chanted in unison with the Archdeacon, “The Restoration!”
Aerlon had heard the catechism before; it seemed to have many meanings in many situations. He did know that the Phaelle’n recited it when they buried one of their own.
Without waiting for the monk, Aerlon spun on his heel and marched beyond the edge of the awning into the smoke-scattered sunshine of the boulevard. He had purposefully neglected the salute expected of subordinates leaving the presence of Prince Dralkor. Nor had he paused and inclined his head for the customary blessing of the Archdeacon. Both of them could be damned to the Outerworld; he had already demeaned himself enough for one day, especially if it was to be his last.
Gyldaen, his own second, and the quad of Seacrest legionnaires they had brought as guards waited at a short distance.
Gyldaen saluted. “My Lord Commander, do we withdraw?”
“No,” Aerlon said shortly, gesturing to one of the legionnaires for his sword and scabbard. Only Phaelle’n were allowed to bear arms near the Archdeacon.
Gyldaen might have made comment, but he saw Deacon Khlotr.
Aerlon turned to the monk. “What do you require of me?”
Khlotr displayed no offense at Aerlon’s preemptory tone. “I must erect the ward near the center of your position. None must be farther than two hundred and fifty paces from me. The protection will only extend that far.”
Aerlon had dealt with the Phaelle’n often enough to understand that a ward was a protective shield of magic, invisible to the eye. He had known wards to stop arrows and sometimes blades for individuals and once a half file of sappers, but had not known that the magic could be extended to defend an entire legion.
“Will my legion be confined to that spot or may we maneuver?”
“The legion may advance, but no faster than I can walk.”
“Follow me.”
Scabbard held out to his left, Aerlon set off at a steady lope up the boulevard. Gyldaen and the legionnaires, trained well, matched his pace. After tucking the rosewood box securely under his arm, Khlotr followed without comment. They were passed through the ranks of the 3rd Legion without incident, though many of the legionnaires knelt with heads bowed as Khlotr passed. Beyond the Phaelle’n position, the boulevard was clear and they covered the hundred paces to the rear of the Seacrest Legion’s formation in fewer than twenty seconds. Aerlon was only mildly surprised to see that the monk had no trouble keeping up.
The guards of the headquarters troop shifted formation to admit them. Aerlon’s under officers, gathered at his previous order to await his return, saluted. Some were young, but all of them were solid. They had no need of oratory to bolster their resolve and expected no explanations in the midst of a battle.
“Prepare to advance,” he ordered. The troop commanders dispersed quickly without comment. He knew his officers had great faith in his leadership. As far as most of them were concerned, it was his skill alone that had preserved the Seacrest Legion through three years of Phaelle’n wars and their confidence that he could lead them through this disastrous day was unshaken.
Fuglemen called orders up and down the line. Equipment rattled and the pavement murmured as a thousand men readied themselves. Aerlon had much practice judging the demeanor of his legionnaires. They had all witnessed the Phaelle’n use magic to turn battles. Khlotr’s presence had been noted instantly and had seemed to brace the wavering courage of some.
Aerlon, behind a stony face, hoped fervently that that faith would prove justified.
A shout went up from the forward rank and Aerlon knew that a thousand pairs of eyes, as had his own, had locked instantly upon a dark shape racing towards them against the gray of the smoke, the white of the clouds, and the blue of the sky.
Aerlon nodded to Gyldaen.
“Archers!” his second bellowed.
Two hundred yew bows creaked as the same number of armlength long steel tipped shafts aimed at a dangerously high angle. Some of the arrows would fall back upon the legion itself.
Aerlon strained his eyes to make out the figure of the man he knew sat upon the tawny and oddly glinting platform. He thought he saw a hand raised.
“Are you ready, Priest?”
The intricate chest bounced on the pavement, its lid flapping, as Khlotr threw it down. He now gripped the relic it had contained, a multifaceted blue globe, tightly between his cupped palms.
“PRIEST!”
Khlotr did not respond, all of his attention focused inward, one of the Brotherhood’s nonsensical chants rolling repeatedly from his lips.
Aerlon snapped his eyes back forward. A shimmer appeared in the air beyond the front of the legion and seemed to curve back over and behind them as well. He began to have hope.
Something detached from the enemy platform and an intolerable screeching echoed over the boulevard.
“That’s . . . different,” Gyldaen offered, a trace of doubt in his voice.
Aerlon heard a strangled gasp from Khlotr. He tore his eyes from the approaching missile and snapped his head about. The monk’s face had gone ashen.
“Gods! Priest, what is it?”
In a weak and horrible voice, Khlotr whispered, “The magic will not hold. . .”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mar’s missile never reached the ground. It struck something not quite visible several manheight above the Phaelle’n legion.
A wave of blistering white noise that rolled outward from the point of impact jarred the world, passing through Mar’s very being with a burning shock that froze him in place. For just an instant, everything – earth, air, sea, time, life – was completely still.
Then the land below him shivered feverishly, buildings blurring and dust rising. After a single terrifying moment, the shivering became a wild uncontrolled dance as the air about him went mad. The raft plummeted alarmingly for several breaths and then buoyed upward rapidly. For many moments the air plunged and erupted around him senselessly, slapping him with gusts from a dozen directions. Determinedly, he hunched his shoulders, locked his fists on the cleats, and focused all of his attention on maintaining control of the raft.
Abruptly as it had begun, the insane upheavals of the earth and air ceased.
Mar raised his head and found the layout of streets below unfamiliar. Swinging his head to locate the Citadel, he discovered that the calamity had tossed the raft about half a league west of the boulevard. Rotating the raft to bring the boulevard in view, his eyes widened. Filled with questions, he sped back towards the battle. Arriving above a point that he felt sure had been the center of the Phaelle’n legion, he slowed and banked into a tight orbit.
In a great circle that reached north to the Citadel and just as far to the east, west and south and encompassed the entire area of the boulevard upon which the Phaelle’n had marshaled their forces, everything had been flattened.
Everything – buildings, trees, men. Nothing higher than rill of rubble an armlength deep remained standing. Ev
en the fires had been blown out.
Mar knew that his sphere alone could not have caused this calamity. The sand missiles simply did not have the power required to cause this magnitude of destruction.
Almost without effort, he had discovered the technique for drawing power from sunlight. While he had floated above the city, musing on the possible destructive strength of his sand spheres, a cloud had passed from before the sun and the golden light had bathed his face. His appreciation of the warmth that washed over him had drawn his thoughts though the ethereal components of that light. Careful manipulations had shown that a screaming red fraction seemed to possess the most energy, but that a precise limit existed on the amount of it that he could infuse into the sand. Each time that he had siphoned the fraction down into a sphere, he had sensed an approaching weakness. Even as much as a tenth more, he felt sure, would cause a sphere to rupture and that failure would no doubt be deadly.
It seemed likely that some magic of the Phaelle’n must have failed when his missile struck. Perhaps the force of the sphere had caused the other magic to fail. Or perhaps the interaction of the explosion of the missile and the -- what should he call it? – spell of the Phaelle’n had released an amplified amount of … something. It seemed unlikely that he would ever know.
Regardless, he had accomplished his goal of turning back the spearhead of the Phaelle’n attack, albeit in an unexpectedly destructive fashion.
Now what?
His belly remained empty and he had not had any water since the previous evening. Perhaps he should find something to eat?
And yet -- the bulk of the Brotherhood’s forces, probably more than ten thousand legionnaires, still besieged the citadel to the north, west and east.
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