Key to Magic 01 Orphan

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  “We can be above the Citadel in minutes,” Mar insisted. “It’ll carry the both of us, I’m sure, despite your size.”

  And, at his first opportunity, Mar would jettison the Mhajhkaeirii officer.

  Mhiskva shook his head. “I cannot leave my command. We are still outnumbered in this part of the city. I started with less than a full troop and we took heavy causalities when we sallied from the Northeastern Bastion. We were only able to drive the Monks away because they were disorganized and surprised. If they are able to regroup, they will be certain to push back toward the Citadel. No, my lord Magician, it is best that we remain with my marines. We are less than a league from the North Gate and we will reach it in under an hour, even at this pace.”

  Mar shrugged. His burst of relief at the revelation that he had been taken by the Mhajhkaeirii and not the Phaelle’n had quickly soured when he realized that his ostensible rescue was, in truth, a capture. Regardless of the captain’s thus far deferential manner, Mar felt himself a prisoner. Mhiskva and his marines were as much his jailers as his protectors.

  As they approached an intersection marked by a large tavern on one facing corner, Mar began to feel a twinge of nervousness, as he often did when being watched. As a thief, he had taught himself never to dismiss such feelings outright. He stopped and turned about slowly.

  Mhiskva halted also, frowning, then looked at Mar’s face. His hand went over his shoulder to the haft of his great axe.

  “We have to get out of this street,” Mar warned.

  Before Mhiskva could reply, the shrieks of incoming stone cylinders began to fill the air.

  Mhiskva snatched Mar up with a sweep of his arm, took a tremendous leap, and threw the younger man against the wall of a house.

  Mar grunted as his back struck the whitewashed stone, his view of the street shrinking as the captain’s shielding bulk towered over him.

  The catapult stones, this time more than a score, struck all at once with a deafening crash. Some fell as close as the house on the opposite side of the street, smashing through its roof and upper floors, breaking and buckling its walls. Many punched through the pavement at the mouth of street ahead, slinging out rock and earth. A good number destroyed buildings on opposite sides of the street half a block to their rear, the rubble spilling out in huge heaps across the roadway.

  Scraps of rubble and wood flung from the house across the street impacted the wall near Mar, knocking off spalls of granite. At least one large piece hit Mhiskva, ricocheting off his armor. There were yells and yelps from many of the marines as well.

  Mhiskva stood back, rubbing the back of his thigh as he spun about. “Tryhl, get the men up! We need to move now!” The captain did not wait, but jumped about, dragging men to their feet and shoving them towards the intersection.

  Seeing his opportunity, Mar dashed for his new raft, summoning it towards him.

  A bright lance of green fire arced in before he had taken three steps and struck the table, bursting it in twain and casting smoldering planks in opposite directions. Other green lances began to fall among the Mhajhkaeirii marines.

  Recoiling when his sense of the table died, Mar whirled and sprinted for the door of the closest house. As he ran, he became aware of a strident chartreuse driving toward him through the ether, seeking him, and guessed immediately that it was the ethereal heart of a green lance. Almost without thought, he deflected it. The flaring lance rebounded into a marble column supporting a porch and burst in a billow of fire.

  Mar stumbled, losing a step, as the significance of this success jarred him. In the last few hours, he had begun to believe that his abilities to perceive and manipulate the forces of magic were blossoming dramatically, perhaps because of the constant exercise his battles with the Phaelle’n had given them. Elated as a new confidence overtook him, he knew without a doubt that none of the lances aimed at him would strike.

  To his right, a marine running with the front handles of a litter took a green lance full in the chest. Killed instantly, the man toppled in a scorched and bloody heap. The rear bearer, face frozen in a spasm of surprise and fear, stumbled and fell heavily. The pallid man borne on the litter was thrown to the pavement and began to scream.

  Mar tried to make himself keep running. Self-preservation was the penultimate credo of the Khalarii petty thief, and that credo demanded a single-minded disregard for the fates of others.

  He owed the marines and Mhiskva nothing. They had not saved him from the Phaelle’n; he had escaped the Brotherhood’s attack by his own skill. The Mhajhkaeirii had trapped him, nothing more.

  But he knew with a terrible certainty that every single one of them would die here in this street without him. He was their only possible defense.

  Screaming in frustration, Mar skidded to a halt and threw up his fists. Reaching out with his ethereal sense, he snared the green lances and forced them away. His will formed a shield above the street, blocking the magical attack. Green fire began to bounce back into the air, bursting upon the roofs and walls of adjacent buildings or vanishing up into the sky, but not another lance struck among the trapped marines.

  “To me!” Mar yelled. “To me now!”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Chief Skryer, who had become nameless in dedication to his art, adopting the ancient and revered title used by the Great Phaelle, straightened from his glass. “He has erected a ward with a signature that does not register. This ward is deflecting the Enervated Bolts.”

  “Impossible!” proclaimed the freshly ordained Deacon Zheltraw, who, by virtue of the demise of all other senior brethren from the College of Promulgators at the ward failure, had inherited the position of First Promulgator. This status had earned him admission here, to the Archdeacon’s Conclave.

  The Conclave sat in newly upholstered chairs at an oblong metal table in the central cabin of the raised and refurbished ancient warship that the Brotherhood had named Duty. Traces of Variant Three Forebearer’s script suggested that the cabin had been called “especial localized leadership site.” The brethren of the College of Archivists had successfully re-keyed the lighting magics, so that a slightly blue pinpoint illuminated each the five occupied seats. The lights in the remainder of the large room had been dimmed to permit the controllers to focus on their equipment. Some suspected that the table had once possessed significant informational magics, but no brother had yet learned to key them.

  Traeleon turned his head slowly to pin the First Promulgator with a disapproving look. He had developed the habit, in only a few hours, of ignoring Zheltraw completely, but he could not overlook this outburst. The newly ordained Conclave member actually worshipped magic, like some uninitiated lay brother. It was growing increasingly clear to Traeleon that such fanaticism would present a bothersome hindrance in the normal operation of the Conclave, but it was possible that Zheltraw’s zeal might also prove useful as a tool to curb the ambitions of certain elements within the mainland cloisters. For that reason, Traeleon had judged it prudent to tolerate Brother Zheltraw’s excesses.

  However, that did not mean that he had to humor the fool.

  “With Magic, all things are possible – Ninth Book of Phaelle, line 367. And, as a matter of fact, we have such a ward in our vault. An artifact from the dig on Szelthos generates a narrow radius ward which disrupts the air shell vessel of Enervated Bolts, causing them to disperse.”

  At the Archdeacon’s rebuke, Zheltraw bowed his head, but Traeleon did not judge him sufficiently cowed.

  “Your lack of study does ill service to the Duty,” he added harshly.

  Zheltraw’s shoulders slumped and he collapsed from his chair to his knees, shaking. “I beg Penance, my lord,” he gasped.

  “Two days of silent reflection.”

  Without rising, Zheltraw slowly backed from the Archdeacon’s presence as Traeleon dismissed the Brohivii from his immediate awareness.

  “Lhevatr, analysis.”

  “We have underestimated the magical capabilities – whi
ch, in point of fact, we previously judged to be nonexistent -- of the Mhajhkaeirii,” the Commander of Legions stated evenly. “It is now apparent that they have discovered a cache, perhaps even multiple caches, which have supplied them with weapons in many ways superior to ours. The flying relic itself poses considerable difficulties for tactical planning. We should expect to be confronted with other powerful devices and must make adaptations accordingly. However, a reasonable expectation, based upon our own knowledge of the Inherited Trait, is that their personnel with Ability are few, perhaps only this one.”

  Traeleon turned to the junior novitiate standing nearby who manned the far-talking disk. It was one of barely a score functioning artifacts, whose ancient name had yet to be discovered, that allowed communication over distance.

  “Has the flying artifact been destroyed?”

  The novitiate murmured softly into the red stone disk cupped in his palms. After a brief wait, it murmured back at him. He passed Lhevatr a note.

  “Brother Whorlyr reports a single flying craft destroyed, but suspects that the artifact which generates the flight ward is intact. He suggests that the artifact is an amulet worn by the enemy sorcerer.”

  “Chief Skryer, status of the assault?”

  “All of the enervated bolts are now being deflected. Not disrupted or neutralized. It appears that they are being redirected. The apostate is defending the armsmen with him. Our blocking force has engaged he Mhajhkaeirii’n point guard force. The Mhajhkaeirii rear guard has been eliminated.”

  “Read the Ability of the Mhajhkaeirii sorcerer.”

  The Chief Skryer, a frail deacon of extremely advanced age, but the most capable skryer within the Brotherhood, concentrated a moment. “A good three, near a four.”

  “High,” Lhevatr commented thoughtfully. The recently promoted Martial Director of the Brotherhood was a sub-one.

  High indeed. Traeleon himself was only a four on the scale developed by the Great Phaelle. In the nine hundred and fifty nine years since the Founding, the records of the Brotherhood detailed only three individuals who had scored five, and one of those was suspect.

  “Why was this sorcerer not previously detected?” demanded First Inquisitor Bhrucherra, speaking for the first time. Like the others, he was also newly advanced to the Archdeacon’s Conclave. And, like Traeleon, he was a deacon of the Salient Order.

  But, for those that could read them, where Traeleon’s tattoos designated him a strategist, Bhrucherra’s named him an assassin.

  Traeleon, well acquainted with schemes and conspiracies, had resolved to watch the First Inquisitor carefully.

  The Chief Skryer turned a disapproving gaze upon the much younger Bhrucherra. “Potential does not manifest within the ether. The Mhajhkaeirii has obviously not exercised his Ability until recently.”

  “How can you be sure of that? Perhaps some unknown artifact has masked his Ability. Certainly, it is clear that he has had the opportunity to hone his skills with the flight artifact and this new deflecting ward. Would not such practice have revealed his Ability before now?”

  A frown creased the Chief Skryer’s wrinkled face. “It should have, yes.”

  “First Inquisitor,” Traeleon interjected, “this seems a matter that should rightfully fall under the purview of the College of Inquisitors.”

  Traeleon had considered the previous, now deceased, First Inquisitor to be extremely competent. That brother’s information gathering network had covered near all of the Silver Sea and had kept Traeleon well informed in all matters. This seemed an excellent opportunity to determine whether Bhrucherra possessed sufficient skill to perform adequately the functions of the chief of the College of Inquisitors. It would be much better to find out now if the Salient was deficient, so that he could be replaced before he developed much influence within the powerful College.

  Bhrucherra inclined his head. “Indeed, my lord.”

  “I wish to know the method by which the Mhajhkaeirii concealed their magic from us. See to it now.”

  “As you say, Preeminence.” Bhrucherra stood, bowed deeply, his face impassive, and departed.

  The Chief Skryer, freed from this distraction, had returned his gaze to his glass.

  “My lord Archdeacon,” he announced curiously. “There is an indication here that is unclear. I require confirmation.”

  Traeleon nodded and the aged brother moved carefully across the slightly rolling deck to consult with his subordinate, whose station currently monitored the Mhajhkaeirii within the Citadel. After a moment, he hurried back.

  “My lord Archdeacon, this is amazing!”

  “Speak.”

  “The man’s Ability is increasing! It is now definitely a four!”

  “Your earlier measure was in error?” Lhevatr suggested.

  The Chief Skryer shook his head. “No, the strength of his Ability is definitely changing, growing. Assistant Skryer Brother Kyh confirms it.”

  “If his Ability has not peaked,” the Martial Director mused, “then he is only days from his Advent.”

  “It continues to grow?” Traeleon demanded.

  The Chief Skryer concentrated upon his glass. “Yes and his progression appears to be greater than any I have ever witnessed.”

  Traeleon’s expression froze.

  “Lhevatr, order Brother Whorlyr to withdraw,” he commanded. “Then have all catapults on Duty, Work, and Restoration target the Mhajhkaeirii sorcerer. Full salvo immediately.”

  Lhevatr’s brow creased. “My lord, the stocks of cylinders for the main weapons are below one eighth. A full salvo from all ships will deplete our ammunition completely.”

  “We have no reserves?”

  “On cargo ships with the Second Fleet at Khoarghei. My predecessor felt that the cargo ships would slow down the Prime Fleet.”

  Traeleon narrowed his eyes. “Order the cargo ships sent from Khoarghei, all possible speed. Lash the rowers to death if necessary.”

  “Yes, my lord. Even rowing the entire distance, it will take two days.”

  The Archdeacon was silent in thought for a moment. “This apostate is a danger to the Work, Lhevatr. Have the land forces pull back to a defensive position and send a full salvo now, everything we have. The Mhajhkaeirii sorcerer must be destroyed.”

  Lhevatr bowed. “As you say, Preeminence.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “RALLY TO THE MAGICIAN!”

  As Mhiskva’s command brought marines running and scrambling to his side from every direction, Mar’s mind raced.

  A mental line traced through the air following the paths of the magical fires led south toward the intersection. The lances angled in as if launched from rooftops, streaking down the narrow valley of the street. No cover was to be found in the street and its confines bunched the Mhajhkaeirii together as easy targets. Forward led only closer to death and the Phaelle‘n catapults had blocked any retreat north.

  “Into that house,” he hoarsely ordered those about him, pointing fifty paces back along their route. Without waiting to see if they obeyed, he began to march slowly toward the house, a three storey white-plastered stone structure that seemed to fit his immediate need for a sturdy refuge. The lances continued to flare in as he moved, but his concentration and his shield held. A patina of verdant light began to color the faces and blood of the marines as the intensity of the magical attack increased.

  A bulky marine to Mar’s left called out to two others near him, waving a sword whose tip had been melted away, and the trio ran ahead, vaulting the low steps to the portico. Without slowing, they slammed into the large red-painted door and swept it from it hinges. As soon as they had picked themselves up from the shattered ruins of the door, the trio dodged back outside and began dragging their fellows into the cover of the house.

  Every marine that was alive –- including a few that might not be for long -- made it into the spaciously arched entryway of the house. Mar tarried for a moment at the edge of the portico steps to allow the last of the marines he prot
ected to be hauled or carried inside. Realizing that Mhiskva was not among those, he turned.

  The Mhajhkaeirii captain was halfway back to the site of the ambush, staggering under the incredible burden of three wounded marines, one over each shoulder and another, limp and ashen, cradled like a babe in his arms. The entire right side of the large captain’s face from eyebrow to chin was scalded red and most of his long hair had been singed down to the scalp. The leather trappings of his armor smoldered and one boot was only charred scrap.

  Mar adroitly caught and hurled a dozen lances in a wild swarm toward the intersection. The lances burst randomly on buildings, but for a moment, no more came down the street. Spinning, he saw the burly door-breaker peering from the house.

  “You! Help him!”

  The marine caught sight of Mhiskva, cursed, and ran toward his captain. Several other marines appeared in the doorway and followed.

  Mhiskva surrendered the wounded marines to his comrades, but refused to move farther than the portico till all the other Mhajhkaeirii were safely inside. Looking back, the captain gave Mar a grateful look and then allowed himself to be pulled within.

  Finally, as Mhiskva crossed the threshold, Mar realized he was the last available target in the street. Taking two leaping steps, he threw himself through the opening. A score or more lances struck the portico simultaneously and it crashed down just behind him as he rolled across the pearl and mauve tile floor, blasting a cloud of marble bits, tile and wood into the entryway.

  Crashing sounds filled the house and dust began to fall as the lances immediately began to bombard its front, blowing out windows and shaking the walls.

  Getting slowly to his feet, Mar looked around. The entryway was large, with a broad marble stair that swept up to an overlooking landing. To the left an open arch led into a broad central room and at the back of the entryway lay a closed four-panel door.