Mar rotated the solarium in the direction Mhiskva pointed without bothering to locate the indicated fortification. He did not believe that he could hold the structure together for very much longer and knew without a doubt that even a bad landing spot would be better than no landing spot.
As if in response to that thought, a large section of roof tile and some of the supporting lathe above his head pulled loose with a clatter and sailed away.
Just ahead, on the crest of a flattened hill, rested a low-walled rambling structure of a design and stonework pattern much older than those used in most of the Citadel. A broad dry ditch surrounded it and tenements and apartment blocks spread out from it like scattered skirts of a seated Khalarii noblewoman.
“That’s it?”
“Aye, my lord. See the inner bailey? Its fifty paces on a side.”
“That’s not much room to spare.”
Mhiskva shrugged. “I suspect that we do not have time to search further, my lord magician.”
Mar began shedding altitude. He dropped to within a few manheight of the roofs below and urged the solarium toward the keep. The room continued to disintegrate, losing bits of itself with nerve-wracking suddenness. Stones broke loose, timbers split, and tiles flapped away. Hoping that none of the jetsam would cause serious harm below, he avoided as many concentrations of people as he could.
Winding streets passed below, many crowded to impassability but some held open by armsmen, alternating with warrens of apartments and the occasional grounds of a compact villa. One street had been made into a corral by blocking both ends. A herd of barebacked horses bolted toward the far barricade as the shadow of the solarium and its rain of debris passed. After another teeth-clenching moment, the solarium crossed a final row of houses and the dry moat that surrounded the keep was revealed.
THIRTY-SIX
Aerlon Rhe coughed dryly.
As soon as they had exhumed him, the Mhajhkaeirii scouts had thrown him on a horse and galloped him here, into the presence of a middle-aged officer without insignia. They were outside, on a raised open firing platform adjoining the gatehouse of a small castle. Seated behind an ornate table obviously dragged from an aristocrat’s home, this unimpressive functionary regarded Aerlon with little outward interest. The table was bare, but Aerlon suspected that whatever documents or maps it might have previously held had been whisked into hiding in the upper room of the gatehouse, whose closed door was but a pace behind the Mhajhkaeirii. Several heavily armed legionnaires stood watchfully at Aerlon’s back, though the Plydyrii doubted he had the strength to swat at flies, much less do harm to their officer. Aerlon thought it likely that this castle was the central redoubt of the Citadel, but he wasted not a single glance in study of the fortifications – his part in this war was finished.
He did, however, turn his eyes to examine his inquisitor. The man was likely just a troop commander, as far as Aerlon could judge. Bareheaded, the Mhajhkaeirii did not wear the elaborate gilded armor of the ranking, but rather common leather gauntlets and a battered old style cuirass over a short hauberk. The segmented plates of the cuirass were stained and tarnished and the rings of the hauberk were multicolored as if it had suffered numerous repairs. The man had seen combat today, Aerlon was sure, and the way he sat suggested that he had taken a severe wound.
The Mhajhkaeirii officer poured water from a jug into a plain cup and offered it across the table.
Aerlon reached for the cup with his left hand -- the fingers of his right hand did not yet work very well. He was mostly intact: much of his armor and clothing had been blown from his body and he was covered in scrapes and small cuts, but no bones had been broken and his hearing was coming back.
“My thanks,” he said, inclining his head. He forced himself to drink the tepid water slowly, rather than gulping it in an undignified fashion.
“I am Lord Ghorn, Prince-Commander of the Defense,” the officer announced, watching Aerlon’s reaction.
Aerlon concealed his surprise. Not a junior officer then, but the supreme commander of the Mhajhkaeirii. He knew that only those in direct line to the throne of The Greatest City in All the World could hold the position.
Before the Phaelle’n had begun to move openly for dominance of the entire Silver Sea, certain courteous forms had held sway amongst combatants in the infrequent conflicts between the city-states of the region. That code would have prescribed a deferential response of Aerlon in this situation. He chose for the sake of nothing but his own personal dignity to conform to that defunct code now, as ridiculous as such an attitude might appear from such a bedraggled prisoner as himself. He had nothing left, truly, save the reserved Plydyrii dignity that his father had taught him in a world now dead. He found that he could not blame the Mhajhkaeirii for the death of his legion.
He bowed as fluidly as his aches would allow. “I am Aerlon of the House of Rhe, once Commander of the Seacrest Legion.”
Lord Ghorn made a sharp dismissive gesture. “Your legion no longer exists. Thus far, you are the only man from it that we have found alive.”
Aerlon felt his face go tight. He saw no reason not to be brutally honest. His loyalty lay with the people of his city, not the cursed Phaelle’n.
“Yes, we were betrayed by the magics of the Brotherhood.” His tone reflected the bitterness that filled him.
Aerlon noticed Lord Ghorn’s scrutiny intensify. “Your High Prince might consider such words treasonous.”
“He might were he alive.”
Aerlon did not know for certain that Dralkor was dead, but it seemed a safe guess. The High Prince’s pavilion had been within the area destroyed by the magics. When the Mhajhkaeirii had dug him from beneath a fallen column, the sheer vastness of that destruction had stunned him.
The Mhajhkaeirii prince’s eyes tightened in interest. “High Prince Dralkor perished?”
Aerlon shrugged. “There will be another High Prince. The Phaelle’n will see to that.”
“You despise the Monks yet you serve them.” It was more of an accusation than a question.
Suppressing a snap of irrational anger, Aerlon replied coldly, “I serve Plydyre.”
“Plydyre and the Principate have never been at war.”
“But your merchants have monopolized the trade routes of Bronze, enacted repressive tariffs, and dictated prices in our markets for over a century.” The old and much bandied grievances came easily.
“And for the cause of mere coin you would you would aid these fiends of the Outerworld to destroy The Greatest City in All the World?” Lord Ghorn demanded.
Aerlon found he had nothing to say.
“Did you know,” the Mhajhkaeirii prince probed after a moment, “that the Monks have been entreating with us for six months in an attempt to have us annex all of the domains of your former High Prince into the Principate?”
Aerlon had not heard of this, but he would not attempt to deny the truth of it. He had seen the unprincipled machinations of the Phaelle’n often enough to have no illusions about their honor.
“Your Prince would have been their puppet, just as Dralkor was.”
Lord Ghorn partially surprised Aerlon by nodding. “Indeed. And likely I would find myself standing a prisoner as you now stand – though more likely dead – when the Monks used Mhajhkaei to make war on their next target.”
Aerlon lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug. “Your vile sorcery annihilated my legion and that of Whalgheir. I cannot see that you are any different than the Phaelle’n.” He did not really believe that, but suddenly felt the need to strike back at someone, if only with words.
The Prince’s eyes flared slightly, but the violent outburst Aerlon expected did not come.
“Perhaps,” Lord Ghorn begrudged. “But we intend to prevail in this war that the Monks have brought to us, and we will use whatever means that requires.”
Before the conversation could proceed any further, a commotion began behind Aerlon among his guards.
“My lord Ghorn! Look
!” one of the legionnaires shouted, pointing excitedly.
Further down the wall bowstrings snapped as arrows were loosed and then a single deeper thrapt sounded as a crossbow fired.
Aerlon turned, looking up to follow the guard’s arm. Out beyond the merlons of the parapet approached a large object, flying above the rooftops of the buildings on the other side of the perimeter road that circled the dry moat. It took him a long moment to realize what it was.
“It’s a … house,” he found himself saying to no one in particular.
The Mhajhkaeirii prince rose from his stool, holding the table for support and heavily favoring one leg. He stared out at the apparition, which continued to draw nearer at better than a running man’s pace.
Aerlon watched in amazement. He had never seen such a thing, save perhaps the Mhajhkaeirii sorcerer’s craft. The flying building was heavily damaged and pieces of it detached as it flew, one a large section of masonry that smashed into the street with a great racket. The Mhajhkaeirii who packed the way fled from beneath it in panic. The front face of the house was one large connected window, though little of the glass survived, just a few shattered panes that flashed as the house shook. Sporadic arrows leapt up toward the house, but most missed, and those that struck had no affect on its motion. Shadowy shapes behind the windows slowly revealed themselves to be men, one of them a colossus who appeared to be waving his arm vigorously.
“Hold all archers!” Lord Ghorn suddenly shouted. The command echoed as it was passed around the walls.
The house swerved to pass to the right of the gatehouse, bobbing upward jerkily to clear the wall. The Mhajhkaeirii armsmen who would have been under it sprinted from its path. A dangling section of the house snagged a decorative cornice atop the parapet and it broke free, tumbling down onto an unoccupied machicolation with a loud crash of breaking stone. As the shadow moved over the court behind the gatehouse, sounds of distress and confusion began to rise from the wounded men sheltered there.
The Mhajhkaeirii prince called to Aerlon’s guards. “Bring me to the inner court!”
The leader of the quad looked at Aerlon. “What of him, my lord?”
“Bring him! Just get me there now!”
Two of the largest of the guards made a saddle with their arms and swept Lord Ghorn up, indicating that the prince was more severely injured than Aerlon had suspected, and moved to carry him down the open stairs.
Aerlon followed quickly, rather than be prodded by the remaining guards. Lord Ghorn’s bearers brought him down to the court and started across the cleared aisle through the pallets of the wounded. At the prince’s urging, they increased their pace and sped toward the inner gate at almost a run. Aerlon found himself trotting to keep up. The massive doors of the inner gate were open, but the portcullis was down and they were delayed for some hectic moments while it was raised to admit them. With Lord Ghorn cursing the delay, the group arrived through the gatehouse tunnel just in time to see the house come to rest on the cobbled yard.
As the house settled, it began to sag and bend in upon itself, loosing all suggestion that it had once been a dwelling. The open wall through which Aerlon had spied the men was crushed flat as the roof above it collapsed. After a moment of shifting wood, cracking stone, and sliding tiles, all became still.
“Set me down and get them out!” Lord Ghorn ordered fiercely.
One of the guards stayed to steady the prince and the others ran toward the house. On impulse, Aerlon ran with them and none of the Mhajhkaeirii thought or bothered to gainsay him.
As they neared what was fundamentally only a pile of rubble, a large axe burst upward through a canted section of roof nearest them, throwing tile shards in long arcs. The hole was rapidly expanded with tremendous strokes and then the axe withdrew from sight. After a short pause, a filthy and battered young man was thrust, protesting profanely, through the hole.
Aerlon bounded onto the roof and began climbing up toward the young man. That fellow skidded a moment on the tiles and then caught himself on the up thrust fractured end of a wooden beam. Spinning about, he caught sight of Aerlon and the guards.
“Up here! He called. “There’s better than two dozen men inside!” Without waiting to see if his order was obeyed, the young man crawled back to the hole and, bracing himself, reached his arm down inside. After a moment, be began hauling up a hefty man in the sea blue colors and light armor of a Mhajhkaeirii marine.
Aerlon scrambled to the hole and helped the young man drag the marine through the hole.
The young man grinned at Aerlon. “Thanks.”
As he had no reason not to, Aerlon grinned back.
In short order, the men trapped in the house, most of them injured and some with severe wounds, were hoisted through the hole and brought down. One of Aerlon’s guards was sent running for a surgeon and other aid as the last man, a hulking giant who looked as if he had been broiled alive, climbed out.
Aerlon drifted back as Lord Ghorn hobbled up to grasp the giant’s hand. Out of the side of his eye, Aerlon noticed the young man who had first come out sidling furtively from the center of the Mhajhkaeirii group.
“Mhiskva!” Lord Ghorn enthused. “We thought you dead!”
“As you can see, my lord,” the giant said, grinning, “I yet live.” The grin dropped. “Did any of the rest of my troop win free?”
Lord Ghorn shook his head somberly. “Only Blagnathr and ten others. They said they were attacked by better than a full troop of the Monks’ legionnaires. They had no idea what had become of you or their comrades.”
For a breath, there was a cold sadness in the eyes of the giant.
“We would have fallen as well, my lord, had it not been for the magery of the Lord Magician.”
The prince cast his eyes about. “Magician? Ah, the sorcerer! Does he yet survive?”
“Aye, my lord, our magician is right . . . Berhl!”
“We’ve got him, captain!” called the first marine Aerlon had helped emerge from the house. He and another marine, each with a firm hold on one of the young man’s arms, urged him before the Mhajhkaeirii prince.
Aerlon’s mild curiosity – and amusement, evidently the youth had not desired to meet the prince – instantly became intense. This was the sorcerer who had single-handedly destroyed three full legions and turned back the Phaelle’n advance?
His appearance was certainly less than impressive. He was hardly grown, not even old enough to meet the score and five years required of any who applied to join the Seacrest Legion. He was covered in sweat and dust and only the Forty-nine Gods knew what else. His clothing was ripped and grimed beyond recognition, but did not appear to have been the attire of a person of rank. He had brown hair, bright blue eyes and a certain set of features that Aerlon associated with the people of the Windless Islands. Beyond that there was little of note, save that his nose looked as if it had been broken recently and poorly set. There was a decided crook to it and his cheeks still bore the yellowish tinge of fading bruises.
And, at the moment, the young man had clenched his face in heavy displeasure.
Lord Ghorn, his thoughts evidently mirroring Aerlon’s disbelief, threw a look in askance at Mhiskva.
The large man grinned. “Aye, my Lord Prince, this is he. I have witnessed his powerful magery on many occasions within the past hours. It was he who flew us here in the house.”
The Mhajhkaeirii prince looked blank for a breath, and then bowed deeply to the young man, one hand firmly gripping his captain’s arm for support.
“Welcome to Mhajhkaei, my lord magician,” he proclaimed sincerely. “I am Lord Ghorn, Prince-Commander of the Defense. You have my personal thanks and that of the entire city for your valiant assistance in our battle with the Phaelle’n Brotherhood!”
The young man’s frown softened somewhat, but did not fully leave his face. “The battle I fight is my own,” he stated flatly. “I’ve cause to make war on the Brotherhood and I attacked them here solely because this is where I
found them.”
Aerlon found himself nodding in agreement. He, too, had cause. The Phaelle’n had brought nothing to Plydyre but tainted coin for pernicious merchants and death for her bravest sons.
“Indeed,” Lord Ghorn replied gravely, “But regardless of motivation you have done Mhajhkaei a great service by bringing your fight to the Phaelle’n here today and our gratitude for that service is without limit.”
The young man’s eyes showed a spark of interest. “You owe me?”
“You have only to speak it, my lord magician, and if it be within my power I will have it done.”
The young man took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well . . . have you got anything to eat?”
END BOOK ONE
The Key to Magic continues in Book Two: Magician.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
Key to Magic 01 Orphan Page 31
