Caller of Lightning

by Eytan Kollin

  Thunder boomed in the sky and bricks flew at Jane.

  Loxley spun himself around, his back to the Countess, and held his wife. The spears of detritus from the collapsed building smashed into him, and he stumbled to the side, falling to his hands and knees.

  Jane took a trick from the Countess and began quickly flicking her fingers over the flame of the candle. Tiny lights flew off the candle, dancing delicately through the air until they floated about the countess. Like a swarm of fireflies, the lights flickered merrily about her as she attempted to swat them out of the air.

  Across the lawn, on the other side of the fights, lightning met fire. Franklin glowered at Thomas. “Months ago you promised me a quick death, Thomas Penn,” he said in a voice that radiated power and fury. “But on the lives of all those you have murdered, I promise you,” his face took on a savage gleam. It was all an act. His eyes tracked the shadows behind Thomas as he taunted, “Yours will be slow!”

  Thomas laughed, the fire around his body swirling. “You’re hardly strong enough to imp—” He was silenced by Mouser pouncing on him, bowling him to the ground, and sinking his teeth into the proprietor’s shoulder.

  King George watched the two sides probing, testing each other. He could feel the Bell’s power resonating with his star metal and the comet overhead. Soon there would be enough power to allow him to finish casting the spell that would bring the comet to Earth, ensuring his reign would be an eternal one, and that all those left on the Earth would bow to him and his penultimate magic.

  For three months he had devoted hours every day to casting this ritual, nudging the comet closer and closer as it rounded the sun and sped back toward the Earth. Finally, he was inches from his goal. The battlefield well engaged, he focused on concentrating his own power in preparation. One by one he called each of the Hanover gods to him, wrapping them about his own essence. Most those Myrddin taught used the word and gesture to focus their power, but the King held a secondary, stronger, tradition which he and the Countess, his mistress from home in Hanover, had learned from the lore of the land.

  There was an African walking calmly through the battle, slicing his own magic into the resonating power around the Bell. The gods recognized one of their own. He was different, though. It wasn’t a cloak of power, like George’s, but rather an aspect of the man, like the glint of an uncut diamond with pure potential hidden under the surface.

  George jerked in shock as a giant cat came out of nowhere and pounced on Thomas, then swatted him like he was a rodent. It batted at him a couple of times, until Thomas hurled both palms’ worth of fire into the cat. It darted to the side, yowling in pain. Thomas rose shakily to his knees, gently touching the four slices across his cheek and dabbing at the blood running freely from them. His left shoulder was mauled.

  As George finished gathering a cloak of the gods about himself, he reached to the sky and pulled. Burning through the sky, the comet shifted further, answering his call. While doing this, he was bound, unable to participate in the battle. He had to trust, which came hard to him, in others’ capabilities.

  The colonial, Franklin, had realized that Thomas had only a few moves that he usually repeated in a predictable series. He held his hands in front of him as if holding a ball, shouting phrases in Latin as he filled the space around Penn with lightning. It was like there was a giant chandelier glass ball around the man, filled with churning and frothing electric fire.

  Thomas was incredibly strong, but rigid and unable to adapt. Very much the opposite of his courtly persona. George smiled and thought, This is going to be good; he will be weakened.

  Thomas floated toward the King, screaming and writhing at the center of the ball of lightning. Franklin grunted and fell to a knee, struggling to hold the spell. The little English wench put her hands on his shoulders and George could feel the power surging from her into Ben. How she was able to amplify Ben while also protecting the rest of her flock of combatants with defensive magic was astounding. George, Thomas, and the Countess were Merlin’s chosen. These peasants should not be able to stand against them.

  Across the lawn, behind George the Second, the swarm of fireflies around the Countess Yarmouth attacked. One by one, with no warning, they bit into her flesh with tiny puffs of light, then vanished. She stumbled back as each one hit her, a thousand points of pain. She stumbled backward into an alley, tripping backwards as the lights attacked.

  Trapped and clearly exhausting his reserve, Thomas’s hands were at his throat trying to coax whatever bit of air he could into his lungs and failing badly. He looked beseechingly at King George. The King shook his head. It was stupid to do this, but . . . he paused, holding the spell in place with his will, and with just a sliver of his attention he gestured quickly and snapped his fingers. In a bright flash, the ball lightning lost its cohesive force, and Thomas Penn dropped at the feet of his monarch and master.

  Whatever was happening with Amalie Sophie appeared to be over. The colonist woman collapsed beside her injured husband, gaunt and exhausted.

  The master spell wobbled, and in his mind he could hear a crack, a tiny fissure, form in the body of the comet. Gritting his teeth, he focused, catching the rhythm of the spell again. He needed to get to the Bell: the metal he wore just wasn’t enough.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Penn managed to croak.

  “Why are we becoming disappointed in you, Thomas?” the King asked in a dangerously languid tone of voice.

  “He is far more powerful than he should be, Your Majesty,” cried Thomas.

  “Or you are far weaker,” the King said with contempt. He stared at the claw marks and realized one had punctured the side of Thomas’s throat. He was a dead man and simply didn’t realize it yet. “There is no room for weakness in my court.” His decision was made for him, then. George released his hold on the spell, only focusing enough to keep the tether there. He had maybe a minute, two at the most, to reestablish his will over it before the comet would break apart under the strain of falling from the heavens.

  “Help me, please, Your Majesty. Together we can dispatch him easily, and then I can help you cast the final spell. Tyr, gehen sie.” The King swept his hand like a conductor guiding a symphony and a concussive wave caught Ben and Polly—stunning the two as they were bowled backwards.

  “We no longer need your help, Thomas. The power that is building within that Bell is more than enough to bring the comet to the earth.” King George took two quick steps forward and reached out to the kneeling Thomas, placing a hand on his vassal’s shoulder. A serene expression crossed Penn’s features . . . until George dug a finger into the puncture in Thomas’s neck.

  Penn screamed, and in the moment that all his inner walls were down, burnt to dust by white hot, searing pain, George clamped a hand around Thomas’s chin and absorbed Thomas Penn’s life force. He indifferently watched the proprietor of Pennsylvania crumble to dust. His experience thus far with life force had been one of trickles, a tiny stream slowly strengthening him. This, the essence of another mage, was like a dam burst, and what came crashing through turned out to be pure brandy of the highest alcohol content.

  George threw back his head and roared in challenge against the comet above.

  The Countess staggered around the corner of the alley. Drenched in sweat, she was breathing like a bellows. Blood flowed freely from deeper wounds than before. She visibly held the side of the building to keep her feet. Strength seemed to flow into her as her eyes burned with renewed fury, but her body did not answer in kind. George made a tiny flicking motion, diverting the smallest portion of essence flowing through him into renewing her power.

  The glow that had been absent slowly returned and increased as she stood away from the wall on newly steady feet. “Schatz,” she said in an oddly delicate voice. “I would ask for a star metal artifact. I am facing stronger opposition than I anticipated.”

  George the Second looked at his lover sadly. “We decline your request. I have forti
fied you, and this is enough. If you are unable to defeat this commoner, then so be it. If you survive, you will have proved yourself worthy of eternity.”

  “My King,” cried the Countess gasping, her breathing labored, blood beginning to run from her nose. “She’s a vile Englischer Bauer.”

  “Prove to me that I chose wisely in you, that you deserve to stand by my side.” His gaze was cold, indifferent. “We are monarchs. Act like it.”

  “As you command, my Liege.” Tears of anger ran down her face, but she stood regally in her shredded dress, ignoring the myriad bruises and bleeding cuts covering her body.

  The King turned and headed toward the Bell in front of the Pennsylvania Assembly Hall.

  The heavens roared and thundered as King George the Second approached the Bell on the lawn. Behind him Shango darted, and as the African god struck the final lightning rod—completing his circuit of them—he turned and strode toward George. A poorly dressed young woman, obviously from the Colonies, ran between the crackling lightning rods, doing something inconsequential. George didn’t care; his focus was on the Bell.

  Sophie Amalie began snapping with both hands, throwing invisible force at the African. His axe was a blur in the air, catching the blows and deflecting them in showers of sparks. But it was enough to slow him.

  The overpowering smell of ozone filled the air, and George smiled. It was an appropriate setting for a transformation from a man to a god. As he approached, the wind roared, and the cover was ripped off the Bell and flung far out of sight. The Bell was glowing with all the power of the comet: all the power George had been directing into it as he drew the comet closer.

  The King took out the scroll his family had spent generations and countless lives creating. It left his hand and began unrolling itself before his eyes. The artifacts he had acquired floated off his body and began to orbit about him as his spell grew in power. He looked up to the heavens and raised his hand and a burst of dark energy shot from his body skyward, following the thread of power he had left in place. He felt it envelop Halley’s comet, and then draw it down. No longer was he trying to spin it, like a trick shot in billiards, to come close; instead he yanked, forcing it to come to him. The comet’s impact would be the greatest single act of magical destruction the world had ever witnessed. Countless millions would die and even more would suffer as the magic crashed in a wave of transformation from pole to pole. This hemisphere would receive most of the physical damage from the impact of the comet. All life but his would be extinguished here, flowing into him as raw power . . . and across the globe, half of everyone would survive. The subjects of his new immortal empire.

  He felt the distraction before it happened. The girl to the side quietly, stealthily, attempted to throw lightning at him. He casually waved a hand, sending a wave of force and fire at her strong enough to crush a wagon. The cat roared a challenge and sprang, knocking the girl aside and catching the attack as a glancing blow itself. It tumbled away, fur on fire, instantly quieted.

  “NO!” the girl screamed and ran to her animal.

  All that stood between him and immortality was a quiet English gentleman, crouching silently, smiling as he patted Mieko’s belly.

  He felt the energy he had stolen begin to falter. He tilted his head to the side. The artifacts he had, though potent, would not be enough. No matter. He raised his right arm and grasped toward the Bell, to bring the might and magic of the Bell into his service. He was shocked to discover that it would not come to him. His eyes snapped open.

  The man put his hands in his pockets, leaning against the Bell. “Your Majesty.” He ducked his head.

  “What have you done?” George demanded. No mortal should be able to stand before him right now.

  “I’ve done nothing but ask God to help me show you peace. To help me show you silence.”

  He threw a bolt of power at the man and it dissipated in the air like butter melting in hot water.

  He strode forward and backhanded the man, wiping the smile from his face. The power of the Bell surged into him briefly. As the man stumbled to the side, he managed to catch his balance and once more regain the calmness. George felt the Bell cut off again. He turned and grabbed the man by his shirt, smashing an armor-clad fist into the man’s face repeatedly until his form was limp in his hand. He dropped the man and once more reached for the power.

  The Bell sat on its stand before the King as all nature screamed in protest at what he was attempting. Slowly it rose, and its glow increased. The King dared not approach, dared not do anything but maintain his spell lest it bring disaster to him. If he didn’t complete it, he would not have the strength to begin again and, in fact, the exertion, if the spell were not successful, would probably kill him.

  As the Bell rose to over the height of a man, the King saw a man had been under the Bell. It was Benjamin Franklin. The electrical energy suffused him with the brilliance of a thousand suns. The waves of electricity flowed from the man to the bell to the lightning rods and back again.

  “We have already cast our spell, Benjamin Franklin. You cannot stop us!”

  Ben stood quietly at the center of the maelstrom, ignoring the King’s rant, controlling the currents raging around him. It was Sally Franklin that tipped the scales. “You shouldn’t have hurt my cat.” She said it quietly, then followed it with a phrase in Latin spoken through clenched teeth “Creui.” The teenager screamed in guttural fury, wordless now, as she punched upward then brought her fist smashing into the ground. The world responded to her anger as bolt after bolt of lightning rained down from the heavens.

  Ben raised his hand to call all the might and fury of nature his daughter called down, amplified by the electricity they had built up with his electrostatic machine. The wrath of nature and the heavens was unleashed, and struck the King full force. Electricity and fire washed across the George, lighting up his armor like a thousand chandeliers. Everyone had to throw arms across their eyes or risk blindness.

  “Exonero,” Ben commanded, and the electricity from the Bell flowed into the electro-mage. From Ben a burst of pure white energy the exact proportion of the man flashed to and hit the King again and again. The flow lasted for seconds that folded on themselves into minutes and hours. Cutting out as quickly as it had started, a sudden silence filled the air. Everyone conscious was blinded by the light and deafened by a persistent ringing in their ears.

  Ben, too weak to move, fell to his knees, spent, and the Bell hovered behind him for a moment, then fell with a massive clang.

  As vision and hearing returned, they were greeted by the same sight: the King stood there, panting, hands on his knees. His armor glowed. “Sorry,” he looked up, “not good enough.”

  George reached forward and grabbed the exhausted Ben. Franklin felt the world slip away as George consumed his essence.

  The Sundering

  42

  Why Not You

  “Hello, Mr. Franklin.” The dead man he had known as Gasparini, and Overton, and Myrddin Emræs stood before Ben, the swirling fog wrapped around him like old Greek clothing. To Ben’s eyes, the edges of Myrddin’s form wavered and seemed something less than substantial.

  “You!” Ben looked away, trying to see something past the miasma that stretched in all directions. “Where are we? Why aren’t you helping?”

  “We are . . . between, Mr. Franklin. This nothingness is the veil that separates the worlds of the living and the dead. Should George the Second of Hanover succeed, half those now alive will become the sacrifice he needs. They will step through this place into death, and he will live forever. You must stop him.”

  “Why me? Why not you?”

  Myrddin shrugged. “He already killed me.”

  “Then how can I beat him? If I’m between, as you say, then I must already be dying myself.” Ben was frustrated with all of this.

  “You are here because he has called the veil to the Earth, making it accessible to those who have sufficient power . . .�
��or had, in my case. Though yes, you are dying. Whether that continues to be the case is up to you.”

  Ben’s eyes widened with understanding. “I can cross in both directions because of what he is doing with the comet.”

  “Just so.”

  “But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s already beaten me.” Ben’s shoulders slumped. “The man is too experienced. Too strong. I cannot prevail. I thought I could, but I was wrong.”

  “When I first sought to incapacitate you, even with all your strength you fell like wheat before a scythe. The second time I tried, you may remember, went rather differently. Because you learned. You grew. Learn more from me. Think back upon the things you have seen others do. Make their power your own. And above all, do not attack the King head on, Mr. Franklin.” Myrddin reached out and pressed the tip of an ethereal forefinger to Ben’s chest. He could see this contact, but felt nothing. “Attack the magic at its source. Borrow the strength your friends are willing to lend and use the knowledge I have given. Attack the magic, not the man.”

  Ben nodded mutely, and suddenly found himself alone.

  All right, then. He closed his eyes to shut out the fog and fought his way back through the veil to his living body.

  Ben lay on his back where he had fallen. Far above he saw a brilliant flash of light, and a few seconds later he felt a shockwave pass over him. He could feel . . . everything. The magic, the pulse of the battle, all the land around him, and even the comet that crowded the stars out of the sky had grown so large. Splaying his fingers wide, he let all the energy pour into him. “Et ego recipiam vos,” he whispered.