WoP - 01 - War of Powers

by Robert E. Vardeman

  Cluttering sounds came from the three salamanders.

  Their sinuous reptilian shapes flickered this way and that. Synalon clapped her hands three times and gestured at the high-arched window standing open to the dusk. Like three small comets, the elementals leaped from the grill and streaked away.

  Synalon strode to the window. Three lines of light arced high and fell upon a spired building several hundred yards away. A white flash made her blink. When her eyes cleared of the pulsing afterimage, she beheld flame beginning to gleam from windows, like a hundred baleful red eyes opening.

  “Spectacularly done, O Queen in all but name, but perhaps not too wisely.”

  Synalon whirled, her brows arching with fury. Unheard, Prince Rann had entered the room behind her. His spare frame was wrapped in a purple robe trimmed with black fur.

  “As softly as you tread, still you might overstep,” the princess said, her voice like poisoned honey. “Why do you think this wrong, cousin mine?”.

  Rann went to the window. Already flames reached high from the doomed building. The fire’s rushing bellow mingled with the screams of the inhabitants.

  “Such displays serve only to incite the populace. There are better ways to deal with dissent.”

  “Calamanroth dared speak openly against me. Thus do I demonstrate my power, and the fate awaiting those who do not acknowledge my supremacy.” She gazed narrowly down on him. “I’d think you’d find this most diverting.”

  The prince smiled. “Wholesale destruction interests me but little. My pleasures are more intimate.” He gazed from the window. Outside it was as if the sun rose in the north. Over the crackle of the flames an eerie wailing soared: the triumphant ululation of the salamanders. “The fire sprites are fickle beasts, mindless and cruel. Have a care they don’t get out of hand.”

  “I can control them!”

  “One hopes so.” The smile never wavered on Rann’s lips. This game was not as risky as it seemed. Even in her most frenzied rage, Synalon would not lightly toss away a tool as useful as Rann. Barred by gender from the line of succession, his ambition could never grow to threaten her. Both knew it. So, like a court fool, he could speak as he pleased without fear of retribution. And Synalon knew his sense of duty ran deep. For her, he would do anything. “Still, there are better uses for them.”

  “Such as?” Synalon stood back pettishly ignoring the fiery display she had created. Prince Rann’s carping had spoiled the amusement for her.

  “Suryeillance. Given sufficient sprites, our watchers can attune to any fire lit within the confines of the. city. Any business transacted by flamelight, whether of taper, hearth, or furnace, will be revealed to us.”

  Synalon frowned. She felt stirrings of interest at the idea, but was too piqued at her cousin to admit it.

  “Is there any practical application for this folderol?”

  “You may judge for yourself, Princess.” From within his robe he produced a bell. “Here is a captive taken as a result of our fire scrying. Or perhaps I should say captives.”

  He rang the bell. The silver-bound doors of the chamber opened. A squad of bird riders entered, dragging a prisoner with them. They flung the captive forward. She fell to hands and knees with a ringing clatter of heavy chains. She shook back matted hair of gold and raised her head.

  Synalon gasped as she looked upon her sister. She recovered quickly.

  “How sweet of you,” she said, “to come in this sad hour to console me over our dear mother’s death.”

  “Words, words, I’m surfeited by words,” a voice said peevishly. “When does the torture begin? Or barring that, the debauchery?”

  Synalon’s sapphire eyes widened. “What’s this?” she demanded of Rann. “These words that come from thin air. Is it…?”

  “It is.” The prince bowed low. A soldier handed him a stained satchel of the kind carried by Realm-road couriers. “My lady, may I present to you Erimenes the Ethical, late of Athalau.”

  He opened the bag and took forth a plain earthenware pot. “My blessing on you, good sir,” the spirit said. “I was sick nigh unto death of the stench of that gruel leaking all day from Kest-i-Mond’s bowl.”

  Synalon clapped her hands with delight. “You may name your reward this night, Prince Rann,” she said. “In these two you have brought me the means by which I shall restore the lost greatness of the Sky City!”

  “My reward is serving you, my queen.” Rann bowed deeply, his mouth curling into a slight sneer to hide other emotions, which he could never sate.

  She stroked her sister’s cheek. Moriana glared at her. Synalon asked, “Tell me, Rann, how was this deed done?”

  “While I possess no magical powers of my own, others who do were posted to observe. Somehow, your sister made her way undetected into the city. A sprite-watcher noticed her in the household of a traitor. We sent a squad of Guardsmen to fetch her.”

  “Were these traitors long nurtured by her?”

  “I’m sure she was brought to them by someone else whom she contacted on arrival. I fear organized resistance has sprung up already.”

  “No doubt the traitors have been induced to name their cohorts.” The princess returned to the window. The house of Calamanroth slumped into itself and sent livid sparks high into the nighttime sky.

  Prince Rann’s smile turned feral. “I fear not, my lady.” Synalon spun and angrily faced him. “The fool of a captain in charge of the detachment allowed his men to slay all but Moriana. Moreover, he got five men cut up in the capture.”

  “I trust he has been… chastised.”

  “He is chained naked in my aerie, with his belly slit open for Terror to dine upon his entrails,” Rann said. His eyes showed more animation than at any time since entering Synalon’s chamber.

  “You coddle that bird overmuch,” Synalon said sulkily.

  “Oh? And did you not feed your serving maid’s eyes to your own Nightwind when you caught her pilfering your jewels?” He chuckled, a sound like coins falling into a silver cup. “It increases the mettle of a war-eagle to taste man-blood now and then.”

  Moriana had floated in a daze since being clubbed senseless by the bird riders. Seeing her sister and cousin had whipped away the mental fog. She sat up straight and fixed her kin with a gaze of fine contempt.

  “You two have changed little since last I saw you. You’re still wicked children delighting in the torment of small, helpless creatures.” She spat upon the marble floor.

  “Is this the courtesy you show us? We, who are your loving family?” Rann towered above her, hands on slim hips.

  Moriana’s lips curled. “Speak not of loving, half-man.” Rann went dead white. “You knew nothing of what it meant even before the mountain people burned off your manhood.”

  “You said I might name my reward,” Rann said to Synalon, his face a mask of awful rage. “I name it now: give me this slut, that I might pleasure her with death lasting long days.”

  “You shall not have her, Rann. Choose some other token.” A slim hand raised to check his outburst. “Stay. I’ll not argue now. I would speak with our other guest.”

  Synalon sat in an ornate chair carved from a single beryl. Tormented visages looked forth, not wholly human. They seemed compounded subtly of the features of men in anguish and the serpents devouring them. At a languid gesture, a soldier placed a similarly carved stand in front of her, and another set Erimenes’ jug upon it.

  “Welcome to the Sky City, ancient one,” Synalon greeted.

  “You are Princess Synalon? You rule this city?”

  Synalon’s eyes flicked at her sister like a scorpion’s sting. “I am Synalon, yes. As to the question of my rule, my sister would deny it, though I feel she’ll repent her error soon.”

  “Not while I live!” shouted Moriana.

  “My meaning precisely.”

  The golden-haired princess slumped back. The sick certainty of defeat washed over her. My failure will cost me my life, she thought bitterly. But what sh
all it cost my city?

  “Your sister doubtless knows countless secrets regarding those who conspire against you,” Erimenes said. “Why not put her to the torture to wrest the information from her?”

  Synalon looked at the jug. “You surprise me, sage. As I recall, the philosophy you taught in life was utter disavowal of worldly considerations. It’s not easy to reconcile that outlook with your desire to witness torture.”

  “Bright lady, know that on the occasion of my death I foreswore all my foolish theories of abstinence,” Erimenes explained. “I glory in seeing life, raw life, be it in pleasure or in pain. Bring on the whips, the pincers, the red-hot irons! I’ve never watched a rousing torture.”

  “Shall I do as he suggests, Princess?” Rann tongued his lips in anticipation. Seeing that slight action made Moriana wince.

  “No!” Synalon sliced the air with her hand. “I’ve other uses for her, uses requiring that her body remain unsullied by your gentle mercies.”

  Rann’s face paled with anger again. Synalon rose to her feet, glaring down at the prince.

  “Do you think I’m being arbitrary?” she demanded. “Do you think that I wouldn’t like to take blade in hand and peel this bitch’s hide from her cringing body? Yet that is a pleasure I will forego for a greater reward.”

  She strode across the chamber. A breeze stirred the heavy blue and green tapestries that decorated the walls. The murky, somber designs were highlighted by the raging fire across the city. The scent of burning made the wind bitter on Synalon’s tongue.

  “Long have I planned for this moment.” Synalon said. “Long have I dreamed, step by careful step, of the torments with which I’d end my sister’s life. I would cut her and burn her and flay the skin of her face to make a rag for menials to swab the cesspipes. And I would keep her alive, oh, so long, so very long.”

  She stood above Moriana. Her sister stared up at her in untrammeled horror. Smiling, she took Moriana’s face gently in her hands.

  “Yes, she is beautiful, almost as beautiful as I. Despoiling such beauty is a rare privilege, even for one with my power. There were times when I’d have given up my hope for the throne to behold my sister squirming as the flames gnawed on her tender flesh; such is my hate.

  “So do you conceive of what it means to me to forego my vengeance, cousin?” She stood so close that the moon-pale globes of her breasts, scarcely contained by the low-cut velvet gown, touched the prince’s chest Synalon moved closer, her hand brushing quickly, teasingly, over his empty crotch. His jaw set and tawny eyes flickered. The scars shone forth in the intensity of the Prince Rann’s emotion, making it appear that a fine gossamer mesh covered his face.

  Synalon pirouetted away, leaving him trembling from her taunting nearness. She evoked passions in him that could not be sated. Not directly.

  But captives would howl their anguish that night.

  “Take my sister to the dungeon, and let no harm befall her. Otherwise you’ll answer with what remains of your soul, Rann.”

  He clasped hands to breast and bowed.

  At a signal, the Guardsmen pulled Moriana to her feet. She didn’t resist as they marched her from the chamber. Her last sight before the doors slammed shut was of her sister leaning forward on her throne, in eager conversation with the spirit in the jar.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “If you move the blade over a bit farther to the left you can sever the artery,” Fost said, rolling his eyes down to look at the fist holding the dagger to his throat “Is this what passes for friendship in the Sky City?”

  His guide stood before him in the dusk, an enigmatic look in her eyes. “Perhaps so. All depends on your telling the truth—why do you seek the Princess Moriana?”

  “Princess? She’s no princess. She’s a lying, thieving, yellow-haired harlot! She robbed me. I trailed her here.”

  The blade tightened at his throat. He felt a sting as skin parted and a trickle of blood oozed forth.

  “Let me slit his throat, Luranni,” a brusque young male voice growled from behind Fost’s ear. “He’s a foul spy. A creature of Rann’s.”

  Luranni sucked in her breath and heaved a deep sigh. “You’ve said this Moriana is yellow-haired. Is she tall, well built, carrying a straight sword which she can use as well as any man?”

  “By the Holy Ones, yes! She nearly spitted me with that thing last night”

  “That is the princess.”

  / knew her tale was a lie, Fost thought. But a princess!

  “His story’s as thin as one of Synalon’s gowns, Luranni,” the youth who held him said. “Why would our princess rob a lowborn scum like him?”

  “Doubtless she had her reasons,” Luranni said. “What is this property you claim to have lost? Is it valuable?”

  “It…” Post stopped. He couldn’t very well tell the flat truth. A treasure such as Erimenes held the key to would cause a saint to murder his mother. “In truth, I don’t know. I’m a courier. I had a parcel to deliver. She took it. It’s not my business to poke into the items I deliver, but it is my business to make sure I deliver them.”

  The youth with the knife made a skeptical sound. Fost wondered how his attacker would react if he knew the circumstances under which Moriana had gotten the satchel.

  “Look, I know I’ve not shaved today, but I prefer to tend to such details myself. Kindly call off your budding barber.”

  Luranni laughed musically. “Erlund, release him.”

  “Not until we…” Before he’d finished, Fost ran a hand up to grip the knife hand, and jabbed his elbow back into the pit of the young man’s stomach. Erlund doubled over, gagging. The big man spun out, wrenching the arm so that the knife cartwheeled away, to clink against a wall. His boot lashed out. Erlund grunted and collapsed.

  “Erlund should learn to obey orders.” Fost felt his neck, winced and brought away bloodied fingers.

  “Think no ill of him. He’s upset with himself. Just three hours ago he guided the princess to a house we thought safe from her sister’s spies. Not long after, bird riders broke in, slew our folk, and captured Moriana.”

  Fost stared at her. He felt ill. Of all the places he might have had to penetrate to retrieve the philosopher’s shade, by far the worst was the keep of the rulers of the Sky City. It was just like Erimenes. Fost kicked a wall, hurt his toe, and cursed volubly.

  He sensed others approaching. “A bargain,” he said quickly. “I’ll help you rescue your princess, on condition that the parcel be returned to me, unopened and unharmed.”

  “How much help can you offer?” Luranni said skeptically. “You were led easily into our trap.”

  Fost’s laugh made her take a step back. “Led? No, I came of my own free will, eyes open to the danger.”

  “Words!” spat Erlund.

  “You think so? Listen: two of your friends were on our tails before we’d gotten out of sight of the docks. We acquired two more escorts as we passed the warehouse with the broken windows and the woman-breasted gargoyles. A final four drifted out of doorways in our wake as we turned onto this block.”

  The courier turned a malevolent grin on Erlund, who stood slightly stooped, his tow-colored hair dangling in front of eyes that blazed hate.

  “Moreover,” Fost continued, directing his words to Luranni, “your bright young lad’s shoes scuffed cobblestones as he came for me. If I hadn’t wanted to deal with you, I’d have spitted him like a fowl to be roasted for dinner.”

  “That’s a lie!” Erlund struggled to get free of the friends who held him upright.

  Luranni shook her head. “No. He’s right.” A vee of consternation creased her smooth brow as she regarded Fost in the waning light. “Very well, Long-strider. You have your bargain. Follow me. We go to meet my father.”

  The shadowed shapes of Luranni’s comrades faded back into the gloom. Luranni turned to go with them. Realizing Fost was not following, she halted and turned.

  “We must hurry,” she said, fluttering impatient fingers.


  Fost stood where he was, as dark and unmoving as a basalt statue. “I don’t reject your hospitality,” he explained, “but I can’t help thinking of where it got Moriana.”

  One of the youthful conspirators rematerialized from between two buildings close at hand. “No fault of ours,” he said. “That damned bitch-slut Synalon has her sorcerors mentally attuned to a horde of fire elementals. The salamanders can see anything lit by flame, and what they see, Rann and his henchmen see as well.” He showed white teeth in a lupine grin. “That’s one thing we gained from this disaster. Seizing the princess so quickly showed they had some special source of information; her whereabouts were known only to a select few, who would not hope to escape Rann’s mercies no matter whom they betrayed.”

  “The city reeks of fire-magic,” Luranni said. “It took little time for us to realize what our enemies were doing.”

  Fost’s stomach iced over again. He’d known from the beginning he dealt with utter amateurs. It was no comfort to have a demonstration of how skillful his enemies were in contrast.

  “You mean that so much as lighting a taper would give us away to this Rann?”

  Luranni’s mouth opened to reply. Blinding white light abruptly washed the storefronts on the far side of the avenue. Fost, Luranni, and several of her cadre ran into the center of the street.

  To the east, the soaring Palace of the Clouds dominated the skyline. From the palace’s highest tower sprang three lines of flame tipped with incandescence. Fost could feel the stinging, hungry heat beat against his face as the three points of brilliance hung for a moment like new stars in the night sky. They plunged down like meteors, leaving glowing trails. Stone melted before them and wood exploded into fire. Like water thrown up by a falling stone, red flames splashed high into the ebon sky.

  “Such is the vengeance of Synalon,” Luranni said at Fost’s side. Her fingertips were soft and tremulous on his brawny arm. “Such is her power.”