WoP - 01 - War of Powers

by Robert E. Vardeman

  The stricken mansion vomited flame like an erupting volcano. Fost had a vision of lovely Moriana held captive by a power and malice that hurled fire elementals against those who opposed it. The thought brought an upwelling of heat within him to match the dragon’s-breath that washed over his face.

  Cold sobriety quenched the emotional burst. Why waste my concern on her? Fost thought. She robbed me and tried to deny me eternal life. Deep within a voice reminded him that she’d done far more than that He ignored it and let Luranni lead him away.

  The limits imposed by the city’s circumference meant that space was at a premium. Streets tended toward labyrinthine narrowness. Buildings lofted high and slender, so tall they seemed to lean together at their tops to form an arcade of dizzying height. Yet here and there the elaborately graven stone walls fell away, to let a small fountain play gently in a trim garden, or a statue brood in silence. Fost came to understand this was to keep the inhabitants of the city from losing intimate contact with the sky that was their home.

  As they walked, Luranni filled Fost in on recent events in the Sky City. She spoke of the long-standing enmity between the royal twins Synalon and Moriana, of the long illness and abrupt demise of Queen Derora, of Moriana’s absence and disastrous return. Her voice was low music, transforming the lilting accent of the city into a liquid concerto.

  “How did you come to meet our princess?” Luranni asked.

  He craned his neck around, framing his response carefully. The scene was eerie enough to make his distraction convincing. A dancing interplay of shadow and orange hellglare destroyed all perspective. The distorted figures peopling the friezes that clung to the narrow facades seemed to move with a life of their own.

  “We fell in with one another on the road from Samadum,” he said, deciding to heed wisdom learned long ago in the slums of High Medurim. The simplest lie serves best, the wise old thief to whom he’d been apprenticed had said over and over. “She showed interest in a parcel I was to deliver in the Southern Steppes. Perhaps she believed it contained property stolen from her; I don’t know. I do know she drugged me, and when I awoke my sled-dogs trailed her here.”

  “Odd that they were able to,” Luranni said. “Mori-ana is a sorceress, as are all of noble birth in the city. I’d have thought she’d possess tricks to throw your beasts off the scent.”

  “I have a few tricks of my own,” Fost said, smiling down at her.

  A quick pressure on his arm halted him. “Here,” Luranni said. “My home.” She gestured to a wood-fronted building three stories tall, sandwiched between structures high enough to snag passing clouds. The fireshot darkness made it impossible to discern details, but Fost had the impression they’d passed into a more genteel district than that fronting the docks.

  With a trace of a smile on her lips, she lifted a finger and signaled for silence. Taking his arm, she led him up the short flight of steps to the triple-arched door. Courteously, Fost reached a hand out to open it but found it locked. Luranni gestured and it slowly opened before them.

  Inside was blacker than in the street. Fost paused in the door as the girl glided down a short hallway. He expected her to light a candle. She stopped at the foot of a dimly seen stairway and turned back expectantly. He realized there would be no candle within this house while he was there—no fire at all. All flames were Synalon’s eyes within the city.

  She took his hand and led him up the stairs. Behind them he heard the door swing softly shut. The hairs at the back of his neck lifted slightly. This wasn’t called the City of Sorcery for nothing.

  His toe slammed into a projection at the second-floor landing. Luranni smiled at his curses. He could see her face in the starlight filtering in through window slits.

  She led him to a doorway masked by a bead curtain. She swept it aside and nodded for him to enter. Ducking his head, he entered the chamber. He discovered painfully that he couldn’t stand upright. The ceiling was meant to clear the heads of the locals, not someone of his large stature.

  The curtain fell back with a tinkle like tiny chimes. Luranni walked by Fost and plucked something off a shelf, untroubled by the darkness.

  “Well,” Fost said. “When does your father arrive?”

  Luranni laughed. “Do you seriously think High Councillor Uriath would welcome being dragged from his dinner to speak with some ragged groundling?” Mention of dinner brought a growl from Fost’s stomach. “We will see him in the morning. Sit and I’ll bring food.”

  “I’ll be forever in your debt.”

  He found a fat, silky cushion against a wall and lowered himself onto it. Relaxing, he began to battle drowsiness. He’d had a long and tiring day, and not much sleep the night before.

  Luranni returned from another room with food and a jug of wine. She pulled up another cushion and sat facing him, the food between them. In one hand she held the object she’d taken from the shelf. She raised it and shook it briskly.

  Light flooded the room. Fost froze with a morsel of spiced meat halfway to his open mouth. His blood cried betrayal! and his pulse hammered in his temples.

  Luranni set the lamp down and clapped her hands delightedly. “Oh, but you looked so astonished when the lightfool came on!” she sang.

  “You’ll look more astonished when five dozen bird riders drop in through the skylight.”

  “There’s no fire here.” Luranni’s eyes were alive with mirth. “Creatures so minute they cannot be seen individually reside within. When they are disturbed, their bodies give off light, but no heat.” She tapped the clear glass figurine with a fingernail. Waves of greater brightness rippled through it. “They’re North Cape magic, common toys here in the city.” She shook her hair as she filled a bronze goblet with wine. “I never thought my little fool would prove so useful.”

  Chewing on a savory strip of meat, Fost leaned closer to examine the lamp. It had been blown in the shape of a jester at the court of High Medurim, hang-bellied and great-eared, naked but for a breechclout. Cool radiance pulsed from it. Far from being dazzling in its brilliance as he’d thought when its light first shone, the glow was soft and calming to his twisted nerves.

  He sat back. Having taken a bite of food, he was overcome with a hunger so great that he felt a mad desire to stuff handfuls of the sweet, hot meat and little pastries into his mouth.

  “Tell me of the Sky City,” he said, hoping to eat his fill while she spoke.

  Luranni gazed a moment into the fool’s glow, sipping wine. “Very well,” she said. “Your height is great, your bones massive. You are northern-born, aren’t you?”

  Fost nodded as he gulped down a mouthful of pastry. “I was born in the Teeming, the slum district of High Medurim itself.”

  Luranni was still. She rocked back and forth, long, graceful legs tucked under her, eyes gazing into the light. Just as Fost began to wonder if she were entranced, she spoke again. “Twelve thousand years ago men came to this land. Your ancestors came from the cold mountains and forests of the Northern Continent; they founded the city-states that later grew into empire. From the Islands of the Sun came my own folk, to make landfall in the southeastern corner of the continent. The Realm was sparsely inhabited. Beings lived here, manlike and yet not men; warm-blooded and shaped like us, but with the scales of reptiles. Their women nursed their young at the pap, but the young were hatched from eggs. Zr’gsz they called themselves, the People. Men named them Vridzish, the Hissing Ones, after their manner of speech. At first there was amity. The People were an ancient race and barely noticed the newcomers.”

  She paused and moistened her throat from the goblet. Fost found his eyes slipping from her face and moving down the graceful curve of her throat to the shadowed valley between her breasts. Her breasts were not large, but the slice of each, visible where her tunic had come loose, looked tender and inviting. With his hunger beginning to be sated, Fost felt a new appetite asserting itself. He bid his manhood be still and forced his eyes up to hers.

  “High Medurim w
as built by the Northbloods, Athalau by the People of the Sun. Inevitably their domains spread. Cities rose in what is now the Quincunx: Wirix on its island in Lake Wir, Thailot at the head of the pass connecting the lands east of the Thail Mountains with Deepwater on the western shore. From Athalau were settled Kara-Est, at the head of the Gulf of Veluz, and Brev, which lay on the trade route between Athalau and Deepwater. Later, Medurim and Athalau joined to build Bilsinx, the central city of the Quincunx, to protect the strategic junction of routes from north to south and east to west.

  “The Hissing Ones grew uneasy. They had little use for the surface, save for their skystone mines in the lava beds of Mount Omizantrim, from which they built their skyrafts and the very city itself, launched twenty thousand years before. Most were content to dwell here, depending on trade with the groundli—uh, the surface folk, for food. But they came to fear that Man would try to topple them from their city. The city was not confined to the Quincunx then, but traveled where its owners wished. Whoever controlled the city ultimately controlled the Realm. This was a balmy land in those days, and humankind is covetous. It would not long permit ownership to remain in other hands.”

  “Wait,” Fost protested. “You said this land was balmy, and before that you said the Northern Continent was cold. Living this far south you might think that, but traders plying northward from High Medurim take only light garb with them and need extra stocks of water due to the heat. And where we sit this instant, we’re not two hundred miles from the Rampart Mountains, and south of them lie ice fields. You’ve been sadly mislead, Luranni.”

  “I said this is how things were, outlander. Haven’t you heard of the War of Powers?”

  “Vaguely.” Fost shrugged and drank some wine. “Mere legends, no more.”

  “Oh? Untrue. Listen: the sorceries of the Hissers were great, beyond even those of Athalau. The People held captive a demon, black Istu, against whom neither might nor magic could avail. They decided to cleanse the Realm of humanity. For a hundred years they systematically slaughtered, laying waste the Quincunx cities and whipping the armies of High Medurim off the battle field like curs to the kennel.” Fost scowled at this description of his forebears but did not interrupt. “Their skyborne armies usually overwhelmed, but when they didn’t, the Demon of the Dark Ones strode forth across the land. The earth itself groaned beneath their might.

  “At last only Athalau remained unconquered. All of humankind that survived north of the Ramparts was a few thousand pitiful refugees, too weak to threaten the People. Athalar wisdom was great enough that even with Istu’s aid the Hissing Ones didn’t wish to go against the folk of that city until they were completely isolated. That time came at last.

  “Even then, the Athalar had come to be more of the other world than of this one. One alone in that city, Felarod the Mystic, preached the call to arms against the People. The Athalar did not heed him, scorning him for his materialistic concerns. A few listened, though, and began to work secretly with him.

  “In Athalau lived five prophets who had dwelt among men since long before the colonization of the Realm, and who were sacred to the Wise Ones of Agift. These five went to the Sky City to intercede for Athalau. The Hissing Folk laughed and sacrificed them to Istu, after inflicting terrible tortures.”

  “The Five Holy Ones,” Fost said in surprise.

  “Just so. The Three and Twenty Wise Ones gave their blessing to Felarod, which enabled him to open the Gate of the Earth-Spirit The very planet had been outraged by the tread of the star-born demon; its power surged, channeled by Felarod and his hundred acolytes.

  “The conflict was fierce beyond imagining. A star fell from the sky and blasted a great crater in the Southern Steppes; in the west the great island of Irbalt sank beneath the sea; the very planet tipped on its axis, bringing the Realm almost to the South Pole, and the Northern Continent into the tropics. At last the People were overcome. Nine out of ten died, as did ninety of the Hundred. As great as was the power he guided, Felarod couldn’t destroy or banish Istu. He did manage to trap the demon within the foundations of the city, with wards that would last an eternity. All but dead, he summoned up the Ullapag from the guts of Mount Omizantrim to guard the skystone beds and to keep the surviving People away from this last resource of their strength. Then he gave himself back to the Earth-Spirit.”

  Luranni sighed. Though the evening was cool, sweat beaded her brow. “Little of the tale remains. The People sued for peace. They renounced all claim to the surface world and restricted the path of the city to the Great Quincunx. The survivors of Felarod’s Hundred, appalled at the destruction they’d wreaked, exiled themselves. Later, Athalar came to dwell in the Sky City. Eventually they became strong enough to banish the People and claim the city for themselves.” She sat back, drawing into herself. She had chanted the tale like a priestess reciting a litany. Now that it was done, she seemed as spent as if she’d performed some complex and demanding ritual. “Beyond that, our story is of rise to glory and eventual decline. I imagine it’s as depressing to me as the story of High Medurim’s fall from mastery of the Realm to nominal lordship over a handful of squabbling city-states must be to you.”

  Fost shrugged. The past glories of High Medurim meant nothing to him; they were too far past, and the gilded and hollow empire was now too plainly a joke. He poured himself more wine and refilled Luranni’s cup. All the while, his eyes kept drifting toward the floor.

  “Is it true a demon lives beneath our very feet?” he asked at last.

  The girl nodded solemnly. “In earlier times, the rulers could partially awaken it and tap some of its strength, though they couldn’t free it, even if they had been fools enough to try. The Rite of Dark Assumption was performed at the accession of each new ruler. It involved the sacrifices of one of the royal blood to Istu.”

  For a moment, Fost had trouble swallowing his wine. “Do they still do that?” The fear in him did not spring solely from self-interest.

  Moriana…

  “No. Not since the Etuul dynasty came to power five thousand years ago. Derora was of that lineage, as is Moriana—and Synalon as well, though you’d hardly know it.”

  Vague worries still gnawed at Fost’s brain. He realized Luranni was leaning forward, her tunic opened farther, her red lips parted. Her eyes turned to glowing moons.

  The fears evaporated, and with them all thoughts of the thieving princess. Fost touched Luranni’s cheek. She kissed the rough, scarred fingers, never taking her luminous eyes from his face. The faint, exotic aroma he’d noticed on entering the apartment thickened, became a heady musk, intoxicating and arousing. He recalled her saying that all nobles of the Sky City possessed some sorcerous power, and as a High Councillor, whatever that was, her father was undoubtedly of exalted birth. The great-eyed girl had worked some enchantment on him. The musk grew stronger, caressing his palate with a taste of cinnamon. He recalled a similar taste in the wine. Then he pushed such things from his mind; he took Luranni into his arms.

  Her mouth opened. His covered it eagerly. Her tongue danced over the very tip of his. She pressed his hand to her breast. Warm flesh yielded to his touch. Her nipple throbbed its urgent need against his palm.

  Their tongues flowed together. His hands, at once rough and gentle, tugged open her tunic with a snap! of the lacings. Her own fingers deftly undid the front of his garment, and stroked coolly across his hirsute chest.

  His mouth left hers. Her lips glistened moistly in the heatless light. He nibbled down the line of her jaw. His hands kneaded the pliant softness of her breasts as he felt the lustful hammering of her pulse beneath.

  His lips brushed down the curve of-her throat. There was tension in the fingers that peeled Fost’s tunic away, tension and need. The courier kissed the soft, pale ripeness of her left breast A quiet, “Oh!” broke from the girl’s gleaming lips.

  Fost worked the succulent melon with his lips as ravenously as he’d devoured the bread and meat the woman had set before him earlier. Her
scent was like the scent of the wine, strong and sweet. Her ivory teeth pinned her lower Up as she sucked in her breath in passionate response. One slim hand trapped the courier’s head against her small, firm breast. The other caressed the cabled muscles of his back.

  Questing fingers found a long transverse wound.

  Luranni felt Fost stiffen. “You’ve been wounded,” she murmured. She pushed him away reluctantly.

  At the girl’s silent urging, Fost hoisted himself into a sitting position. Naked from the waist up, Luranni went to a low table, picked up a silver jar and from it began to apply a stinging cream to the swordcut.

  Gradually the fire died, and with it the last of the residual ache that had not left Fost’s back since the bird rider’s blade had laid it open.

  “Thanks,” he said, unable to keep a note of grumpiness out of his voice. “But I can think of other, better things you can do to heal me.”

  “You flatter me, Longstrider,” she said. “But he back down and I’ll do what I can.”

  Fost obeyed. The cream had dried on contact with his skin. The silky covering of the pillow soothed him further. He vented a throaty sigh of contentment.

  Like a vision she appeared before him. She was nude, her lithe limbs shining as though oiled. Dark aureoles covered her breast-tips like palms, and the nipples jutted proudly erect. The fur beneath her flat belly was fine and brown. In the tangled ringlets between her thighs, a drop of moisture threw back the fool’s-light like the facets of a reflecting diamond.

  Fost’s sigh became a growl of lust. He started to lunge for her, his hand reaching outward.

  “No, no,” she laughed, tossing back her straight hair. “Rest. I shall do what is necessary.” With strong, insistent hands she pushed him back down.

  Without seeming to move quickly, she had the big man’s trousers and rough undergarment off in an instant. His manhood swung upright like a flagpole. Luranni’s eyes and mouth smiled in appreciation of what she’d found.