A Magic of Nightfall nc-2

by S L Farrell

  Before his deep enchantment of the Easterner, Niente could have ridden all day with anyone. Now, the pounding of the horse’s hooves on the ground struck Niente’s body like hammer blows. It was all he could do to cling to the back of the animal with trembling knees. Zolin rode to the center of the front-line Tehuantin forces, where the eagle flag had been planted in the middle of the winding road leading down to the western gate of Munereo. There, the hand of siege dragons waited. Zolin, from his horse, patted the massive carved and painted head of one of the dragons. “The gods have promised us victory today!” he called out to those around him. He pointed downhill to the waiting city. Their warrior-marked faces were turned up to him, and they cheered. Niente had to admit that Zolin had charisma that Tecuhtli Necalli had lacked: the eagerness on the face of the warriors said that they would follow him even into the depths of one of the smoking mountains. “Tonight, we will feast where the Easterners dined, and we will take their wealth and the survivors back to our own cities, and this land will be returned to our cousins who once held it!”

  They cheered again, louder than before. Zolin roared with laughter and patted the siege dragon again. “It’s time!” he shouted. “This day, you will find victory or you will find peace with the gods!”

  He gestured, and the battle-horns blared the call-to-advance. The lines shivered and began to surge forward, and Tecuhtli Zolin-unlike Necalli, Niente again had to admit-rode at the very front, his head bare so that anyone could see the eagle on his skull. The advance started slowly, the soldiers moving forward at a walking pace. As they continued down the slope, the walls of Munereo seemed to climb, growing ever taller as they approached until they were in their long shadow. The siege dragons, mounted on their carts, squeaked and groaned as they started down the roadway, protesting as the men pushed them down the slope toward the walls and the great, barred gates. Zolin paused, and Niente with him: there was movement on the walls, and suddenly a storm of arrows dimmed the sun, arcing high in the air followed momentarily by the thwack of a thousand bowstrings. “Shields!” Zolin yelled, and the warriors around them lifted their wooden shields, placing them together into a temporary roof, several of them lifting theirs high so as to shield both Zolin and Niente on their horses. The arrows rained furiously down, feathering the painted, leather-strapped planks, some of them slipping between to catch an unlucky warrior, but most thudding harmlessly into wood. “Down!” Zolin called, and the shield wall fell, the soldiers hacking at the shafts with their swords. Broken arrows littered the ground.

  Now the advance quickened. Niente held his spell-staff high-he knew what must come next. “Nahualli!” he called. “Be ready!” He could already hear the distant chanting, and he felt the shifting energy of the X’in Ka as the Holdings war-teni released their own enchantments. Fireballs sputtered over the walls of Munereo, shrieking toward them in lines marked by smoke. Niente shook his spell-staff at the nearest fireball and spoke the release word: the fireball erupted while still above and before them, the fire hissing as it died with glowing sparks falling around them. Another fireball crashed untouched into the Tehuantin forces to Niente’s right, and even at a distance the heat and concussion of the explosion were frightening. Where the fireballs landed, hardened warriors screamed as they died. The fireballs cut gouges in the advancing line but they filled quickly with warriors from the rear ranks. Zolin urged the line forward at a trot, the siege dragons seeming to scream as their wooden wheels lurched and bounced over the broken ground.

  “Push!” Niente roared at those around the siege dragons. “Move!” Now the battle fire had finally caught him up, and Niente no longer felt prematurely old. His blood boiled and the wind sang in his ears. The hand of siege dragons were picking up speed, starting to move downhill on their own. The warriors around them no longer needed to push them; they had their own energy now, already beyond the front lines of the army. Arrows fell again and again and the shield roof snapped up each time in response, but Niente barely noticed. He watched the siege dragons, flying across the packed ground of the road now, painted jaws wide as they rushed toward the gates. Fireballs arced out, and again Niente and the other nahualli sent their spells to counter them. He could hear Zolin shouting, screaming orders at the men.

  The siege dragons flew, their handlers far behind them and shouting as the carts trundled forward on their own. Three struck the base of the city walls on either side of the gates, two the gates themselves.

  The dragon heads had been packed with black sand-more of it than Niente and the other nahualli had ever prepared before. Spell-sticks had been placed on the snouted heads to respond with fire to the impact. Niente saw the burst of flame from the sticks, then…

  There was a roar as if one of the mountains of fire of Niente’s home had erupted, deafening, and with it a flash of pure light that brought Niente’s hand up to his eyes belatedly. Stones the size of horses were flying through the air, some of them crushing the nearest Tehuantin, but there were louder screams from within Munereo. Smoke swirled around the scene, making it impossible to see, but as it slowly cleared, a wordless shout arose from the Tehuantin forces.

  The gates had been breached. Where they had been, there was only a gaping hole, and the thick supporting walls around them had collapsed. Even as they watched, a portion of the parapets collapsed on the right, spilling defenders fifty feet to the ground. “Forward!” Zolin was shouting. “Forward!”-and the Tehuantin army surged forward as one toward the city, heedless of the arrows or the fire of the war-teni. Niente found himself charging with them, his own throat raw with screams of exultation, his staff ready.

  The Tehuantin poured through the broken walls of Munereo.

  In the streets of the city, the battle had been pitched, vicious, and chaotic. As soon as the Tehuantin army entered the city, the native population had risen in concert, arming themselves with anything at hand to kill and loot with glee the people who had forced them into servitude. The Easterner defenders of Munereo found themselves assailed from both the front and behind.

  Realizing that the day had been lost, the remnants of the Holdings force had tried to retreat to their ships in the bay, but Zolin had brought Tehuantin warships to the mouth of the bay, each with a nahualli aboard, and they sent spell-fire to burn the sails and masts of the Holdings ships; none escaped the inner harbor of Munereo Bay.

  It was said afterward that one could walk from the wrecks of the Holdings ships to the shore on the bodies of the dead, and that the entire bay turned red for a week afterward from the blood washed into it from the ruins of Munereo.

  The Tehuantin had found Commandant ca’Sibelli cowering aboard the flagship of the fleet and brought him back to the smoking ruins of the city. Tecuhtli Zolin had the man dragged into the main temple of Munereo and lashed to the altar there, and Niente himself prepared an eagle claw for the man, filling the curved bone tube with black sand. He spoke the enchantment as he worked: all it would need was a turn of the ivory horn and a press of the trigger in the wooden handle to strike the flint and set off the black powder. He took the eagle claw with him when he accompanied Tecuhtli Zolin to the temple. The temple was crowded with both High Warriors and nahualli; Niente saw both Citlali and Mazatl there, seated at the front. All of them were spattered with blood, most of which was not their own. Zolin stood over ca’Sibelli, naked to the waist and strapped on the altar. The gray-haired man looked terrified at the sight of the Tecuhtli; he moaned. “I’ve surrendered the city to you,” the man said in the Easterner language. “The Regent and the Council of Ca’ will pay my ransom, whatever you ask-”

  “Be silent,” Niente told him in the same language. “Now is the time to pray to your god, if you must.”

  “What does he say?” Zolin asked Niente, and Niente told him. Zolin roared with laughter. “Is this how the Easterners play at war?” he asked. “They buy and sell their captives? Are their gods that weak? No wonder they ran before us.” Zolin gestured at the man with contempt. “They’re bar
ely worth the sacrifice. Sakal and Axat must get little nourishment from them.”

  “What is he saying?” ca’Sibelli said, lifting his head up and straining against the ropes that held him. “Tell him I know where the treasury is. There’s gold, lots of it.”

  Niente took the eagle claw from its pouch. Ca’Sibelli went silent, looking at it. He licked cracked, bloodied lips. “What… what is that?”

  “It is your death,” Niente told him. “Sakal and Axat demand your presence as the leader.”

  “No!” the man shouted. Saliva frothed around his mouth. “You can’t do this. I’m your prisoner, your hostage. Ask for ransom-”

  Niente leaned close to the writhing man. He could feel the man’s terror, and he made his voice as gentle as he could. “This will end the killing here in your city. Your death pays for the death of all your soldiers that we have captured, and they will be spared. If you are brave, Commandant, if you show Axat and Sakal that you’re worthy, they will take you to Themselves and you will live forever in Them. Forever. It is a gift we give you here. A gift.”

  The man gaped, disbelieving, but the chant of sacrifice had begun, low and sonorous, echoing in the chamber. The warriors and nahualli swayed with the prayer. Ca’Sibelli turned his head to stare frantically at them. Tecuhtli Zolin nodded to Niente, and he pulled the eagle’s claw from his belt. Ca’Sibelli’s eyes widened as Niente turned the ivory horn until it clicked into place.

  Niente stood alongside the commandant. “You should be praying,” he told the man. Ca’Sibelli’s head was shaking violently back and forth, as if he could deny the moment. Niente pressed the end of the curved tube against the man’s stomach as ca’Sibelli thrashed frantically in his bonds. Niente sighed-this would not be a good death. “Axat, Sakal, we give this enemy to you,” Niente said in his own language. “Take this offering as a sign of your victory.”

  He pressed the trigger. There was a click, a spark, and then an explosion of flesh and blood.

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  Sergei wasn’t surprised that they took his sword from him. In fact, he wondered if he was to survive this meeting at all.

  The room was small and overly-warm, decorated in typical Firenzcian style with dark hangings and stark paintings with martial themes, all celebrating long-dead Hirzgai. The new Hirzg Jan sat in a plush chair to one side of the hearth, but it was obvious that Allesandra, sitting to his right, was the central character here rather than the young Hirzg who stared at Sergei’s nose, his gaze trapped there. Archigos ca’Cellibrecca loomed like some ursine demigod behind the high back of the Hirzg’s chair, scowling. The gardai who had brought Sergei here were dismissed (after another, rather thorough check of Sergei’s clothing to make certain he was unarmed; they took two knives from him and missed only one small, thin blade tucked in the loose heel and sole of his boot). Faintly, Sergei could hear the musicians playing a gavotte in the hall outside, though he doubted that many at the party were still dancing. Most would be talking and gossiping, wondering what the Regent of Nessantico was doing here in Brezno.

  He was certain that those in the room wondered the same thing.

  “Hirzg Jan,” he said, bowing low to the young man who looked so much like his matarh. “I thank you for taking in a poor refugee, and I offer you my service in gratitude.”

  “Your service, Regent ca’Rudka?” It was Allesandra who spoke. “What has happened in Nessantico, Regent, that you now offer service to those you’ve fought as an enemy?”

  Sergei hadn’t seen her in nearly sixteen years; she’d left her confinement in Nessantico when she’d been only a little older than her son was now; she had matured into full womanhood in the intervening years. Sergei could still see the passionate young woman in her face, but there was a new hardness there and lines carved by experiences he could not know. Don’t assume that she’s still the same person you knew…

  “Foul deeds and bad times,” he said to her, to the others. He outlined for them the events of the last few months, including his own escape from the Bastida days ago. “I doubt that Kraljiki Audric will survive long,” he finished. “I suspect that Sigourney ca’Ludovici will be Kraljica within a year, perhaps two.” He looked hard at Allesandra, whose gaze had drifted away contemplatively during his tale. “She has no better claim to the Sun Throne than others here,” he said. Allesandra gave him a faint nod; Sergei thought that Jan glanced at his matarh strangely with that.

  “Where are these Numetodo you say helped you escape?” ca’Cellibrecca growled. “Did you bring the heretics here also?”

  Sergei languidly glanced at the Archigos. “They declined to follow me, given the reception they expected to receive, Archigos. Brezno’s attitude toward the Numetodo has been… well demonstrated.” He smiled blandly, and ca’Cellibrecca’s mouth lifted in a sneer.

  “As has Nessantico’s, and we have seen what it gained them,” ca’Cellibrecca answered. “That they would rescue you from the Bastida, Regent, would indicate that your own views are heretical, also. Have you become a Numetodo yourself?”

  “My belief in Cenzi and the teachings of the Toustour remains as firm as ever, Archigos.” He gave the man the sign of Cenzi. “I’ve found that one might disagree even with friends and yet still remain friends. I’ve had many interesting discussions with Ambassador ca’Vliomani over the years, heated ones at times, but neither of us has managed to significantly change the views of the other. Nor do I think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Ambassador ca’Vliomani was my friend and acted to help me, even though our views on religion are entirely at odds. My soul has nothing to fear.” He paused, his gaze going back to Allesandra. “Friends-and allies-may be found even where least expected. Would I be wrong, A’Hirzg ca’Vorl, in saying that you came to consider Archigos Ana your friend, even though she took you from your vatarh?”

  Ca’Cellibrecca hissed audibly at that, and Hirzg Jan’s eyebrows rose, but the ghost of a smile touched Allesandra’s lips. “Ah, Regent, you always fenced as well with words as you did with your blade.”

  Sergei bowed again to her.

  “Yes,” Allesandra continued, “I came to consider Archigos Ana, if not a friend, then as someone I could trust in the face of the uncertain fate my vatarh left to me. I was genuinely horrified to hear of her assassination-nor, knowing her and the Ambassador ca’Vliomani, did I believe what I heard of who was responsible. I have grieved and prayed for her since. And, yes, I understand what you’re saying behind that question. I’m sure Hirzg Jan would be pleased to accept your service and talk with you further regarding what you can do for the Firenzcian Coalition.”

  The boy sat up suddenly in his chair at the mention of his name, glancing over to his matarh. “Yes,” he told Sergei. “I… we will.” His voice was as uncertain as the look he cast Allesandra. Then his features settled, and he sounded more adult. “Firenzcia will offer you asylum, Regent ca’Rudka, and I’m certain we can find a use for your knowledge and your skills.”

  “Thank you, Hirzg Jan,” Sergei replied, and went to a knee. “That was well-spoken. I freely give you and Firenzcia the loyalty that Nessantico has scorned, and I will lend you whatever counsel and help that I can.”

  The young man seemed inordinately pleased at the declaration, as if he somehow dredged it unwillingly from Sergei himself. He was young and inexperienced, Sergei realized, but he seemed intelligent enough, and had an excellent teacher in his matarh. He would learn quickly. The Archigos scowled, obviously not pleased with the decision. There would be little sympathy for Sergei there-he would need to watch ca’Cellibrecca carefully and find what advantage he could against the man.

  And with Allesandra… The woman regarded him carefully. Thoughtfully. There was ambition there, and a brilliance that had been lacking in her vatarh. He could easily imagine her on the Sun Throne. He could see her making decisions that would protect the Holdings and heal the wounds Justi and now his son had carved into the city and empire he served.

  Could she be the K
raljica to rival Marguerite?

  He would find out. And he would act.

  Karl Vliomani

  He’d shaved off his beard. He’d darkened his hair with essence of blackstone and let his features become obscured with the dirt of the road. He’d given away the fine bashtas in his pack in exchange for a beggar’s flea-infested and torn wardrobe. He stank of filth, and his smell alone was enough to turn people’s eyes away from him.

  He wondered where Sergei was, and if he’d made his way to Firenzcia and how he might have been received there.

  Karl had originally intended to make his way back to the Isle of Paeti. He had rested enough to use the Scath Cumhacht to heal the worst of Varina’s wound. Then he and Varina had accompanied Sergei to the woods north of the city, but there had parted ways, Sergei turning eastward toward Azay a’Reaudi, while he and Varina followed the forest’s line westward. They’d crossed the Avi a’Nortegate below Tousia, then turned southeast toward the Avi a’Nostrosei, hoping to follow its line into Sforzia and from there find passage on a ship to either Paeti or one of the northern countries. They’d reached the Avi at Ville Paisli four days later, only a day’s journey by foot from Nessantico’s walls.

  He’d intended that they stay one day. No more. He and Varina had taken a room in the only inn in the village, giving false names and traveling as man and wife on their way to Varolli in hopes of finding employment. The older woman who had shown them the room nodded as she took their money, slipping the coins into a pocket under the apron she wore over a stained tashta that looked two decades out of fashion. Her face and body showed years of children and hard work. “I’m Alisa Morel,” she told them. Karl heard the intake of Varina’s breath at the name. “My husband and I own the inn and tavern, and my husband is the village’s smithy. If you’d like a bath-” that with a significant glance and wrinkling of her nose suggesting that such would be a good idea, “-there’s a room below for that, and I can have my children fill two tubs with hot water. Dinner will be a turn of the glass after sundown.”