The Black Knife

by Christopher Nuttall

  Reginald watched dispassionately as the General strode towards the gates, showing no sign of fear as he advanced on the enemy position. Even Reginald, a novice at military affairs, could spot the places where archers could be concealed, making it quite possible that the General was walking towards his death. He concentrated and tightened the wards surrounding him, before adding his power to the general wards covering the army. If the enemy archers chose to open fire, they wouldn’t harm more than a handful of soldiers.

  “Ho,” the General bellowed, having reached a space three meters from the main gates. Nervous eyes peered down at him from high above. “You are called upon to lay down your arms and surrender!”

  There was no response. From what little Reginald could recall about surrender demands, at least according to standard practice, their refusal meant that there would be no mercy. The inhabitants of the Golden City had to know that their position was hopeless; therefore if they stood and fought, all they would be doing was bleeding Herod’s force, for nothing. If there was a relief army on the way, marching to raise the siege before the city fell, it might make sense, but Reginald had been assured that there was no such army. Herod’s spies in other courts had told him that the vast majority of Lords were sitting on their hands and waiting to see who came out ahead in the power struggle.

  “You are called upon to surrender,” the General repeated. “I will not ask again!”

  This time, there was a chorus of rude shouts and obscenities from the other side of the wall. The General took one last look at the defences and strode back towards Reginald, not a moment too soon as the defenders started launching arrows over the wall and down among Reginald’s forces. The wards deflected or destroyed most of the arrows, but it was clear that the city’s defenders had no intention of surrendering. Reginald lifted an eyebrow at the General, who nodded. There was no longer any point in holding back.

  “Focus,” Reginald ordered. The massed power of a hundred sorcerers flowed through his magical field, twisting and burning inside his skull. He knew from bitter experience that trying to compress and store the energy would be painful – and ultimately lethal – but all he had to do was shape it and guide it. The magic focused...and a bolt of lightning, so bright that many of the watching soldiers cried out and covered their eyes, slammed into the gates. They shattered under the impact with a noise like thunder, sending the defenders falling back in disarray, destroying the wards surrounding the city with a single blow. They might have been old wards, established since the Golden City had been founded centuries ago, but very few wards could have stood up to such a blow. It was brute force in the simplest possible manner.

  Flames were licking through the outer edge of the city, sending many of the defenders and innocent civilians fleeing for their lives. The outermost layers of the city were built out of wood, rather than the warded stone of the interior layers, and the flames spread rapidly. The hail of arrows, weakened by the first blow, died off as the archers were forced to flee into the interior, clearing the way for the guardsmen to advance. Many City Guardsmen had died in the first blow; the remainder, pulling themselves out of the wreckage of the defences, were easy targets. The General gave the order and Herod’s army advanced with blood in its collective eyes. Two minutes after the first magical strike, the outermost layers of the city were largely in burning ruins and the guards were advancing against the second layer of defences.

  Reginald compressed his wards tighter as a hail of stones fell down on them from above. Disregarding the flames, street urchins and thugs were scrambling over the rooftops, using them as platforms to bombard the invaders with stones and even primitive weapons. He gathered his magic and sent it rolling out through the buildings in a terrifying storm of power, generating an irresistible force that swept through the irregular defenders and knocked them to the ground. The handful of survivors was rapidly disposed of by the advancing army, apart from a handful of young girls who were preserved for other purposes. The General spotted that, gave the soldiers in question a sharp lecture, and cut the girls’ throats himself. It was an impulse that Reginald couldn't understand. Commoners were there to be used by their betters, weren't they?

  The inner line of defences was stronger, manned by men who knew that there would be no mercy if they were taken alive. The City Guard fought savagely, exploiting their greater knowledge of the walls and the surrounding buildings to hold their own, until they were finally removed by superior force. Reginald lost count of the number of men he saw die as the inner gates were finally stormed and broken, allowing his army into the heart of the city. The General bellowed orders, refusing to allow a breakdown in control now, pushing the army forwards towards the Mayor’s office and the Council Chambers. There were no irregular defenders inside the inner walls. The young of the richer families would be cowering in their homes, praying that the devastation would miss them. They had far more to lose than their poorer counterparts.

  Reginald watched as the guardsmen finally stormed the Council Chambers, finally dragging out the Mayor and most of his Councillors as prisoners. A couple of Councillors had sold their lives dearly, but the remainder had surrendered once they realised that they were not going to be killed out of hand. Reginald had a private suspicion that they’d end up wishing that they had been killed, for he knew what Herod intended to do with them. The remainder of the City Guard died, surrendered or threw down their weapons and melted away into the city. An hour after the Golden City - the invincible city, the city that had never been attacked – had been attacked by his forces, it had fallen. A very old certainty was no longer certain.

  “We have won, Master,” the General said, without irony. He didn't looked flushed at all by the fighting, Reginald noted enviously. “My forces are in control of all of the vital locations and we have secured the prisoners.”

  “Excellent,” Reginald said, trying to sound like his mentor. “You may order your forces to begin rounding up the people Duke Herod has ordered us to round up and then we can celebrate our victory.”

  “Of course,” the General said. They both knew what that meant. Once the prisoners had been taken and removed, it would be time to loot the city. It was the age-old reward for soldiers who fought and bled to take a city intact. The citizens, those who survived the experience, would be taken as slaves. Their lives were worthless now that their patrons were dead. The soldiers would loot, rape and burn their way through the once-great city. “And what will you be doing while I am supervising the round-ups?”

  “The Duke has given me a special mission,” Reginald said. He wasn't blind to the implications of Herod placing so much trust in him, but he also knew that it had dangerous implications for his future. “I am to recover a very special person and bring her back to the Golden Palace.”

  The city seemed darker, somehow, as he led four combat sorcerers through the streets. He saw no signs of life, but he could hear screams in the distance and the sounds of desperate fighting, rapidly stilled by angry soldiers. They passed an alleyway where several soldiers were already celebrating their victory, several of them drinking their way through an inn’s stockpile of wine and beer in-between taking turns with the innkeeper’s daughters. One of them, rather drunkenly, called out an invitation to forget their mission and come and join the fun. Reginald glared at him, allowing some of his magic to flare through his eyes, and the soldier staggered away, instantly sober. The offer wasn't temping, even in jest. Failing his mission would have resulted in instant death.

  He smiled to himself as they walked down the long street of temples, feeling the various wards within the different temples pressing against his magical field, trying to keep him out. The believers would have sealed themselves within their temples, the power of their belief adding strength to the wards, which would keep them safe...until they ran out of food. If Reginald was any judge, few if any of the temples would have enough food to last them more than a week, if that. He could station a small group of soldiers and sorcerers on the st
reets and wait for the wards to collapse, or for the inhabitants to die of hunger. Most of them were unimportant anyway. There was only one truly important temple in the city.

  “The Oracle is well-protected,” Herod had said, when he’d explained to Reginald exactly what he wanted. Control of a girl who could see the future would be so obviously decisive that the Sages had spared no expense in defending her. Between the Sages and their Oracles, it was incredibly difficult to attack them without them being aware of the threat well in advance. “She must be taken alive.”

  Reginald stared up at the temple, feeling the wards surrounding it with his Third Eye. They were the strongest in the city, perhaps the strongest in the country now that the Golden Palace’s wards had fallen, and there was no prospect of cracking them through a direct attack. Perhaps Herod, with the power he’d drained from the people he’d killed, could have broken the wards, but the power levels required would almost certainly have killed everyone inside the temple when the wards finally fell. He was mildly surprised that the Oracle and her Sages hadn't fled the city long ago – she would have seen the attack coming, he thought – yet Herod had been certain that she would remain in the city. Reginald had no idea why he believed that, but – as an elderly man appeared on the other side of the wards – he realised that Herod had been right. The old Sage wouldn't have remained behind when his charge had left the city.

  “I greet you,” the Sage said. One hand stroked his long white beard; the other held a staff that seemed to glitter with magical power. His voice was old, but still strong and confident. “Might I ask as to your business here?”

  Reginald gathered himself. “I am here on behalf of my master to take the Oracle into my custody,” he said. “I am authorised to swear on my master’s behalf that she will not be harmed and you – the Sages – will be permitted to leave the city without interference, if you hand her over to us now.”

  The Sage’s eyes met Reginald’s and refused to budge. Reginald found himself looking away first. There was a sense of...age in his eyes, an age that was far from natural. The Sage had seen so much in his time and gained a maturity Reginald knew he was sadly lacking. He wasn't impressed or threatened by Reginald at all.

  “I swore an oath to protect her to my dying day,” the Sage said. There was a note of complete confidence in his voice. “I will not hand her over to a would-be Emperor.”

  Reginald frowned. “Your wards are very strong,” he conceded, “yet can you supply yourselves with food inside your protections? How long can you hold out before you have to drop the wards and beg for mercy? If you try to hold out, she might die of starvation; how, pray tell, is that protecting her? She will not be harmed if she comes with us.”

  The Sage refused to budge. “No,” he said. “We will not allow you to take her.”

  He turned and walked back inside the temple, leaving Reginald staring at his retreating back in helpless rage. He had expected the Sage to yield to his logic, not to resist, even when it was futile. And yet, was it so futile? If the Sage was holding out, did that mean that he knew something that Reginald didn't know? What if the Oracle had told him that something would happen to rescue her from Herod’s forces? Angrily, he drew on his magic and sprayed raw power against the wards, only to see it coruscate off the wards in a shower of sparks. Breaking through the wards might be impossible...

  A thought struck him and, before he could think it to death, he drew the sword he’d taken from the Emperor’s body and slashed it against the wards. His entire body seemed to be caught up in a sudden burst of power as the blade sliced through the wards, cutting a hole right into the temple. The power flowed through him and down into the ground, deadening itself in the earth. He twitched back as the wards shimmered into visibility and then faded away for good. They’d cut right through them!

  “Master,” one of the sorcerers said, “what was that...?”

  “Never mind,” Reginald snarled. The sorcerers would talk, of course, and then the talk would get back to Herod, who would ask pointed questions about where the sword had actually come from...but it hardly mattered at the moment. “Come on!”

  The main door into the temple was barely guarded. The Sages had placed far too much faith in their wards and, when they collapsed, they were caught out of place. A younger Sage with a long brown beard came right at Reginald, chanting a spell and throwing a burst of something truly nasty towards his body. Reginald caught it on the sword, felt an unholy tingle passing through him as the magic earthed itself and slashed the sword into the Sage’s body. The Sage toppled backwards as the sword cleaved right through his body. The other Sages fell just as quickly.

  Reginald stepped through the final door and found himself in a temple, with a young girl staring down at him from a throne. Her face was expressionless, but when he ordered her to come with him, she came, averting her eyes from the slaughtered men outside.

  “You will have to come with me,” Reginald told her. The Oracle’s brown eyes lifted up to meet his. “The Duke wants to see you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “The city is burning,” Eric said, from where he was staring out of the open window. Cold air blew through the gap and into the carriage, but he didn't seem to notice. Hind had resorted to using a minor spell to warm herself, cursing the lurching carriage under her breath. She recalled riding horses in the past and wished, even though she hated the beasts, that she had one to ride now. Riding in the carriage made her feel slightly sick. “I can see the fires.”

  Hind nodded. She’d felt – every magic-user in the vicinity must have felt – the burst of magic that had brought down the gates. She had to hand it to Herod; convincing so many weaker magicians to work together – and actually succeeding in holding the coalition together – had been a stroke of genius. Even the Grandmaster himself would have had problems warding off such an assault. Combining magic was tricky, and required great concentration and willingness to sacrifice, but Herod had the key to convincing them to cooperate. He could teach them how to use necromancy to boost their powers and, in doing so, bind them to his cause. The Academy would stop at nothing to hunt down and exterminate the necromancers. The last Necromantic War had been quite bad enough.

  She looked down at the bundle under her feet and shivered. The black knife was safely wrapped up in the remains of her dress, but she could feel its presence within the carriage...or perhaps she was just imagining it. The knife’s power didn't seem to behave like any other magical artefact she’d known in her time; it seemed to flicker and fade, before shimmering back into life. It seemed obvious to her that another magician could probably sense its presence, which would have meant trouble if she failed to alert the Grandmaster quickly. They might find themselves arrested on a charge of necromancy!

  “They’re all dying back there,” Eric said. Hind shivered at the bleakness in his tone. The Golden City hadn't been his personal demesne, but he’d taken a certain responsibility for it over the years. She’d seen the aftermath of enough bloody wars – fought out between rival Lords over some minor disputes or points of honour – to know that life was going to be very unpleasant for the citizens caught up in the horrors of war. The Lords, of course, had been immune to the worst depredations of the fighting. Even the ones who had lost badly had been spared death or even exile. “You know what those bastards are going to do to them.”

  Hind reached out and took his hand, pulling him back into the carriage. She did know, better than him, what a necromancer could do with so many helpless citizens. Some of them would be enslaved, some of them would be put to work for the new regime...and some would be killed, just to add their power to the necromancer’s magic. There were worse possibilities, ones she’d hoped had been lost back in the aftermath of the last Necromantic War, but she tried to avoid thinking about them. The old necromancers had been defeated and most of their books and records had been destroyed. If they were lucky, Duke Herod and his men had nothing beyond a basic understanding of necromancy. If they were un
lucky...she shook her head. It didn't bear thinking about.

  She glanced out of the open window, out over the countryside. Like most cities, the Golden City was surrounded by hundreds of tiny farms; each one owned by a single family and passed down the generations from father to son. She had grown up on a similar farm, one far to the east, and looking at the farms reminded her of home...and of how it could be a great deal worse. The Golden City’s supportive network of farms were run by the farmers for the farmers, but in other countries the peasants were little more than serfs, one step above cattle for their lords and masters. They were chained to the land, bred like animals and worked to death, while the handful of magicians they produced were taken away and raised by upper-class families. There were even dark rumours, never confirmed, that some of the less...progressive countries had resurrected the ancient custom of killing magical children born to the lower classes. The Grandmaster had been particularly worried by the rumours and had dispatched several Freelance Mages to investigate, but nothing had ever been confirmed. If Herod won, things might change rapidly, for Azimuth was one of those lands. The Lords of Azimuth, for all that they were close to the Golden Throne, had never cared for uppity commoners.

  “We ought to warn them to flee,” Eric said bitterly, “but where would they go?”