Warrior (The Key to Magic)

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Of course, all of Aerlon's calculations presupposed that the Shrikes would not return. If they did, those three no-win choices would be reversed.

  But risk was a part of war and if he did not strike now, it might be months or even years before he again had the chance to lift the curse of Phaelle'n rule from any of the people of Plydyre

  Throughout the winter, his forces had harried the monks as often as they could, burning supplies, overwhelming small garrisons, ambushing civil administrators, and seizing supply trains. While he had never expected his efforts to raise an open revolt, he had been severely frustrated by the fact that so few of his fellow Plydyrii had sought to join his cause.

  "The monks are sorcerers," he had been told time and again. "No normal man can fight a sorcerer."

  If he succeeded and freed Zhijj, if only for a short time, then all of Plydyre would have proof that sorcerers could indeed be defeated by normal men, albeit with the Gods sent aid of righteous magic.

  SIX

  17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 324th Day of Glorious Work

  Year One of the New Age of Magic

  (Fourteenthday, Waning, 2nd Springmoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)

  Palace of the High Princedom of the Bronze Archipelago

  Port of Bhaestryndt, Plydyre

  In his first decade in the fraternity, Brother Schmrid'lh had aided the Work as a far talking disk operator. Such was the importance of the message that he had decided to pass on the plea from Zhijj in person.

  With a warm sun slanting through the lattice to paint the hexagon patterned blue tiles of the floor and the rich russet paneling of the interior wall with an eye confusing grid of yellow, dusty light and cold, clear shadow, Schmrid'lh scurried along the screened balcony toward the room in which the far talking disk operators were stationed.

  Brother Or'm, his deputy, walking just to his left said, "The world, it seems, feels no obligation to reflect the dire nature of our situation."

  Brother Or'm was a poet in his spare time and a melancholy one at that. A Preceptor, Or'm, similar to Schmrid'lh, had been reassigned from inconsequential subordinate duties to replace a Salient officer transferred to unspecified duty on the continent. Or'm had expressed his reaction to the promotion in a metaphorical -- or perhaps allegorical, Schmrid'lh was not sure which term actually applied -- poem that he had entitled Flotsam left Adrift in the Gathering Storm.

  "How is that, brother?" Schmrid'lh asked.

  The other waved a hand to stir the dust motes adrift in the shafts of sunshine. "It should at least be overcast."

  One of the four Salients guarding the entrance stepped in to pull open the thick door as they arrived. That guards must be posted to protect Holy Relics even here in the heart of the Brotherhoods primary bastion on Plydyre was another worrying sign of the decline in the fraternity's power.

  Like many of the rooms of the richly furnished palace, murals in a highly realistic style framed with sculpted plaster greenery covered the walls. The majority of these murals were innocuous scenes of idyllic noble pursuits, but the ones in this room portrayed a number of nude maidens frolicking provocatively in ocean waves. While it may have once contained a sumptuous bed and couches suitable for illicit rendezvous, now there were only a large table, a few utilitarian chairs, the operators, Brothers Kha'ct and Thalmaenoghal, and their Relics.

  "The connections have been made to Mhevyr, Sub-Deacon," Brother Kha'ct, the senior operator, informed Schmrid'lh as he rose.

  Taking Kha'ct's vacated chair at the table, Schmrid'lh made the sign of the Tripartite. "Your diligence is an honor to the Duty, brother."

  The other bowed. "We all seek the Restoration, brother."

  Schmrid'lh placed his palms to either side of the turquoise oval Holy Relic and slipped easily into the meditative state that would allow his moderate Ability, a not insignificant one and one-quarter, to interact with the spells of the device. Though it had been years, he found no difficulty in establishing a rapport with the magic and toggled the spell -- which gave him a mental image of a flaming icicle -- that would allow him to transmit his voice.

  "Sub-Deacon Schmrid'lh, Chief Coordinator of Plydyre, based at Bhaestryndt, speaking. Request personal communication with Director of Forces Whorlyr. This matter has Prime One emergency priority."

  After a few seconds, the reply whispered from the disk. "Message received. Stand by."

  It was a full twenty minutes before Schmrid'lh felt the Relic activate again.

  "Brother Whorlyr now present. Convey message."

  "Salient Brother Shrenko, commanding the legions at Zhijj, has reported that an attack on the city by a large force is underway. I repeat -- an attack on the city is underway. Enemy force is composed of Plydyrii rebels supported by minions of the Apostate. He requests that a covey of Shrikes be sent in immediate support."

  "Message received. Stand by."

  This time, Schmrid'lh only had to wait a moment.

  "Director of Forces grants permission for you to dispatch the Shrikes at your disposal."

  Schmrid'lh sighed heavily. The two combat coveys normally stationed on Plydyre had all been withdrawn without explanation after the Apostate's latest attack. Only four flying craft remained on the island. One had suffered a total spell failure and had crash-landed in a lake outside of Bhaestryndt. Though the brethren of the College of Archivists had succeeded in raising the pieces of the Holy Relic and transporting them back to the city, they did not believe that it could ever again be made to fly. The other three, all with various deficiencies and defects in their magical systems, had been relegated to cargo and passenger transport because they had been rated unfit for combat. The flight of one was so erratic that it had been restricted to trips of only a few leagues.

  Choosing his words with care, lest he unwisely express the anger that he felt at the sheer idiocy of the reply that he had received, he spoke again into the disk.

  "None of the Holy Relics that remain here can be made combat ready in time. I request the dispatch of others to support Brother Shrenko."

  This time, the reply was immediate. "Director of Forces indicates that all Shrikes are currently assigned to vital missions. None can be made available. No further message."

  "Message received. No further message." Schmrid'lh sat unmoving for a brooding moment and then stood up.

  Or'm, with quite the hangman's expression, asked, "Shall I order our airworthy Shrikes to Zhijj?"

  "No." Schmrid'lh had to keep the two airworthy Holy Relics close so that they could be used to evacuate Bhaestryndt -- not if but when the time came.

  "The Work often requires sacrifice." He turned to Brother Kha'ct. "Contact Zhijj. Tell them that no assistance will be forthcoming."

  SEVEN

  143rd Year of the Reign of the City

  (Fourteenthday, Waning, 2nd Springmoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)

  West of Zhijj, Plydyre

  Under a strident mid-afternoon sun and a flag of truce flapping from a trimmed green sapling driven into the ground, Aerlon, with Mehhglendt just to his right, stood in the center of a plowed field, facing Commander-of-Legions Shrenko and his second in command across a distance of two paces. Beyond the monks, Aerlon could readily see the grounded shields of the entire front of the defensive square that the three sallying Phaelle'n legions had formed when Relvhm's Skyship Corps had swooped from the sky to cut them off from the city. Just fifty yards separated the three thousand Phaelle'n and the encircling Imperial forces. Overhead, Relvhm's flagships, the Pju and the Khas'thga, each named for one of the warrior godlets, made slow orbits, both standing by to unleash the magical fury of sand spheres on the trapped Phaelle'n.

  The first thing that Aerlon had noticed about his counterpart was the complexity of the Salient tattoos that surrounded the man's eyes and spread to cover his shaven head. Though Aerlon could not decipher them, he knew that many of the additions to the basic design signified combat victories.

  Shr
enko was clearly not some library crawling academic, but a field tested officer. It was said -- and Aerlon's experience had given him no reason to doubt -- that the fanatical Black Monks would die to the last man rather than admit defeat.

  But this one was also wizened, wrinkled, and worn. Hobbled by aged joints, he walked with a cane and the much younger but also heavily tattooed Commander-of-Cloisters that accompanied him hovered close as if at any moment he might need to steady Shrenko.

  Determined to conform precisely to established military convention, Aerlon kept his expression neutral as he came to attention and made the Imperial salute. Shrenko, much to his surprise, straightaway returned it. Such military courtesies were not commonly used by the monks and as Aerlon could detect no contempt in the monk's stance, the gesture appeared to be a sincere expression of respect.

  "Greetings, I am Coirneal Aerlon Rhe, commander of Imperial forces on Plydyre. My aide is Maidsear Mehhglendt."

  Shrenko examined first Aerlon and then Mehhglendt with half-lidded eyes, paying obvious attention to the Imperial blazon on Aerlon's armor and the scraps of orange and silver cloth that the fisherman had tied into bows on his own right shoulder. Orange and silver were the colors of an ancient princely house of southern Plydyre that had been overthrown by that of the current puppet prince. No scion or cadet of the ancient house survived, but Mehhglendt had told Aerlon that if you were going to topple one prince, you would need to have another to put in his place, even if you had to invent one.

  "I am Commander-of-Legions Shrenko." The Phaelle'n made the introduction somewhat cheerily, just as if, rather than facing an enemy on the field of battle, he had been out for a casual stroll and had encountered a stranger. "And this is Commander-of-Cloisters Iynen."

  Tall and broad-shouldered, with the dusky hair of the inland inhabitants of Trozae, Iynen had stopped slightly behind and to the right of Shrenko. His face and manner revealed nothing.

  When it was clear that the senior monk intended to say nothing else, Aerlon got right to the point. He had offered the truce as a token homage to the code of warfare that his instructors had taught him. His expectation was that the effort would be an exercise in futility. Once this perfunctory proceeding had concluded, the battle and almost certain destruction of the Phaelle'n legions would begin.

  "You are currently surrounded by a much superior force and also subject to an aerial attack for which you can offer no defense," Aerlon stated. "To prevent the profitless loss of your entire command, I offer you unconditional surrender. Should you accept, you and your armsmen will be imprisoned under honorable conditions for the duration of hostilities."

  Shrenko leaned slightly sideways on his cane and allowed a brief smile. "While I personally have no fundamental or personal philosophical objection to your terms, Coirneal, Commander-of-Cloisters Iynen would put his sword through my neck if I even hinted at accepting them."

  The old monk did not bother to glance back at his subordinate as he spoke and Iynen's dispassionate expression and passive stance did not change.

  "I am an old man, Coirneal," Shrenko continued in a conversational tone. "You may not know this, but there is a certain unique perspective that comes to the old, a perspective that may have eluded them for their entire lives."

  Aerlon did not know what to say to this so he said nothing. He did, however, make sure that his hand was clear to draw his sword.

  "When I was younger, the nature of the world was so very clear and my path through it undeniably self-evident. Such unquestioned clarity was a great comfort. Sadly, as I approach my own inevitable end, I find that clarity slipping away."

  Shrenko rocked his weight to his right leg, apparently his good one, and raised his cane to make sharp gestures to punctuate his sentences. "Where once I knew, now I question. Where once I had faith, now I have doubt. Where once I would act, now I hesitate. I blame it all on the philosophers. Did you know that since returning to cloister that I have developed an unquenchable appetite for the written word? It is such a terribly time consuming vice. Philosophers, yes, they are to blame. Idiots, every one of them."

  The Phaelle'n' commander broke into a wheezing, full-body wracking laugh.

  Aerlon could not help but smile at the incongruity of the monk's actions.

  Then, almost too fast to see, Shrenko whipped about in a widdershins circle, arm and cane extended, and struck his fellow officer, who did not even have time to register surprise, behind the ear with the polished hardwood stick. Iynen instantly pitched forward on his face, unconscious.

  Aerlon's sword was out before the blindsided monk hit the ground. Mehhglendt's blade was only slightly tardy in appearance.

  Ignoring both, Shrenko prodded Iynen lightly with his cane as if to assure himself that the other monk was not faking, then turned about again to Aerlon.

  "I must beg your pardon, Coirneal Aerlon, but Iynen is a man who is still young enough to retain his clarity and I did not want that undimmed vision to complicate these negotiations."

  After a tense moment, Aerlon returned his sword to its sheath, but made sure to stay well out of reach of the cane. Mehhglendt, watching Shrenko with obvious suspicion, kept his blade pointed squarely at the monk.

  "Am I to understand that you wish to ask for a modification of terms?" Aerlon asked, wondering if the senior Phaelle'n's actions were some sort of elaborate subterfuge.

  Shrenko did not smile. "No, those you offer are acceptable and I agree to them without reservation. When I have your permission, I will return and order my men to lay down their weapons. We will offer no resistance."

  Completely confounded, Aerlon asked, "Might I ask why?"

  "Certainly. When recalled from my cloister to take command here at Zhijj, I was given to understand that, while I would have an insufficient garrison, all of my armsmen would be dedicated Salients. It was with some dismay that I learned that in fact, save for myself and Iynen, my legions were composed of conscripts and mercenaries who have no vested interest in the Work. They obey my orders, but there is no fire in them. Some, of course, would acquit themselves well in battle, but most, I am certain, would not. Furthermore, I expect a high percentage of them to simply run away once the aerial bombardment begins. I am a Salient. It is my purpose to fight and, if such is my fate, to die to bring about the Restoration of Holy Magic to this world. But I am also an old man and I have found that I have lost all patience for wasted effort and futile gestures."

  Shrenko glanced down at Iynen. "If you do not object to the suggestion, perhaps Brother Iynen should be bound in chains lest he be minded to make such a gesture."

  A couple of hours later, while Relvhm and his Skyship Corps established a defensive perimeter and supervised the prisoners, Aerlon marched into Zhijj at the head of a column of his Scouts and the Volunteer Brigade.

  No crowds gathered to laud this victorious entrance, but a few children did watch with wide eyes before their mothers shooed them away.

  EIGHT

  A moderate rain had taken up, adding a brisk chill to the air, but a relatively weak flux bubble twenty paces across kept Mar and the armsmen dry. The unseen concave surface quickly concentrated the water into runnels and sheets that showered into the gutters of the narrow street and onto the roofs of the adjacent buildings, making it seem as if he and his guards were surrounded on all sides by a waterfall. In the other buildings all about, shopkeepers and upstairs tenants, including a number of excited children, watched from doorways, balconies, and windows. Many remarked and pointed at the wondrous magic that shed the rain.

  "Wait for me here," Mar ordered.

  "A couple of us could accompany you into the shop, my lord king," Subaltern E’hve proposed.

  As he spoke, the leader of the King's Imperial Guard, the official successor to the Hangers-On, all score of whom were arrayed in a defensive perimeter in the narrow street, did not shift his eyes from a close examination of the two storey building before which Mar had stopped. E'hve's stated position was that assassins were
everywhere unless proven otherwise.

  "Not necessary," Mar deferred in a firm tone. "I won't be long."

  While he did not consider his business here a great secret, his preference was that only the few initially involved have knowledge of it.

  "Aye, my lord king."

  In order to convince Mhiskva not to accompany him (with a full troop of marines) every time he made an excursion away from the Palace, either about the Citadel or into the city proper, Mar had had to promise the High-Captain that he would not elude his guards. For the express purpose of freeing himself of the onerous labors of government, Mar had delegated oversight of all the routine administrative functions of the city as well as the day-to-day management of the Imperial war effort to the High-Captain in his capacity as Viceroy of Mhajhkaei. Since this arrangement permitted Mar to fight Number One as he saw fit and freed the necessary time to pursue his magical research and other projects, he remained faithful -- at least during daylight hours -- to his promise.

  A series of wide, brick-arched openings fronted the woodcrafter's shop. The heavy wooden shutters used to seal the openings at night were folded into their niches, giving a clear view into the spacious but crowded interior. As there were no intervening partitions, Mar could see all of the way to the back of the building where a matching set of arches framed a rain shrouded courtyard. This design clearly allowed the free and constant movement of air to keep the wood dust from becoming too thick. At the right and left outside walls, racks held full stacks of common lumbers and isolated lengths of rarer woods. The muted noise of hammers, saws, and sanding blocks echoed slightly throughout.

  Though the flagstone floor was fresh swept, the half dozen large workbenches, where an equal number of men and women were occupied, had various accumulations of sawdust, wood chips, and shavings. While these crafters turned intermittent curious looks toward Mar and the King's Imperial Guard, they did not interrupt their efforts on the incomplete chairs, tables, cabinets, and other not readily identifiable products on which they worked.