Rapidly, he pressed the mud into irregular shapes, crammed what flux he could into the disagreeable material, and tossed them over the gunnel in various directions without exposing his hand or arm to the continuing crossbow fire.
Not all of his enchantments detonated, but perhaps a dozen did as he held the rowboat in position above the bridge against the surges of heated air, dust, and debris of the blasts. Gradually, the jars of the quarrels hitting the hull ceased.
The damage from the bolts had begun to impair the spells and the rowboat took on an eccentric wobble, sliding erratically. Not taking any chances that some of the Phaelle'n might still be in a shape to fire at him, he coaxed the rowboat upward a good distance before he peeked over the side.
Then he cursed again.
Although the roof and upper structure were almost entirely blown away, the heavy planks and beams of the deck remained practically unscathed.
As he watched, the galloping scouts reached the south end of the bridge, reined in, and then began to walk their horses across, winding through the blackened debris. Seeing upturned faces, he knew that they were aware of him. To the south, the hard marching column had closed to within fifteen hundred paces.
He spit out another frustrated half-curse and nudged the rowboat north, scrambling to think of some other plan that he could use in the few minutes he had before the main body of the Brotherhood reached the stream.
He did not have the time to search for a purer bar of sand along the stream and an attempt with more of the mud would only be futile. He had no doubt that the cavalry scouts would stand and defend the bridge, preventing him from getting close enough for long enough to break it free of its entrapping headwalls.
If the non-existent Borloi'gh'nyh, Archfriend of Arsonists and Clumsy Fools, had been paying attention at all, one of his enchanted mud lumps would have set the structure alight.
Fire would definitely be one solution to his problem. A barrel of pitch and a torch would put the bridge out of use in short order, but he might as well wish for one of Telriy's Blazes, since both were impossibly beyond his reach.
Not that he could light the torch, since he had neither sulfur match nor flint and striker.
The only thing that he had was the rowboat.
And magic, of course.
Might he be able to start a fire using ethereal flux?
Experience had shown him that the abrupt release of overloaded flux from an enchantment created some heat and flame along with the great burst of light and force, but he did not know if the ignition involved the sifting-purple that he had observed in the burning remnants of the second Mhajhkaeirii'n skyship.
Many of the Imperial scholars that he had read in his time in Khalar had embraced the maxim that fire came from heat and heat from friction, citing numerous empirical examples.
He pressed his hand against the loose and rattling planks to his right and slid it along them, stirring around in the natural flux of the wood for any sign of the sifting-purple. There was a hint of it, yes, but no more than a feeble spark or two. He tried to enhance the modulation, saw it prosper to a small cloud, then had to snatch his hand backward as a tongue of yellow flame jetted abruptly from the plank. He scooted away as the burgeoning fire made the seasoned wood sing and sent smoke rising from the charring spot.
Grinning manically, he turned the rowboat, which had acquired a disturbing lateral shake, to line it up with the stream, let it settle to the elevation of the bridge deck, and aimed it squarely at his target. When he was a hundred paces away, he accelerated, trailing a growing line of smoke as the rushing air stoked his small patch of flame. He looked ahead to pick out a likely looking dark pool in the eddy of a lazy sweep of the stream, and then jumped out when he reached it, flooding the doomed rowboat with the sifting-purple as he cleared the gunnel. The huge surge of fire nearly caught him as he fell, scorching his hair and bathing his torso with searing heat. The cold, flowing water was a welcome shock and he thankfully let it wash over him, sinking until his feet struck the rocky bottom, but immediately bobbed back to the surface in an effort to see the rowboat strike the bridge.
When he climbed tiredly up the north bank two minutes later, the rising smoke from the soaring conflagration was already a hundred manheight high.
TWENTY
17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 52nd Day of Glorious Work
(Eighthday, Waxing, 3rd Summermoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
A fallow field on the western bank of the Ice River.
Whorlyr eased back precisely on the handle of the pivoting control that influenced the raising force, allowing his Shrike to settle to the ground with hardly a bump. Right away, he released his shoulder and lap belts and pulled the release to raise the clear shell that sealed him in the helmsman's compartment. On his shoulders were the new insignia of a Covey Commander. Though the craft that he had flown during the Apostate's last attack on the Holy Trio had taken what might be irreparable damage, the Archdeacon had hailed him as a hero and rewarded his quick thinking and action with the double promotion, equivalent in rank to a Junior Commander-of-Cloisters.
Two of his K'hilb ran up to the side of the Shrike and leaned a rough ladder built of split rails against the side to permit him to descend to the ground. He had landed only armlengths from the unroofed command bunker at the center of the field.
Junior Assault Brother Bh'sh, his insignia still showing the newness of his own recent promotion, emerged from the sloped entrance and greeted him with a large grin. "How was the flight, my chieftain?"
"Excellent. You should learn to fly, brother. The magic of these Holy Relics enlivens the soul."
Bh'sh grunted. "The likes of such things isn't for the likes of me, my chieftain. It's plain to me that Phaelle'n intended that for those that're worthy."
"No doubt you are right, brother. Did you have any difficulty with your transport?"
"No, my chieftain. The entire reinforced congregation passed through the Holy Gate with all weapons, spare loads, rations, and supplies in our allotted time."
"What disposition have you made here?"
"I've established a perimeter along the borders of the field. The teams of the three combat cloisters are dug in along the whole line. Each assemblage of three combat teams is supported by a quad of our K'hilb with the rest held in reserve."
"Any contact with the enemy?"
"No, my chieftain. The Mhajhkaeirii in the nearby farms have all fled."
Whorlyr nodded in approval. "I'm going to bring the rest of the covey down one at a time. We'll spot them widely. Some of the helmsmen are a little rough with landings."
When all twenty-two of the Shrikes were sitting safely on the flattened grass of the field, he had their helmsmen assemble for final instructions.
They were nearly all young, with Brother Kehmrehl being the sole exception at nearly fifty. All had Abilities greater than one and a half, though none were stronger than a two, and all had had a minimum of ten hours flying practice. This did not signify, however, that all of them were ready to participate in the attack.
"Brothers Dzo, Mehs'srig, Paeluus, Glaeusm, and Khyrol. You will form a reserve team. When we move to assault the camp of the renegades, you will circle your Shrikes at an altitude of three thousand display units and attack only on my command. The rest of you will group according to your training sections. We will move on the enemy position in two waves and attack targets based on this priority: one, flying boats of all kinds, two, organized units of armsmen, and three, all other personnel. Once we receive the order, we will launch immediately in reverse order of landing. Therefore, you will stand ready by your Shrikes at all times. You may take rest and rations will be brought to you. Any questions?"
Raehl, an intense Salient veteran, asked, "Should we attempt to minimize damage to non-military targets?"
Whorlyr shook his head. "Let magic protect those whom it deems fit."
Brother Kehmrehl raised a hand. Though he was the seco
nd best helmsman of the covey after Whorlyr, he was an archivist, not a combatant, and tended to ask a lot of questions. "Will we be able to visit the latrines?"
Whorlyr suppressed a smile. "I will have temporary latrines dug beside your relics. Any other questions?"
There were none and he dismissed them back to their craft, then told Bh'sh, "Send for your far talking disk operator and standby at my Shrike. When the order comes through, I want no delay in our launch."
Whorlyr took time only to drink some thick beef broth and make water against the earthen wall of the bunker, and then climbed back aboard. When Bh'sh returned, he climbed the ladder to wait by Whorlyr while his communicator, Brother Tzyu, a M'odra by his looks, hunkered down in the shade of the massive relic to monitor the far talking disk.
"I expect that the column will reach the Mhajhkaeirii camp within the hour," Whorlyr told Bh'sh. "Our orders are to attack once Brother Mulsis signals that he has taken the Apostate. When was your last message from the Conclave?"
"At midmorning. We were ordered to report our status."
Two hours later, with still no activity on Tzyu's far talking disk, Whorlyr grew impatient, put on his headset, and activated the Shrike's far talking magic. "Abbot Jzeoosl, this is Whorlyr."
From Mhajhkaei, the reply came back instantly. "Go ahead, Brother Whorlyr."
"We stand ready to attack. Should we put to air?"
"Wait a moment." The link went dead for nearly five minutes. Then, "I spoke with the Martial Director. Your orders have not changed. To reduce risk to the holy Shrikes, you will attack only when you receive word that Brother Mulsis has neutralized the Apostate's magic."
TWENTY-ONE
Hearing the clatter of horses, Mar whirled around. The two mounted Phaelle'n scouts had kicked their horses to a gallop and closed to within fifty paces. The orphaned pair, outfitted in helmets, jackboots, and chainmail over hard leather, but no hoods, had been on the northern bank when the bridge went up and had made to give chase as he trotted back towards the crossroads. Enchanting the leather of their armor and the saddles and tack of the horses had allowed him to hold them back when they got too close, but this magical buffer had not dissuaded them from their pursuit.
This time, he planted his feet and let them come.
At twenty armlengths, they spurred their horses into a charge, one lowering a barbed lance and the other cocking his arm for a saber thrust.
When they were close enough to see the unswerving determination in their faces, he flew upward out of reach and used enchantments to carry both from their saddles, tossing them -- not gently -- into the clumps of cattails filling the drainage ditches to either side of the highway. His boots could not maintain enough flux without rupturing to keep him in the air for long, but he did manage to sail a good eighty paces after the running horses before he settled back onto the highway. Looking back, he saw the armsmen get up quickly, both shaken and one limping, but they now no longer appeared inclined to follow.
The horses, relieved of the weight and spurs of their riders, slowed to a halt after another fifty paces. One wandered off into the corn, but the other tarried on the roadway, allowing him to catch up to it and snare its reins with an enchantment. The animal remained calm as he neared and did not attempt bolt as he mounted it awkwardly from its right side. Luckily for him, it was well trained and even-tempered, requiring only a gentle flip of the reins to convince it to canter north.
Peering ahead to learn the current situation of the Mhajhkaeirii, he saw the skyship train moving off and climbing to the west. About a thousand paces in front of him, just south of the crossroads, Lord Ghorn's legionnaires had established a thin line anchored on the eastern side of the woodlot. Mar started to ride directly to them, then realized that war was the prince's trade and that magic was his, and instead veered left and cut across the trampled barley directly toward the south end of the woodlot and Number Three. The most important thing that he needed to do now was to get the skyship in the air and move it to the mooring tower.
He rode across an empty field; this end of the encampment had already been thoroughly emptied. The refugees had taken everything -- tents, awnings, personal possessions, supplies -- and only the scattered dampened cook fires and scuffed sleeping plots remained as evidence of their presence.
Likewise, when he slowed his mount to a walk under the spreading limbs of the trees, watching with care along the ground ahead of him for gopher holes and other hazards, he saw gratifyingly that the tents, cots, and few rough stools of his own camp had already been struck.
When he reached the skyship, he slid from the horse, slapped its flank to send it trotting back into the open, then climbed the midship steps, calling out, "Chaer! E’hve! Let's go! I'm raising ship!"
Before he had taken two steps into the shadowed interior, he felt uneasy.
Instantly, he spun in a circle, casting Telriy's charm to shroud himself, and dropped into a wary crouch, listening. There was not a sound. If any were aboard, they were being perfectly still. He extended his awareness of the flux, trying to identify the familiar modulations of living beings. Right away, the magic revealed what his eyes would not: eight or nine hidden men.
While he was trying to decide what to do next, hooded figures garbed in midnight black separated from the shadows in the bow and stern and ran toward the center of the skyship. Their unfocused charge seemed to confirm that they could neither see him nor detect him magically. Catching sight of the silhouettes of dulled swords, he dove back outside, rolled off his good shoulder, and, without straightening completely, boosted the enchantment in his boots to arc him up to the upper deck. He landed without a sound and immediately hid himself once more in a curtain of flux.
Three of the monks burst through the hatch leading below, and began to cross the deck, their heads swinging about as they searched for him. When one was only steps from colliding with him, he enchanted the armor of all three and hurled them at great speed up through the treetops. Their startled yells, rapidly fading away, and the sounds of thrashing foliage and cracking tree limbs drew the other four, who spread out silently in a defensive circle around the hatch.
Without hesitation, he dealt them a similar fate.
After a hurried search, he found Chaer and E'hve, bound, gagged, blindfolded, and bloodied, under a tarp in the nook of the bow of the lower deck. E'hve, with a large oozing lump on the back of his skull, was unconscious as well. Mar had expected to find them dead, but wasted no time questioning them, tersely ordering the disoriented Chaer to tend to E'hve. Running back to the upper deck, he immediately set the skyship in motion, backing her slowly from under the trees.
Once clear, he flew over the woodlot to the mooring tower and descended to match the level of the upper deck with the uppermost platform. Below him, the waiting crowd was huge, numbering still in the thousands, just as he had known that it would be. They simply had not had sufficient time to build the necessary rafts or skyships.
As soon as Mar brought the craft to a halt, Mhiskva jumped aboard called forward, "My lord king, were you able to delay the main column?"
Mar moved quickly down from the steerage platform to the main deck to meet the marine captain. "For a little while, at least, but not nearly long enough. How do we stand?"
"Ulor took the train west with all that we could shove aboard. I gave him orders to turn for the Monolith only if he is certain that he is not followed."
"Are there any more rafts?" Mar asked, though he already knew the answer.
"No, my lord king." The big Captain's tone made him sound like a judge sentencing a malefactor to death.
"It'll take Ulor at least a full day to return, maybe as much as two," Mar stated, simply clarifying his own thoughts.
"Yes, my lord king." Mhiskva obviously had already deduced the same unpleasant facts. "Number Three is all that we have left. Those who do not sail with her will have to remain."
"You mean die?"
Mhiskva looked grim. "Lord Ghorn will
not order any withdrawal that would abandon the remaining civilians to the monks, nor, frankly, would I obey such an order. Baring a miracle of magic or of the Gods, I will stay, I will stand, I will fight, and, if need be, I will die."
The captain's tone was neither boastful nor proud, but simply matter-of-fact. For a long moment, Mar had nothing to say. While he stared at Mhiskva, a vision came to him. He was not sure whether it grew out of some involuntary magic or only his own fancy, but he saw the Mhajhkaeirii'n warrior barreling through a flood of Phaelle'n legionnaires, his great axe swinging with horrific effect. He was alone. His comrades had already perished to the last man. The Gaaelfharenii's arms and torso were festooned with arrows and bleeding gashes, but he seemed unstoppable. Then a quarrel pieced the giant's eye and he toppled like a great tree, smashing down foes even as he perished.
Mar shook himself to fight off the chilling apparition and then asked, "How many are left?"
"Excluding the marines and legionnaires, there are better than two thousand."
"How many altogether?"
"Almost five thousand."
At best, the last skyship would carry five hundred. "Start loading. I'm going to see if I can make Eight and Nine fly."
Berhl had laid out the keels of the newest skyships one behind the other on the hard surface of the western road. Beyond the empty cradles that had held Number Seven and surrounded by stacks of logs and salvaged lumber, the frame of Number Eight was nearly complete, lacking only the steerage platform, a portion of the upper deck near the stern, most of the bow planking, and some incidental bracing.
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