Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  “So … what? We wait for him to figure out which world is which, and then what?” Zell asked, speaking slowly though remarkably clearly for all the alcohol he had consumed.

  “Anzik Fehr has the Staff of Gehlen. I just convince him to give it to me. Shimple as … as that,” Wendell replied, managing to snap his fingers. Being a magician had its advantages when drunk; certain muscles just coordinated themselves without needing much brain involved.

  “Well spit on me!” said Zellisan. “So all we gotta do is get that one’s head cleared of lint and cowflops and … and … and whatever else is up in there ... and we win? Hot biscuits!” Zell tilted back his expensive whiskey, and took a long swig of it.

  Wendell did not reply, but joined the undeclared toast in honor of Kadrin victory, slinging back an eye-crossing amount of the distilled wine. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes. In his stupor, he could not quite settle on why.

  It was not long before Zellisan was sprawled across his bed at an uncomfortable-looking angle, atop the blankets, snoring like a bellows. Wendell had an advantage that Zellisan could not compete with: a breezy wake-me-up in the form of aether. Just a few simple illusions were enough to freshen his mind temporarily. It was all he would need before collapsing in his own turn.

  Wendell climbed the first small steps up to the top bunk, high enough that he could lean across the sleeping Jadon to whisper into his ear.

  “Anzik. Can you hear me? This is Faolen. I am the only voice now. Give me the staff, and it will all be done.”

  Wendell waited but got no response. He began to feel the insistent pressure of the wine pitting its will against his own. He repeated the message. Jadon stirred in his sleep.

  “Where are you, Faolen?” Jadon murmured, still asleep.

  Wendell smiled in relief. “I am at the High Council chamber. Just go to the door, and ask for me. They will take the staff but it is all right.”

  Chapter 34 - Tides Turn

  The morning dew was still wet upon the grassy hilltop as General Hellmock dismounted his horse. He noted, with the curious guilt of someone about to commit an act of desecration, just how beautiful the Kadrin countryside was in early springtime. He held a hand out to his side, upturned, not looking back as someone placed a farseeing lens in his grasp. His gaze was fixed out on the mass of troops positioned to block his army’s advance.

  Adjusting the tube until the blur sharpened into focus, he took a census of the enemy before him. Arrayed in red and gold, with plate armor gleaming where it peeked from beneath their uniforms, were real Kadrin infantry. They were not conscripts, he realized, but a knot of the standing army that Kadrin still kept. His practiced eye counted by thousands, coming to a conclusion that ten was as good a number as he was likely to assign them, milling about in preparation for an assault. Of course, not all of them were infantrymen, just the ones foremost. Mixed among them were archers, catapult crews, a smaller number of perhaps a hundred or so knight-led cavalry. No doubt as well, there would be sorcerers among them. Aside from the trap laid at Temble Hill, there had been members of the thrice-accursed Imperial Circle opposing them at every turn. The Ghelkan sorcerers helped a great deal, but always seemed outmatched. His troops always paid in blood to even the odds.

  Still, the Kadrin numbers did not concern him. His forces outnumbered theirs fivefold, and with monohorns as well. A handful of stripe-cats would serve as flankers, mostly to keep the Kadrin force from repositioning freely, but the terrain made them less than essential for the coming battle.

  The Kadrins had chosen the battlefield, a low-lying flatland alongside the Thadagar River, between the forest's thick tangle and the water’s edge. It meant that the Kadrin generals were learning from their earlier defeats. Not content to sit behind the walls of Pevett while cannons worked to pound those same walls to dust, they had decided to meet Megrenn’s forces in the open field—or at least in the field, for the battlefield was as narrow as Hellmock could remember encountering.

  As Hellmock continued perusing the Kadrin assemblage, a few of his officers cried out. General Hellmock took the tube of the farseeing lens from his eye, and followed their gazes and pointed fingers. It was one of the Kadrin airships. It circled about, never coming near enough to the Megrenn forces for him to consider ordering archers or cannons to fire upon it. It landed in the midst of the Kadrin host, soldiers scrambling out of the way to make room.

  A cheer rose from the Kadrin camp, the sound carrying over the distance to where Hellmock and his officers stood. The ragged, disorganized cheer faded into a chant. There were two syllables to it, but between the distance and the language barrier, Hellmock could not tell what they were chanting. He looked to his officers, but was met with shrugs and shaking heads.

  The Kadrin forces began furious activity, men shifting all about down in the floodplain of the Thadagar. Hellmock took up his lens once again, and saw that they were forming up ranks, infantry at the fore.

  Hellmock was puzzled. The Kadrins would have plenty of time to set their defenses once they saw his own troops begin their advance. Had some high general been flown up from Kadris, and was now mucking about, making his troops wait in formation until the Megrenn decided to attack? Hellmock nearly considered making them stand there in armor for a few hours, just to tire their feet before the assault. But no …

  The Kadrin infantry began to move. They were launching an assault of their own! Why would they take up a defensive position, only to give it up just before we attack?

  “Send down the orders for the monohorns to meet the Kadrin advance,” Hellmock shouted. From his high vantage, he watched his own forces array themselves. The monohorn cavalry ought to be more than a match for the Kadrin infantry, with the Ghelkans countering whatever tricks of magic they no doubt had in mind.

  The Kadrin line slowed when the monohorns began their own advance. The pause was noticeable but brief, as the troops—with admirable discipline—resumed their pace. Horse-mounted sorcerers rode at the ready behind the monohorns, on guard for deceit.

  They were not enough.

  Before the monohorns reached the Kadrin front line, the beasts, under full gallop, lifted into the air. The Kadrin advance halted. A lone figure walked out before all the infantrymen, small, clad in black. The two dozen monohorns held aloft by magic were hurled back, lobbed shrieking—beast and man alike—into the body of the Megrenn army. The ground shook. Panic spread. Men died.

  What little Kadrin that Hellmock understood had a military bent to it. He understood every word when a magically enhanced voice boomed out over the battlefield:

  “DEATH TO THE MEGRENN! NO SURVIVORS!”

  The Kadrin infantry charged, full run, toward the suddenly exposed Ghelkan sorcerers. The sorcerers fired off spells of lightning and aether before turning their horses to flee. A magical barrier stopped each assault, leaving the Kadrin forces unscathed.

  The black-clad figure was faster than all the rest, and brooked no comparison. He chased down the horses, butchering steed and rider with his sword, only a handful surviving to reach the Megrenn main force. Far from daunted by the prospect of being amid a host of fifty thousand enemy soldiers, the black-clad sorcerer plowed into their ranks, blade leading. Bodies fell and blood flew in sprays.

  Kthoom. Kthoom. Kthoom. Kthoom.

  The body of the Kadrin sorcerer was thrown like an angry child’s doll, tumbling end over end through the air to land in a heap before the astonished Kadrin infantry. The soldiers stopped short of where their champion had fallen, unsure what the sorcerer’s death boded for them.

  Hellmock’s mouth went dry; his throat tightened as if physically gripped by the fear he felt. The Kadrin sorcerer stood, unsteadily at first, and brushed himself off. Bereft of weapon, he raised his arms slowly, palms upturned. It seemed then that half the Megrenn army caught fire as flames rose up from the ground over a wide expanse of the riverside.

  The men nearest the Thadagar sought refuge in its deep, slow currents, armor or no. T
he Kadrins nearest the sorcerer fell back as well, as a pair closest to him collapsed. Hellmock knew little enough about sorcerers and how they worked their magic, but he suspected the sorcerer to have affected their doom as collateral damage.

  No, not sorcerer, Hellmock thought, demon. Warlock Rashan Solaran had come to personally destroy his army. He watched helplessly, passively, as the doom engulfed them all. It would be his turn soon enough, he realized.

  * * * * * * * *

  Donnel’s Fort was a small township on the border of the ogrelands, with little strategic value. It would have been swept up eventually, along with all the other places that would be cut off from Kadrin support by the loss of the major cities and crossroads. It was walled in stone, high enough that ogres of the neighboring tribes could not just grab the top, and vault themselves over. There was a possibility of a sorcerer or two dwelling among the residents, depending on whom they had crossed among the upper echelons of the Imperial Circle.

  Jinzan’s transference spell had deposited him just outside the city gates, which stood open in the daylight hours as folk who worked outside the walls preferred easy access—primarily woodsmen and farmers. Scouts on the wooden towers just inside the wall were on constant alert for ogre raids, for the brutes hated Kadrin for encroaching on what they viewed as their own lands.

  Those scouts spotted Jinzan appearing out of nothingness. No one knew what to make of him. Sorcerers usually brought ill tidings, not because they were enemies, but because they came with edicts from the Circle. To men who lived under the constant threat of ogre attack, the Circle was still more feared.

  “Who goes there?” one of the scouts shouted down in Kadrin.

  Jinzan looked up into the youthful, pale face of the spotter of ogres. He wore a plain brown tunic, not the heraldry of the Kadrin army, but that did not mean that he was not a soldier. Ogres saw the color red better than most others, and anyone hoping to avoid their notice took care to avoid it.

  “…” Jinzan thought to reply, but wondered what he could possibly say that would be anything but lies or self-important bluster. He turned his attention to the staff in his hands. The white wood was smooth against his fingers, carved with runes thousands of summers old, with angular “wings” of wood sprouting from the top. It smelled incongruously of sewage, but that would not last, especially once Jinzan took the time to give it a thorough cleaning.

  Jinzan drew.

  The scouts clearly felt the effects, bracing themselves against the wooden railings of their tower as they felt an airless wind blowing past and through them. There was no physical force behind it, but most folk were unused to the feel of the aether, oblivious to it until it flowed like the waters of a burst dam around them.

  “To arms! We are under attack!” the scout shouted, with every bit of breath in his lungs. His companion took hold of a rope and pulled, ringing a bell hidden up under the roof of the tower.

  “Eehu dolkavi esfenetor gelex pinudox,” Jinzan chanted, holding the Staff of Gehlen in one hand while thrusting the other forth with a twisting motion.

  Wind whipped about, scattering leaves and debris as a cyclone formed. Faster and faster the winds blew, sucking at Jinzan’s clothing, and pulling his cloak out taut in front of him. He was not near enough to the tornado to feel the worst of its effects, though, and its movements obeyed his commands as he directed it through the watchtower. Wood splintered and split, chunks of the structure were wrenched off entirely. The two men in the tower screamed, but their voices were barely audible above the roar of the magical winds. The bell clanged a few final times as it was jerked about on its supports before being ripped free of the tower along with the roof, and devoured by the storm winds.

  The rallying cry had prompted an admirably quick response among the Kadrin defenders. Men with leather armor and long spears rushed toward the town gates. Jinzan moved the twister into their path, a child’s finger crushing and scattering ants as they emerged from their burrows. The survivors moved in too many different directions for Jinzan to bother chasing them all with the storm winds.

  “Fetru oglo daxgak sevdu wenlu,” Jinzan spoke as he pointed at a cluster of the militiamen. Forks of lightning stabbed from his fingers, throwing the defenders of Donnel’s Fort into helpless convulsions as they cooked.

  By then, folk were fleeing the part of the town nearest to Jinzan’s assault. A few hunters had taken shots at him with bows, but after disposing of them, there had been no further retaliation. He watched as people fled homes and workplaces, directing his spell over the vacated buildings, leaving the ones with basements as nothing but foundations. The ones with wooden or earthen floors were merely gone.

  Jinzan allowed the women and any children of Anzik’s age and younger to live, either to flee to other parts of Kadrin, into the ogrelands, or to remain behind to try to rebuild.

  Anzik, Jinzan thought, distracting himself inadvertently, I will find you, my son. I know not what Faolen’s twin has been telling you but I will welcome you home if you return.

  The boy had left the Staff of Gehlen at the door to the High Council chambers but fled when told he would be taken to see Jinzan. Anyone who had been aware of the chase for the boy was wary of angering him, even without the staff. He had escaped for the time being, but without the staff, even the Kadrin illusionist’s help from the other side would not be enough to hide him forever.

  Jinzan left a message before he departed, burned into the ground outside the city gate.

  “Megrenn is your friend.” The message was written in ogreish.

  * * * * * * * *

  “Councilor Fehr,” a messenger approached him at a run, panting for breath. “Word from the Pevett assault. Councilor Narsicann is waiting for you in the Council chambers.” The messenger was a professional, gasping out his missive between breaths.

  “Very well. I will be there directly,” Jinzan replied. He had just returned from Donnel’s Fort, and had not so much as changed out of the boots he had worn, caked with mud and dirt from the Kadrin outpost’s destruction. He turned to his wives, Nakah, Frenna, and Zaischelle—the latter showing unmistakable signs of being with child—and made his farewell after so brief a return. “I will return tonight. I think that whatever needs my attention cannot take me from my home this night. With the Staff of Gehlen, I might return most nights, even out on a campaign. I swear I will not let these interruptions rule over our lives.”

  “Just go, Jinzan. They need you,” Nakah said.

  “If you do not, I swear I will name the babe after Narsicann when he is born,” Zaischelle threatened, drawing a chuckle from Nakah and Jinzan. She was by far the youngest of his wives, and the only one likely to yet bear his children; this would be his first by her. He looked forward with curiosity to see how much the babe resembled him, and how much he took after Zaischelle’s Safschan heritage.

  “Do what you need to do. Once Kadrin is burned, you can lay about enjoying your victory,” Frenna added, souring the mood once more.

  One wife that always vexes me, mother of a son who vexes me all the more. If Anzik has children of his own one day, they will be the death of me.

  While Jinzan could have transferred to the Council chambers, his Source was weary from all the aether it had channeled earlier in the day. Without having to actually use his Source to draw the aether, the strain had been lessened, but the forming of the magic still took considerable effort. He rode instead, taking the road along the shoreline so he could watch the Aliani Sea crash against the shores. He wondered for the hundredth time whether Denrik Zayne ought to take his retirement in Khesh when the time came. He could look into buying up the same piece of land that his own home was on in Veydrus, and have the same view in Tellurak.

  The ride put Jinzan better at ease, though riding with a staff in hand was more awkward than he had envisioned. He was unlikely to leave it behind any time soon, after the trouble he had gone through to reclaim it.

  “Jinzan, get your scrawny arse in here. Narsey�
�s boy must have got to you an hour ago,” Kaynnyn bellowed from the Council table, where only his own seat was vacant. On the table rested one of the Ghelkan-made speaking helms.

  “Your messenger did not convey a sufficient need for haste for me to attempt a third transference spell today,” Jinzan replied as he strode across the room to take his seat.

  “So it is still fully functioning?” Narsicann asked, jumping straight to the magical concerns.

  “Yes, it appears no worse for its wanderings.”

  “Good, because you are going to be needing it in earnest soon, I think,” Narsicann said. He gestured to the helm on the table.

  “What is this about?”

  “General Hellmock’s army carried one of the helms. We heard from that helm after a battle that took place this morning, along the Thadagar River, just north of Pevett,” Kaynnyn replied.

  “What news, then? Are they encountering difficulties?”

  “They were not the ones who wore the other helm,” Narsicann replied. “I was the one who took the message. It was—”

  “It was him! Rashan Solaran,” Kaynnyn interrupted. She shook her head in dismay, accompanied by a tinkling sound of dangling jewelry.

  “He asked for you specifically,” Narsicann followed up, nonplussed by the interruption, which was unusual all on its own. Narsicann was prickly at the best of times. He had a haunted look on his face.

  “You expect me to pick it up, and find him waiting to speak to me?” Jinzan asked. He eyed the helm with trepidation. Long moments passed, he realized, without making a move toward it.

  “So I see I am not the only one spooked by ghosts speaking to me from history, heard only within my own head,” Narsicann joked lamely, trying to salvage a bit of pride. “Varduk has given me naught but grief for most of the time we have waited for you.”