The Wizard That Wasn't (Mechanized Wizardry)

by Ben Rovik

  The three men yelled as she catapulted into view, sailing through the air. One of the men by the house wasted his crossbow bolt on a wild, hopeless shot, cursing loudly. The man menacing Sir Sigurd with a dagger looked up to see the Petronaut falling towards him, her skin and armor gleaming in the sunlight. And then the iron poker struck him on his jawline just below the right ear, and he crumpled to the ground with a sickening noise.

  Dame Miri landed heavily on her shoulder, her body twisted from swinging the poker in midair. But she used her momentum to roll, pivot, and flip back onto her feet, facing away from the remaining men. She was still holding the poker in her sooty white-gloved hand. She whirled on the two attackers as they rushed towards her, knives out.

  “Miri, duck!” Sigurd shouted.

  She flung herself to the ground unthinkingly as something hissed sharply above her head. Dame Miri glanced upwards to see a new figure standing above her, regaining its balance after the vicious left cross that had just missed her. She noticed the glint of three blades extending from the attacker’s knuckles before a steel-toed boot caught her forcefully in the stomach. She gasped with pain, her eyes watering, and rolled away in time to dodge a second kick. The new attacker was right on top of her; even with all her gymnastic skill, she barely reached her feet before a bladed fist came hurtling towards her again. The blow rebounded off her breastplate, tearing her exposed right bicep deeply instead. She rolled with the impact and sidestepped to the right, whirling the poker around in a wide arc and striking the backside of her adversary’s knee with all her strength.

  Her assailant’s legs were swept upwards, sending the hooded figure tumbling back-first onto the muddy ground. Dame Miri blinked as she looked down. The figure was wearing a featureless oval mask, mottled brown like the inside of a tree trunk. From the two holes where eyes should have been, a pair of golden lights blazed up at her instead. The very blankness of the face was sinister, and Miri fought down a sudden pang of dread. The shape of the pliable armor Miri could see under the fighter’s black cape suggested this newcomer was a woman. Then she heard the distinctive whine of gears as the masked woman tensed her muscles, preparing to launch herself to her feet.

  Stars and Spheres, she thought in disbelief. She’s a Petronaut.

  Dame Miri jabbed downwards at the Petronaut with the point of her poker, but her moment of shock cost her. The woman flexed her fists, and her blade-claws ratcheted out another six centimeters. What had been empty air was now a swarm of knives, into which Dame Miri plunged her arms before she could stop herself. She screamed as the poker fell out of her hands, and she staggered backwards, slicing the backs of her hands open against the blades in her unthinking retreat. She looked down, taking stock of her injuries dumbly. Her hands and wrists were a mass of gashes, and her left hand didn’t seem to close properly.

  Something solid was thrust into her right hand, which closed around it automatically. She looked down into Sir Sigurd’s sweat-drenched face. “Take them!” he shouted, gesturing at the two men, now closed to knife distance. He’d put the hilt of the dead man’s dagger into her hand. Muscle memory took over and Dame Miri narrowed her violet eyes, quickly taking stock of the distance. The swarthy man on the right gurgled, his face contorted with shock as a dagger spun through the air into his chest. He stumbled to the ground and was still. The other man closed with her, snarling in her face.

  Miri weaved away from his first thrust to her head, and bent her belly away from his next slash. She didn’t trust her arms to function properly, so she kept them low by her side, giving her opponent as little body language as possible to read. As he advanced again, she kicked out with lightning speed, digging her heel into the sensitive tendons where the ankle meets the foot. His leg fell out from under him and he dropped onto his knee, grunting in pain as his knife arm swung up, uncontrolled. She pivoted, raising her right thigh high, and flicked a toe into his exposed wrist. The dagger fell dully into the mud, and he started to stagger to his feet. Two quick kicks to his stomach doubled him over again, clutching his belly. Dame Miri prepped herself with a breath, then raised her long left leg to its full extension, well above her head, and snapped it back downwards in an axe kick. Her heel clouted the miscreant at the base of his skull and he went limp. She was breathing heavily, and her vision was going fuzzy. I’m losing blood, she thought, trying to shake her head clear.

  Sir Sigurd was on his feet, she saw, his shield strapped around his good arm. The fact that he wasn’t dead was a miracle; the masked Petronaut was striking at him furiously, her claws ringing against his shield again and again. Harsh golden light from the mask’s eye sockets reflected off the battered steel of Sigurd’s shield. He had fresh gouges on his back and leg. The other Petronaut was moving stiffly on her right leg, where Miri had struck her with the poker. Dame Miri snatched up the unconscious man’s dagger in her still-functioning hand and sprinted towards the attacker.

  When she was a few steps away, just as the Petronaut whirled towards her with a double fistful of blades, she used her wounded arm to press a button on her belt. Suddenly, Miri’s breastplate flashed with dazzling, colored light that pulsed on and off in rapid succession. The Petronaut’s featureless yellow eyes seemed to tilt down for just an instant at the display, and Dame Miri lunged forward, plunging the dagger into the woman’s chest—

  —where it rebounded harmlessly off her armor.

  Miri stumbled to the ground, overextended from her lunge. The dagger slipped out of her hands, and she fought to pick it up in the muddy street, stunned. That was better than any CQ armor we have in Delia, she thought with an oddly dispassionate flash of interest. Then the masked Petronaut put her boot through Dame Miri’s head (or so it felt), and the senior ‘naut of the Parade squad lay on her back in the mud, her limbs splayed haphazardly around her, staring into the sunlight.

  There was a distant roaring sound, and Miri rotated her face towards it. Sir Sigurd’s muscular arms were snaked under the woman’s armpits and his fingers laced on the back of her head. The full nelson was obviously agonizing for him to maintain, as his wounded shoulder oozed wetly from where he’d pulled the dagger free. Then he loosed the hold slightly so he could start clawing at her face. Dame Miri frowned absently, wondering why he would try such a thing. The woman struggled, stomping viciously on his feet and nicking his side with cuts from her extended claws. Sigurd finally succeeded in prying her mask upwards at the chin with his good hand, and then he lowered his injured left arm to a strange angle, the steel bracer on his wrist catching the light. His arm recoiled with a distant sound, like a puff of air, as something launched out of his bracer. The Petronaut’s head flinched backwards as if stung, then the two grappling bodies disappeared from Miri’s sight. She flicked her eyes upwards and saw the two of them poised high above the earth. Her ranine coils are also very good to handle that much weight, she thought, barely able to keep her eyes open.

  The bodies came crashing back down a moment later. Sigurd tumbled gracelessly end over end and landed on his back in a shower of mud. Miri saw the muck splatter onto her legs, but could barely feel the chill of it. The Petronaut landed unsteadily, but on her feet, her bloody blades shining red in the sunlight. But the woman didn’t slit their throats immediately. Instead, she retracted her claws and began digging at her face, her fingers pulling her dark hood back and reaching for an unseen clasp. She clawed at herself for a frantic moment before Sigurd’s flash disk, lodged between her cheek and the mask, finally went off.

  Twin columns of sparks burst forth from the eyeholes of the mask, streaming across Miri’s whole field of vision. The Petronaut’s final scream mingled with the whistling sparks as her body collapsed backwards, convulsing. Then there was only the sound of the whistling; then there was nothing but the chirping of birds, far away.

  Get up, a voice said inside Dame Miri some time later. Get up.

  She took a deep, noisy breath, as if emerging from a pool of water. She opened her eyes. How long had she cl
osed them? Dame Miri gritted her teeth and rolled onto her side, her head pounding. Her left hand was useless, so she braced herself with her right and willed herself to her feet. Then she was standing, swaying unsteadily, her vision fuzzy and whirling. She concentrated on keeping her breathing steady, taking stock of the filthy street. No one else came towards them.

  Sigurd was there on the ground. “Sir Sigurd,” she said, her voice a feeble croak. “Sir Sigurd!” she said again, more authoritatively. “Report.”

  There was a long silence. His body wasn’t moving. Miri tried to focus her eyes; she couldn’t tell if he was even breathing. “Sigurd, you are ordered to report,” she said again, her voice cracking.

  The battered Parade ‘naut finally coughed, his eyes still closed. “Tough crowd,” he rasped.

  Dame Miri smiled, shakily. She knelt down and put her hand on his good arm. “Can you stand?” she asked, quietly, looking into his pupils. Sigurd nodded.

  “Then on your feet, junior ‘naut,” Dame Miri said, gently helping him to a sitting position. “We’ve still got a wizard to find.”

  Something was different.

  Jilmaq continued to speak, as he’d been doing for twelve hours straight, holding the Princess’ braid aloft. He was physically tired, but his determination and focus were as unflagging as ever. He knew the curse of boiling veins backwards and forwards, every syllable painstakingly researched and rehearsed for this fateful day. He was performing to the absolute best of his ability, just as his visitor had asked him to do.

  And yet, suddenly, something was different.

  With every phrase he spoke in the gradualistic spell, he imagined a grain of sand filling a vase. When the vase was full, the spell would be complete and the Princess—well, the spell would be complete. But now, in his mind’s eye, he couldn’t shake the image of a grain of sand lifting out of the vase for each one he dropped in. At first, the rate of removal had been far slower than his steady pouring-in. But now, roughly an hour after the strange visualization had popped into his head, the best he seemed to be able to manage was to keep the sand level. And a nagging premonition in the back of his head told him that, although he was already pouring as fast as his powers would allow, the force arrayed against him was only going to become stronger as time went on.

  The wizard was covered in sweat, naked to the world, having shed his rags hours ago. But the cold sweat of terror was mingled with the natural result of his exertions now. His visitor had promised him protection, and that no intruders would break through to molest him in the unlikely event that anyone even knew to look for him. But he’d heard nothing about having to deal with a magical adversary. The spell was challenging enough already. How could he be expected to—

  In the yard, his gate swung open with its distinctive screech. Jilmaq’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled over his words. It must be an animal in the yard, he thought, frantically.

  “Did you hear a voice?” a man’s baritone voice said, barely audible through the walls.

  “Check the back. Make sure no one runs away,” he heard a woman reply. Her voice was ragged and merciless.

  Spheres help me, Jilmaq thought. His thin chest was heaving, and his bloodshot eyes darted around his home in terror. Nowhere to run; no way to fight; no reason to surrender. He heard the hinges on his front door creak open. The only thing he could hope to do was to finish what he’d started.

  “Doxcoi, lavidesh ist maluvi malodi malacest,” he bellowed. Enough of this gradualism. It was time to cast the spell and let the ripples spread where they may. “Naomi Elizabeth Galidate Haberstorm, malvodum sh’lesh dorask—”

  “What’s that sound?”

  “Get in here, Sigurd!” the woman’s voice snapped. Around the corner came a blood-stained Petronaut with blue-black hair, one hand hanging limply by her side and a dagger in the other. Jilmaq shied away from her, his eyes wild and frantic as he continued to cast at the top of his lungs. She lowered herself into a crouch and, with impossible speed, launched herself across the room. The butt of her dagger struck Jilmaq’s forehead and his whole world went white.

  Princess Naomi screamed; the first sound her throat had made in thirteen years of life. Lady Ceres whirled to look at her, her face draining of color.

  In the next room, Ouste felt the sudden rush of energy and, with quicksilver reflexes, spoke a single polysyllabic command. A last-ditch Ward had been enchanted into the stones of Princess Naomi’s chambers when she had been born; an innovation of Ouste’s own devising during the days of Queen Tess. She had been maintaining the Ward with a tiny corner of her mind for thirteen years, sacrificing that part of her own power indefinitely should the day come when speed was of the essence. Now released, the Ward loosed a great burst of invisible magical noise around the Princess, disrupting the connection between the Heir and a malicious spellcaster. Only the strongest of links could persist through a Ward of that magnitude.

  The shock of the Ward’s activation struck Ouste like a sledgehammer, her brain reeling with the upheaval. She dropped to the ground, insensible, cracking her skull on the tiled floor. One maidservant shrieked as the others rushed to her aid.

  Lord Portikal rushed in from the anteroom at the sound of commotion. “Sweet Spheres,” Portikal said, seeing Ouste prone on the floor as well, her head cradled in a maid’s white lap. “Ouste, are you all right? What’s happened?”

  “Does the Princess live?” Ouste said, her eyes closed.

  “I—”

  “Does she live?” the wizard bellowed in a voice too large for her body.

  Portikal swallowed, then ducked his head into the Princess’ sleeping chambers. It was not permitted for a man to enter her sleeping rooms, but if the time had ever called for an exception, it was now. Lady Ceres was kneeling by the Princess’ bedside, her back to the door. “Ceres!” he called out, fearful . “How is Her Highness?”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then Ceres turned to face the other Regent, relief radiating from her strong face. “She’s alive.”

  “She’s alive, Ouste,” Portikal said, sighing with relief. “Now, are you all right? What just happened?”

  Ouste looked across the room at the Regent, blinking her light blue eyes. The Ward had disrupted the connection between Naomi and Jilmaq; and it had also burned the fog out of her brain. Memories came back to her, clear and sharp. The steady progress of the plan; the conference with Volman; setting up the mock ojing; settling in for a long day of meditation while Jilmaq went to work; and then, the inexplicable rush of sentimental garbage; the moronic decision to mutiny against herself; all leading up to the moment when she activated the Ward, expending a huge investment in time, treasure, and magical power to put the nail in the coffin of a plan of her own devising!

  And all because—the conclusion was unavoidable—someone had invaded her. But not elegantly, like a proper adversary, but in the grossest, basest, clumsiest manner possible. The crudest of amateurs had managed to land a lucky blow today, of all days. And what was most galling was that now her hands were tied. With Jilmaq’s connection broken, the spell would progress no further. Even if Ouste did nothing more to counter his curse, as it stood now, a healthy young girl like Naomi would recover from it naturally in a manner of days. The Regents and the populace, given the extenuating circumstances, would allow her to complete the Ordeals when she was healthy, and the entire plot would be unraveled.

  She tried unsuccessfully to swallow her pride, her face tight with fury. Her best option now was a bitter pill indeed. “Now, Lord Portikal,” she said, rising to her feet with the maids’ help, “I must return to work. I will not rest until I have cured the Princess.”

  With that, Ouste began a spell of healing in snarling phrases of Mabinanto. And after this, she thought, I will not rest until I put my rival in his grave.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Royal Visit

  “What in the black flames do you think you’re doing here?” Samanthi said.

  Lundin gla
nced over his shoulder and shrugged defensively. Their storeroom at the Petronaut warehouse was cramped, packed floor to ceiling with shelves and parts. This was where the carters had delivered the Melodimax and the Recon squad’s other gear after the riotous feastday yesterday. Lundin drummed his fingers on top of the squawk box. “I’ll come out in a moment.”

  “You come out now,” she said, stalking into the room and closing the door behind her. Samanthi was wearing a suspiciously dress-shaped garment over top of her cleanest slacks, and her sandy hair was twirled into pretty, full-bodied curls not typically associated with rolling out of bed. Lundin, too, was in a glossy peacoat and had his boots blacked; though their shine wouldn’t last, the way he was shuffling his feet. “The Princess and the Regents have the right to show up late. You, junior tech, do not.”

  “I just want a moment, please, Sam.”

  “You can have a moment in the hall, with the rest of us, as we wait for Her Royal Highness to give the Petronaut community her personal thanks. Does something about this sound optional to you?” She put her hands on her hips as he steadfastly refused to meet her eyes.

  “Do you think Dame Miri and Sir Sigurd don’t deserve to get medals?”

  “Of course they do. They killed an invading Petronaut, they captured Jellyface, and they almost died.”

  “Do you think Kelley and Mathias don’t deserve medals for making that steward crack?”

  “Of course they do.”

  “So, what? Are you bellyaching because we aren’t getting medals? Because if that’s it, I’ll slap your face here and now.”