Oathbreaker, Book 2: The Magus's Tale

by Colin McComb

  Next was a woman I had never seen before, wearing a black robe. She was alone and serene, and I feared her and could not say why. How could she have come to her power without my knowledge? Where had she been hiding?

  At last was Mischka, the wielder of the ruby flame, the light that burns. I knew his reputation, and I resolved to strike him down before the others, if at all possible. He was nearly thirty years old, a stocky, powerful man who with his master, Zuvaminsch, had helped to improve the efficiency of the light-collection panels for the military dirigibles. They had developed ways of harnessing and amplifying forces that would increase the speed of the vehicles, and their side interests lay in amplifying other forces as well.

  As I said, they moved at once. They must have determined that they could find an entrance after they had closed within the outer rings of my defenses, because they came for no portal I could recognize.

  I took three seeking spheres to the transport discs. I activated them, returned to the control console, and powered the transport system.

  Otto planted another steel stake into the loam. He cursed as he worked; his was not work for making a siege, but for destroying it. He had a reputation as a destroyer, but he was far more comfortable on the other side of the attack. Master Kamuller had insisted, though. Otto suspected that Kamuller wanted to be rid of him.

  Otto would have been happy as an adjunct, an assistant. He didn’t have the ambition to kill directly, but damned if he was going to let some child kill him for the sake of the tower. No, Otto thought, better him than me.

  And so he drove his stakes into the ground, guided by a small device that dangled from his belt. He was looking for the tower’s power sources, the emanations that should—if Kamuller’s notes about Underhill’s tower were correct—mark the hidden lines that fed the tower’s defenses. He’d find them, disable them, and walk in. Once there, he’d hunt down the apprentice and subdue the boy, kill him if necessary, and reactivate the tower’s defenses to evict the other pretenders. Once the apprentice was down, they were supposed to leave on their own, but sometimes the losers tried to rewrite the outcome.

  He checked the device, hefted another metal stake, and stabbed the earth.

  Lightning arced up the shaft, and flame enveloped him. His body charred and smoked, and he danced long after he was dead.

  The first challenger died far more easily than I could have expected. One of the old pieces of misinformation, one of the most easily avoided traps. Of course our predecessors wouldn’t have the sources of their strength known. We depend on our power, and letting our peers—our rivals—know how we generate our might gives them power over us.

  We’re all supposed to be on the same side, the side of the Empire. But we have a job to do—an incredibly important job. Our duty is destruction. We create new weaponry, test it, refine it. We specialize. And though we occasionally collaborate with other magi (in the case of genuine threats to the Empire, for instance), we primarily develop our work in isolation so that our visions are not tainted by those of our peers. Thus it is that we must test our work ourselves.

  When we have finished a line of inquiry, we send it to Terona, to the Archmagus, for his investigation, examination, and further testing. If he or his apprentices—all worthy magi in their own rights—find no fault (or a correctable fault) with our work, he remands it to the magicians who toil in the deepest bowels of Devilsfoot. They examine our work and our notes and begin to replicate the devices for diplomats, spies, and elite warriors who might use these artifacts for protection, espionage, or offense.

  The difference between a magus and a magician is the difference between the artist and the laborer. We create, they follow. They are assistants at best, capable of excellent work in reproducing the artifacts we devise. Some of them even grasp the underlying principles and move up to the position of magus, creating instead of copying.

  It is vital that a magus create. If a magus ceases to innovate, she leaves herself open to enemies who have studied her past works. She opens a breach in her defenses. She must always be vigilant in her thinking and in her power. She might choose to close her seat from the rest of the world, or she might choose—as did my master—to snare the unwary with false trails that will lead to their destruction.

  Orvald stood near Otto’s still-smoking corpse. Otto’s fingers had finally burned out and snapped off, letting his body fall to the ground. There wasn’t much left to recognize. The stake into the ground still sparked and hissed, and Orvald wasn’t fool enough to study it too closely—not with the gear he was carrying. Why risk arcing?

  However, he could reach Otto’s belt, maybe get a look at the direction Otto and his master had been taking. Orvald picked up a largish stick, crouched, and began poking at the dead man’s waist, hoping to dislodge the device. He heard a twig snap a few yards away, and he spun around, fell on his rear, and brought his staff up in front of him, flaring. He lowered it again when he saw Otto’s assistant at the edge of the clearing, eyeing the charred apprentice.

  “It wasn’t me,” said Orvald. He did not fear Otto’s boy, but there was no point in antagonizing a lad who could easily follow him through the woods to the tower and sink a knife into his back. Who knew how deep the boy’s loyalty went? Orvald stood, brushing dirt from his cloak, and said, “If you’ve come for the body, don’t bother with the stake there. I don’t know how long it’ll keep burning like that, but it’ll kill you as dead as Otto here.”

  The boy just stared at him. Orvald stared back for a moment, waiting for him to say something. He didn’t, and Orvald broke his gaze away first.

  “Don’t follow me,” Orvald said. “I’ll kill you if you come after me.” He was fairly certain his voice didn’t waver as he said it, and as he turned away he congratulated himself for it. He was ready to take on this Alton chap, but a helpless assistant? He didn’t think he was quite that ruthless, not yet. Regardless, he looked back over his shoulder as he went and shouted, “I mean it!”

  When he turned around, the black-robed woman stood in front of him. She held up a black-gloved hand, and from her hand spilled oblivion. Orvald did not have time to scream.

  How did it come that the taking of a tower is met by a picked band of apprentices and one or two assistants, instead of armies? The knowledge hidden in these towers is immense, the accumulated work of lifetimes of some of the most brilliant men and women of the Empire. An enterprising warlord could significantly increase his power by controlling one of these towers, and a rogue duke or earl might be able to back a secession by bringing one under his wing. Likewise, the other magi could increase their own store of knowledge, becoming paramount and unrivalled in their power, if they could only bring the resources of a friendly noble to bear.

  As with so much of the history of the magi, the answer lies in the decrees of our kings. Wars have been fought over these places, before the grasp of the Empire became too strong. With unchecked aggression came untold destruction, and incredible amounts of knowledge were lost—to say nothing of the lives wasted, of course.

  After three such engagements, which devastated dozens of square miles of land and saw the release of sorceries unseen since the Hundred Flowers, Terona had finally had enough. The king issued an order infamous in our circles: the Claimant and Rehabilitant (Magical) Act; he delivered it to each noble house and to each magus tower, and executed the magus who unleashed that last fatal barrage.

  The order also created the Archmagus and the Council of Magi. It is the Council that gives us our particular code of honor, and where we are most likely to meet our cohorts.

  Sandoval stood in the shade of a great oak, her whip coiled loosely in her fist. She made no move as the black-robed woman emerged from the wood behind her; her attention seemed focused purely on the tower that stood at the top of the ridge. Yet even as this woman closed in on her back, the whip unfurled and crackled to life. Its gleaming metal coils slithered and curled under their own power, rising into the air to scent the intruder. Sa
ndoval turned her gaunt and pitted face toward her foe, stared at her with unblinking eyes, and all the while the steel whip curled and flexed between them.

  The woman stared back and at last breathed out, “Sandoval.”

  “Juliene,” Sandoval spat. “Come no closer, snake.”

  “I can strike you from at least this far,” Juliene said, “but I have not.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Two of our rivals are dead. We can join forces against the third, remove the stripling from his tower, and then try to murder each other for the spoils.”

  “Why do you think I’d accept this,” Sandoval said, “when you left me for dead the last time we met?”

  “You know me, you know Mischka, and you hate him more than you hate me.”

  “What do you get out of this?”

  “You think I wouldn’t want the help of a… how can I say this best? A reformed Knight Lesser? A woman strong enough to be a warrior, but smart enough not to want it? The two of us can take Mischka and this apprentice down together. As for you… I think I can beat you again.”

  “Then you’ll understand when I insist that you lead the way,” Sandoval said. Her scarred mouth twitched with a moment’s smile.

  “How can I trust that you won’t attack… oh, yes, yes, you can’t trust me either. Very well. I shall lead. Who shall we find first?”

  “The Underhill pretender,” said Sandoval. “We can hold the tower against Mischka, I think.”

  “How do you propose to enter the tower?”

  “Like this,” she replied, and told Juliene something surprising.

  The Council of Magi looked to the Archmagus as its leader, but it was a formidable group in its own right. It advised the king on matters magical and technical, oversaw the Corps of Engineers in the armies, and helped transport our—that is, the Empire’s—spies and diplomats to the places we sought influence.

  The Council consisted of ten magi who were chosen by lot, consent, and immediacy of their research. They traveled to Terona by dirigible once a month to consult on Council matters, offer advice on improving certain devices, and present their findings and feelings on various Imperial topics. It was here that they met their patrons in the flesh and had the opportunity to test their work on human subjects: prisoners for the preliminary tests (and for the refinements, if the work was offensive and not an augmentation). For augmentative work, success in the early trials meant that we might have the opportunity to contribute to the Knighthood.

  The best part of obtaining a seat on the Council was the opportunity to coordinate and study with our peers. It was one of the few chances we had to study one another’s work, and we took those opportunities very seriously. Understanding a new piece of magic could unveil an entirely new line of thinking, and such synergies could propel us to dizzying heights.

  The knowledge of so many diverse lines was part of what made the Archmagus so powerful. He was the only one who had regular access to all our works, and he could draw from each of them to create a working that was beyond all our skills. We respected him, surely, but we feared him more.

  Off to the east, a hidden panel slipped open in the forest floor, and a gleaming steel globe the size of a fist lifted from it. It emitted a barely audible hum as it rose. Three glittering circles of glass ringed its circumference. It spun and began seeking a way northward through the woods. Faint arcs of blue lightning trailed behind it.

  The sphere looked and sounded deadly. It was.

  A scarlet flash bored a hole through one of its lenses and dropped it to the ground, smoking. The globe spat and hissed, and its lightning died, one crackle at a time.

  When it had quieted, a boot nudged it experimentally. The sphere rolled, its power spent. The boot’s owner dropped to one knee to look at it more closely. Mischka picked it up gingerly and poked at it with a finger. He wore a strange gauntlet on his left hand, one with a jointed index finger from which ran tubes and hoses. The back of the gauntlet was a reticulated pattern, a tracery of intricate silver and gold thread. The tip of the finger was a focal lens made of a single unfaceted ruby.

  The face behind the finger was plain and weathered, surrounded by straw-blond hair. The eyes were spaced wide and deep blue.

  Mischka studied the sphere and dropped it carefully into the pouch at his belt. He’d study it further later. In the meantime, he had a trail to follow. His old friends would be expecting him, and he had some plans of his own for them.

  One monitor went dead, and then another. I scanned the screens as quickly as I could and caught a glimpse of something black and fluttering before monitor 12 went dead as well. Based on the pattern, whoever was responsible was coming directly for this room. But how? How could they move so unerringly toward me? I had perhaps three minutes before they arrived. Frantic, I keyed my last three spheres and pulled on my gauntlet, and that’s when the door blew in, the figures of two women behind the frame.

  I threw one of my spheres into the air, but the dark woman raised her hand and the sphere disappeared. I tried to activate the other two, but Sandoval cracked her gleaming whip and though she was nowhere near me, my world disappeared in a black and shocking blast of pain that blew me out from the inside.

  I woke to the sound of their voices.

  “I say we kill him,” one said.

  “And I say that he’s helpless. We have no reason to kill him. We can bind him and take control of the tower.”

  “Certitude,” said the first, “is one of my favorite feelings.”

  “And guilt is one of my least.”

  “Guilt? For this boy? You’ve killed before.”

  “Not the helpless.”

  “I don’t have a problem with it. Step aside.”

  “No, Juliene.”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Sandoval, but I will.”

  “How will you defend yourself against Mischka?”

  I opened my eyes slowly to a slit and saw the black-robed woman, still standing in the door, aiming a small-bore nozzle at the whip-wielding woman—Sandoval—who stood between us. That meant the other woman must be Juliene. The whip coiled and seethed on the floor, dragging sparks and whining in a way that made my mind fill with that horrible dark pain.

  I still wore my gauntlet. One of my spheres lay within reach, but I couldn’t turn it on without attracting attention from my defender or my would-be killer. I considered the situation as they argued above me.

  “I can hold this room against him,” said Juliene. “Now step aside. I won’t say it again.”

  Sandoval was fast, but not fast enough. I saw Juliene’s eyes narrow and knew that my protector was going to die—and then I saw one of those eyes vanish in a flash of ruby light, a pure beam that left behind it a smoking hole. Juliene’s body crumpled instantly.

  Standing in the doorway was Mischka.

  “Hello, Sandoval,” he said, and her whip coiled and cracked, and I heard an echo of that black noise again. Mischka staggered and fell backward from the door, and the ruby lance scored a smoking hole in my ceiling. Sandoval went after him, plucking a dagger from her belt, and as she disappeared headlong through the door, I heard Mischka’s laugh and Sandoval’s curse, and the sounds of struggle ensued. Two flashes of scarlet light followed, and the curses turned to moans.

  I stood and activated the sphere. Outside the door, I heard Mischka murmuring, gloating over his fallen foe. I threw my humming globe into the hallway. I could not steer it without seeing it, but the cry of pain and the spatter and spray of blood told me what I needed to know.

  I looked into the hall and saw that Mischka’s left arm had been mutilated. It ended in a dripping stump below his elbow. His strange glove lay on the ground, the fingers still twitching—I thanked the gods for my good fortune in removing my foe of his weapon. Next to it lay Sandoval, with a cauterized hole in her right shoulder and another in her stomach. She still breathed, and I could see her summoning her strength.

  Mischka fell to his knees, and then
to the ground, his face white with shock. I brought the sphere back and prepared to destroy his skull.

  Sandoval struggled to sit and said, “Do not kill him.”

  “This is my tower,” I said, “and you are both intruders here. What makes you think I’m inclined to spare either of you?”

  “But… I saved your life!” she replied.

  “You came here to kill me!” I shouted. “Why would I show mercy?”

  “So you would kill enemies who are defeated?” she asked.

  “I would,” I said.

  A flicker of disgust crossed her face, and she said, “I’ll trade information for my life.”

  “What about his?” I asked.

  “I will offer you an alliance,” she replied, “if you do not kill him.”

  “Then let us negotiate terms,” I said. “You can start by telling me how you breached the tower.”

  “The Archmagus,” she said. “After your master was killed, the Archmagus found the old plans for Underhill Tower and gave them to me. Juliene and I found one of the hidden entrances. We need to stop Mischka’s bleeding.”

  “In a moment,” I said. “I want to know why he gave you those plans.”

  “No,” she said. “Mischka is dying. Save him.”

  “Why?”

  “Honor,” she replied. “Honor, and I want him in my debt.”

  “Our debt, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well,” I said, and I stooped to pick up the gauntlet and the whip as I returned to the control room for medical supplies.

  She left the tower that evening, with bandages and the best care I could offer to aid in her healing. As for Mischka, he lay in my power, and I was not going to relinquish control over him so easily. I kept his gauntlet, and I placed a smaller sphere into his shoulder. When he woke, I said, “Listen to me…” and I explained to him our new relationship. When he nodded his assent, I sent him through the transport system and sat down to think.