"The copy? Oh, no, not at all, Preeminence. With sufficient practice and close supervision, a dedicated team can create the reproduction in as little as two hours. At Drh, we had created more than a dozen for various experiments. It was the definition itself that required seventy-five years of labor to compile. Only select brethren have sufficient Ability to perceive the flux modulations of the Artifact and those worthies must train for three or more years to achieve the deep meditative trance required to distinguish the -- "
"There is no limit to the weight or size of the vehicle that the spell will levitate?"
"None that we have yet discovered, Preeminence. We believe --"
With a sharp gesture, Traeleon waved Pzieilng to silence.
He looked at the device that continued to levitate the table and then down at the bolt thrower in his hand as ideas and plans began to form.
TWENTY-THREE
The morning after the battle, while the flotilla readied to depart Elboern, Mar flew over the ruins of the fort and its environs, searching until he found one of the cubes that had smashed through and broken Number Three. If those cubes had been just simple metal, he should have been able to infuse them with flux, if only weakly and temporarily, or at the very least manipulate their natural modulations in some way. With not just his own, but thousands of lives depending upon his magic, he needed to find out why it had failed him in this case.
The cube had driven itself almost a manheight in to the ground near the ruins of the watch tower, and been buried by subsequent settling of the ground. After clearing away an overburden of stone rubble with magic, he found he could do little to remove the loose soil and had had to get the assistance of two quads of Dhrasnoaeghs' legionnaires to help him excavate a pit. He had tried to infuse the loose clay and loam to make it heave itself out of the way, but had achieved only poor results. It seemed that the relatively small proportion of sand in the mixture made it unresponsive to the sound-colors with which he was most proficient.
After half an hour of energetic digging, the legionnaires had cleared a large hole all around the sides of the cube and down to its tilted base, leaving it fully exposed. At this point, the fugleman in charge of the detail told him that it would be necessary to erect a gantry crane to winch the chunk of metal out, but Mar deferred, explaining that he had no need to immediately extract the cube, and climbed down the foot holds that the legionnaires had cut into the sides of the pit.
It was immediately apparent that this was not one of the Brotherhood's artfully crafted ancient relics, but rather a modern and decidedly crude casting in a poor grade of soft steel. At approximately one armlength in dimension, he guessed its weight at something approaching a thousandweight. None of its corners were true and its slightly irregular surface had the crusty pitting of a slag encrusted mold. It also possessed wormhole like voids where air had been left negligently trapped in the molten metal and a light patina of spreading orange rust. Whoever had cast it had not bothered to take the typical preventative measure of oiling its surface. The metal smiths of Khalar would have called the righteous condemnation of the Forty-Nine down on any apprentice slovenly enough to have presented such reprehensible workmanship.
As he tried to delve it, he discovered its one significant feature and the reason that he had been unable to affect its fall -- the metal was entirely devoid of ethereal flux. Up until this point, he had encountered nothing that did not have a corresponding ethereal projection and had believed that a physical object and its projection were inseparably combined, that one could not exist without the other. Here was evidence that this was not the case. By some unknown means, the Phaelle'n had striped these cubes of their natural spells and thereby made them completely impervious to magical manipulation.
Disturbed by what he had learned and by the potential dangers that it presented, he climbed out of the hole, left orders for the cube to be shipped back to the Monolith, and then flew off to his new flagship, Ulor's Number Seven.
Save for Number Ten, the Grandmother, which Mar had detached to support the walking wounded legionnaires and three sections of volunteers recruited from Elboern's dispersed citizenry who would be left to march the captured Black Monks to the Monolith, all of the skyships and their tows were flying in a stationary, tiered-wedge formation just east of the town. Seeing no point in continuing to defend the ruined town, Mar had ordered Dhrasnoaeghs' to take his remaining legionnaires, a legion of Khalarii from the Imperial Army, and two sections of Lord Purhlea's Reapers, the Mhajhkaeirii legion having been brought up to strength with new recruits, and march overland in the wake of the flotilla. His task was to drive out all armsmen or agents that the Brotherhood might have sequestered in the intervening villages and hamlets.
The officers of his impromptu command staff were all waiting in seats that had been set up on the open deck. Mhiskva, Lord Hhrahld, and Wilhm (where the High-Captain was the other two could usually be found) occupied a long bench together at the port rail. To their immediate right sat Purhlea's adjutant, Commander Tresh, who, being more or less recovered from the grievous wounds that he had suffered in the evacuation of the Citadel, had taken charge of the Reapers. Next was the newly minted Vice-Commander Rhel, commanding the Defenders. Berhl, whose duties in Khalar had been assumed by Viceroy Purhlea (not without considerable complaint, mainly at being left behind), and Ulor occupied a space just in front of the legion commanders. Both had been promoted, as of this morning, to Captain and Vice-Captain respectively. At the starboard rail sat Commander Aerlon, who had double duty as head of the nascent quartermaster corps and of the newly organized legion composed of Elboern militia and volunteers. To Aerlon's right sat the last and newest member, the Imperial Relvhm, who proudly sported a Blood Oath scar and had rallied four Khalarii legions to the cause, though admittedly two were of the reserves. All of them stood to attention when Mar came down.
Waving them back to their seats, he flew to a chair that had been left for him and settled into it, sighing as the seat took his weight off the brigandine. While he knew that in time he would grow accustomed to his lack of legs and did have the benefit of magic where most that had lost limbs had to make do with crutches or worse, he still despised the daily physical torment that his life had become.
"Ulor," he mentioned to the vice-captain, "I saw Mrye and Srye still on the steerage of their skyships when I flew over,"
"Aye, my lord king. The lady magicians asked me to thank you for your concern, but to say that their father did not raise them to, in their words, 'wail like washerwomen' and that they are quite cable of fighting their skyships."
Wloblh and his entire crew of thirty-five had died with Number Eight. During the night, their remains, crushed beyond recognition, had been cremated in place with the scraps of Number Three. Lest they should ever be forgotten, Mar had directed Phehlahm to record each man's name in a small ledger book that he had then placed into a pocket that he had sewn in to his brigandine. With some reluctance, he had sent word to Wloblh's daughters that he would understand if the two young women could not continue with the flotilla.
"I'm glad that they're staying. We need them."
"We cannot afford to lose any more magicians, my lord king," Commander Tresh declared, frowning. He paused a moment and scratched at the hideous scar then went from above his right ear down to his chin. "The newest ones can barely keep headway."
"They'll get better with time," Mar told him with feigned confidence. The latest batch of a dozen magician trainees, all of whom had been hurriedly recruited, several from Khalar, and all of whom had had at most three days to learn to manipulate flux, was, with one or two possible exceptions, a tenth as capable as the first. Even poor Grandmother Heldhaen had done better.
"But I agree. In the next battle, only Ulor and I will pilot skyships into combat. The others will stand off to the rear."
Mar knew without a doubt that the interception of the Phaelle'n skyship by Number Eight had been a deliberate act of heroic self-sacrifice, but h
e was afraid that Wloblh had been enticed by the subtle magic of the Blood Oath to do what he had done. He knew that many would die in this war, but it somehow seemed an outrage that magic should compel anyone to give up their life to save his.
Mar looked at Mhiskva. "Have you decided on a plan for the capture of the monk's positions along the Lower Gray?"
Unwilling to have any sizable enemy force to his rear, he had already decided not to attempt to bypass the Brotherhood's fortified line.
"My lord king, we believe the best strategy is to make use of our mobility and the fact that we intrinsically hold the high ground. Baring the appearance of more of their skyships, we should be able to concentrate our polybolos fire at range on the monks' main bastion. It straddles the highway and is the clear linchpin of the defense. Once it has been reduced, we can then land our forces in their rear area, south of the line, and outflank the outlying earthworks, using aerial bombardment to soften any resistance."
"You don't think that they'll send in their own skyships?"
"They lost six at Elboern to our two, my lord king," Aerlon answered. "No matter what, the engagement has shown that our aerial magic and weapons are presently superior to theirs. We also can construct more while they can only have a finite number. I believe that they will not risk more of their skyships for a strategically unimportant battle, especially since they must have realized at this point, as we have, that aerial transport makes fixed defenses irrelevant."
Mar looked around at the others. "Any comments, reservations?"
"If at all possible," Vice-Commander Relvhm suggested, "we should attempt to preserve the bridge for Vice-Commander Dhrasnoaeghs' use. The crossing will be much simpler and quicker without the need to ferry his armsmen across."
"The monks may set fire to it if they see they can't hold it," Ulor suggested.
"If they do, I can put it out," Mar said. Extinguishing natural fire should not be a problem, though he actually had yet to attempt it.
Wilhm stirred to life, blinked slowly, and swung his head to look them all in the eye. "We should ask them to give up first. Aunt Whelsi has said that I should never kill anyone before they have a chance to give up."
After a moment during which no one appeared to have a reaction to this, Lord Hhrahld judged, "It would be the honorable thing to do. Futile, I would imagine, but honorable."
"Like as not, we'd get our envoy back in pieces," Berhl grumbled.
Mar swung his eyes to the senior-most officer. "Mhiskva?"
"Magic has changed war, my lord king, but it has not changed men. War always has been and will always be a savage business, but the men who wage it need not be."
"Before the Phaelle'n, courtesy would have required an exchange of protocols before battle could be joined, my lord king," Aerlon added. "In simpler times, we would have been obliged to present them with a Demand and await their Rejection. Granted, this was most often only a mere formality."
Mar was not inclined to adhere to any artificial code created by jingoistic nobles playing at war, but he could see Mhiskva's point. The battle plan did not depend on the element of surprise; pausing to call upon the Phaelle'n to surrender would not create any disadvantage. And, as the Plydyrii had said, the offer would be no more than a formality. The monks would never surrender.
"All right. Before we begin the bombardment, I'll go down with a white flag." And drop a dozen sand spheres on them when they try to shoot me full of crossbow bolts, he added to himself.
"That might be unwise, my lord king," Mhiskva demurred. "Exposing yourself needlessly to danger would gain nothing. Customarily, an officer of middle rank would carry the Demand."
Aerlon immediately spoke up. "My lord king, I would be more than happy to serve as our envoy."
Mar blew out a puff of air. Much as he might want the contrary, it remained true that he could not do everything. Delegation was another curse that kings must submit to.
"Fine. Make whatever preparations are necessary. Ulor, signal the other skyships. Let's get under way."
As the flotilla moved out at the maximum speed of the newest trainees -- perhaps all of two leagues an hour -- Mar ferried the officers back to their assigned vessels and then returned to Number Seven, landing on the steerage platform next to her pilot.
"Ulor, you did get the barrels of sand?"
"Aye, my lord king."
Mar grunted. "Have them brought up. I might as well get started."
TWENTY-FOUR
The Battle of the Lower Gray proved not to be, in fact, a battle.
The monks had built a standard field fort, a joined series of embankments and ditches in a roughly square shape, just south of the Lower Gray. With a north wall that ran along the bank of the stream and an east that paralleled the highway, the fort was approximately two hundred paces in each dimension and had built-up circular bastions at each corner. A line of log and earthen breastworks connected the main fort to a series of palisades that stretched up and down the water course for as far as Mar could see in either direction. From the looks of it, perhaps as many as ten thousand men were standing to arms in the fort, the breastworks, and the palisades.
For once, all seemed to be proceeding according to plan. As Aerlon had predicted, none of the Brotherhood's flying relics were within sight.
While the remainder of the flotilla held station at a third of a league, Mar had Ulor land Number Seven a hundred paces from the Phaelle'n earthwork on the northern side of the timber bridge.
"Commander Aerlon," Mar told the Plydyrii, "You may proceed. Good luck."
Aerlon saluted. "Thank you, my lord king."
While Mar, Ulor and a number of the crew watched from the rail, Aerlon and two volunteers from his militia legion, one of whom carried a large white flag that the gentle crosswind stirred into plain view, disembarked from the skyship and advanced at a regulated pace south along the highway. They stopped thirty or forty paces short of the guard post.
Prepared to fly forward to support the truce party should the monks decide to answer with crossbow bolts, Mar was surprised when there was no response from the guard post for almost the full half hour that he had allotted to the overture. Finally, only moments before the deadline, three armsmen also bearing a white banner emerged around the split-pole barrier that lay across the highway and confronted Aerlon. Interestingly, rather than the distinctive black armor of the Brotherhood, the men wore simple mail and leather. They were much too far away for him to tell much else about them.
The exchange between the parties lasted only a few moments and then Aerlon and his men came back to Number Seven, practically running.
Presuming the expected rejection of terms, Mar told Ulor to make ready to raise ship, sent Phehlahm to prepare the green signal smoke to alert the rest of the flotilla to attack, and then sailed over the rail to meet the Commander and his men on the ground.
Grinning from ear to ear, Aerlon practically shouted when he announced the news. "They surrender, my lord king!"
Mar pressed his lips into a flat line. "It must be a ruse."
"No, my lord king! That officer was a distant cousin of mine! These armsmen are all Plydyrii, Droahmaerii, Trozaerii, and Mhajhkaeirii conscripts! Their Phaelle'n overseers all slipped away during the night and a cabal of their officers and underofficers have overthrown the Mhajhkaeirii noble that was left in command!"
It was only a few hours later that Mar had the full details, but Aerlon had relayed the gist of it -- freed of the Black Monks, the commanders of the one Plydyrii, two Droahmaerii, one Trozaerii, and three Mhajhkaeirii legions had seen no need to fight against The Scourge of the Forty-Nine.
"What's that?" Mar, resting on Number Seven's deck while eating his supper, demanded of Mhiskva. Lord Hhrahld and Wilhm were with him, the latter sitting on a barrel while he ate a large bowl of beans that Phehlahm (Aunt Whelsi had made the marine promise to watch over Wilhm) had pressed on him, but the rest of the staff were busy supervising the withdrawal of the surrendered legion
s from the fortified line.
"That is how they speak of you, my lord king. You are the scourge sent by the true gods to drive out the godsless."
Mar took a drink of tea to wash down some bread. Phehlahm's beans still left much to be desired, but the two-day old dark bread was satisfying. Having eaten a lot of old bread in his time, he had developed a taste for it. "Whose crazy idea was this?"
"Oh, it was none of our doing, my lord king. Apparently, the priests of the temples of Mhajhkaei have been quietly preaching rebellion and have chosen you as the Gods' anointed champion. They have even labeled our advance into the provinces controlled by the Brotherhood as a holy crusade."
Mar shrugged. He had no concern about what people believed, as long as they did not expect him to agree with them. In any case, he did not have the power to prevent the creation of myths by eager proselytes.
"What do you suggest that we do with the Plydyrii and the rest?"
"They wish to be taken under your command, my lord king."
"If they swap sides once, they can swap sides twice."
"Possibly, but most were never loyal to the monks. Their obedience to the Brotherhood was a matter of practical survival."
"Right, but they have no reason to be loyal to us."
"The Blood Oath would guarantee their loyalty, my lord king."
"You can't compel anyone to swear it," Mar countered, knowing instinctively that such a thing would not work.
"I do not suggest that we attempt to compel their obeisance, my lord king, but rather simply to inform them of the option."
"I'll think about it. What about Lord L'Ghevh?"
"There must be a court marshal. When he admitted the monks to the Citadel, he committed high treason. His willing service to the Phaelle'n occupation has abetted that betrayal in the most heinous fashion."
"Then make it first thing in the morning. After, we'll continue south."
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