Thief (The Key to Magic Book 7)

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Mar moved out in front of the assembled armsmen and took a moment to mentally tally their names. They all deserved to be remembered, these men who might die twice for the Empire.

  The Gaaelfharenii were in the front rank: High-Captain Mhiskva, Lord Hhrahld, and Wilhm.

  The next rank, eleven men, were marines: Vice-Captain Ulor, Ceannaire Phehlahm, Ceannaire Fihltch, Marine Feszk, Marine W'ry , Marine Dsee, Marine Ph'm'lp, Marine Lymir, Marine Bu'sm, Marine Oth, Marine P'orosh .

  The third rank of twelve were legionnaires: Vice-Captain Ulor, Ceannaire Kyamhyn, Legionnaire Bear, Legionnaire Scahll, Legionnaire Taelmhon, Legionnaire Dhem, Legionnaire Aelwyrd, Legionnaire Ghs'l, Legionnaire Mosigg, Legionnaire Ruhsgchaelgd.

  The final rank, also of twelve and also legionnaires: Fugleman Bostuu, Fugleman Khimhmg, Ceannaire Lhuraltrn, Ceannaire Khondh, Legionnaire Lhachal , Legionnaire Berneric, Legionnaire Yhust, Legionnaire Dhimost, Legionnaire Gihm, Legionnaire Gam'soi, Legionnaire S'yh.

  All held their rifles stock in right hand with the body of the weapon propped on the shoulder, another Gaaelfharenii re-innovation no doubt.

  Mhiskva gave the imperial salute. "My lord king, we stand ready."

  These men did not need a speech, but Mar gave them a much abbreviated one anyway.

  "Yesterday we lost the field. Today we retake it. I'll lead you through the portal. It will be wide enough for three abreast. As soon as you exit on the bridge, spread out and find cover."

  The magic was simple now; to open the portal, he just twirled his hand. The corridor linking this moment at unreconstructed Pyra to another moment in the mid-morning at the Imperial era bridge over the Sand River on Eleventhday, Waning, was compressed so well that the light of the bright bloody day shown back through.

  "Let's go," he said. Then, not looking back, he ran through, singing The Knife Fighter's Dirge under his breath.

  The Gaaelfharenii were right on his heels and the armsmen close behind.

  He did not have to rely on his memory; he had viewed the spot a dozen times from a dozen different points. The landscape around the bridge was devastated, but the bridge itself and the things that had been on it -- the piled wreckage of near two score of the Phaelle'n steel beetles, the dried blood where men, both his and theirs, had died, weapons and gear dropped by the dying -- remained intact, protected by the magic that he had used to deflect the majority of the great ethereal blast upward rather than outward. The brown waters of the Sand River ran grey with ash as they flowed beneath the arches of the bridge.

  Crouched low, the armsmen spilled out of the portal behind him and, moving as quads, made for the scant shelter provided by the side walls of the bridge.

  He let time resume its natural pace.

  From a rise beyond the riverbank to the right, bolts began to fall upon them.

  THIRTY-SIX

  17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 349th Day of Glorious Work

  Year One of the New Age of Magic

  Eleventhday-Twelfthday, Waning, 3rd Springmoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)

  "Remain in constant communication. Immediately report any contact with the enemy. If confronted with overwhelming force, withdraw behind Lhinstord. Reinforcements have been dispatched."

  As Zsii repeated the Archdeacon's words, Whorlyr continued to watch the center of the bridge through the Holy Relic, which operated much like doubled spy glasses though with much greater clarity and magnification. When the Apostate walked from nothing onto the bridge, Whorlyr stiffened.

  To his right, Senior Assault Brother Khimech, who apparently had much keener natural sight than the Director of Forces, raised up from his crouch to peer over the smashed pilot's compartment of the crashed Shrike that sheltered them.

  "He lives," Khimech declared in the thoroughly dispassionate Salient way. "He must be using a Holy Relic like unto the Emerald Gate."

  Whorlyr took the farseeing Relic down from his eyes and turned to the Archivist who knelt in a more protected position behind the body of the craft to the left. "Brother Zsii, inform the Archdeacon that the Apostate still lives."

  As Zsii began to whisper into the smooth stone device, Whorlyr put the Relic back to his eyes.

  Huge men, the infamous giants that had terrorized the brethren on Plydyre, had followed the Apostate from his unseen gate. Behind the hulking warriors came more Imperials, ten, twenty, thirty ... thirty-two in all. These wore no armor or tabards, just the rough dark uniforms of Mhajhkaeirii'n marines and legionnaires. All had scabbarded swords, but each also bore long devices that had the distinct look of ancient magical weapons.

  "Order the brethren to concentrate their fire upon the Apostate," he told Khimech. "I think we have caught him unaware."

  The Senior Assault Brother gave a series of hand signals that the deployed and hidden Salients of his three teams apparently saw immediately, for enervated bolts blasted towards the bridge. Khimech drew his own bolt thrower, laid his arms across the fractured stub of a wing to take a steady aim, then pulled the trigger repeatedly.

  None of the bolts landed. All dissipated ten armlengths short of their targets. As Whorlyr watched, the Apostate, unperturbed, raised his arms.

  "Fall back!" Whorlyr shrieked in sudden panic. He dove away from the mounded earth and the wreckage just as a ball of red fire struck it.

  The explosion threw him a dozen paces or more and when he came to rest he stayed on the ground as white hot chunks of metal from the crashed Shrike whizzed over his head and impacted the scorched earth around him.

  The instant he the noise ceased, he raised his head. Khimech -- or what was left of him -- lay not far to his left.

  "Brother Zsii!" He called softly as he started rapidly crawling back away from the ruptured crater that now occupied the spot where the crashed Shrike had been.

  A cough sounded. Then another, more ragged one. "Here! I am here, brother!"

  Half-buried in ejected earth, the Archivist lay ten paces to the right. After looking over his shoulder to make sure that the Apostate was not at that very moment flying out from the river to immolate him, he rose slightly and scurried towards Zsii.

  "Did you manage to send the message?" he demanded as he squatted to help the Archivist dig himself out.

  Though he had lost his satchel and most of the hair had been singed from his head and his tattered clothes were caked in dirt and soot -- no doubt exactly as Whorlyr now looked -- Zsii still had the far talking disk gripped determinedly in one hand.

  "Yes, brother, but I did not hear the acknowledgement. Should I try again?"

  "No, we do not have time for that! We must withdraw!"

  The Archivist swung his head about. "What about the other Salients?"

  Whorlyr gave a quick, sharp shake of his head. "Every man that raised a weapon against the Apostate is certainly dead. He is not using Relics, he is casting spells! He is a sorcerer now, like the ones from the lost age of magic!"

  "But ... how is that possible, brother?"

  "I do not know! Come with me now, or I am going to leave you."

  "Oh, right you are, brother! It is vital that we must warn the Archdeacon!"

  Whorlyr's only motivation was to get away before he wound up like Khimech, but he did not contradict the Archivist.

  Zsii proved lame with a twisted ankle and Whorlyr had to help him on the entire hike back along the highway. Expecting to feel the fire of the Apostate's magic with every step, he continually looked back towards the river, but neither magical flame nor avenging sorcerer appeared.

  Once they left the highway, he retraced their path through the tortured landscape by following the scuffs that their boots had made on the charred ground when they had marched out to reach the river.

  When they came within sight of the wrecked algar, a brace of Salient Encouragers ran out to meet them. In Whorlyr's absence, the two teams that poor dead Khimech had left to guard the exit point of the Emerald Gate had established a defensive perimeter by digging shallow holes and heap
ing up debris in front of them. Whorlyr, exhausted from dragging Zsii along, ordered the Salients to hoist up the Archivist and carry him the rest of the way, then somehow summoned sufficient energy to trot along with them.

  The sixteen Salients Combatants had made the steel and wood carcass of the destroyed conveyance the west anchor of their position and a Coordinator and another brace of Encouragers were crouched in a shallow trench in its shadow.

  Whorlyr did not know the officer's name. "Coordinator, make preparations to withdraw at once."

  "As you say, Director of Forces."

  Whorlyr expected no questions from the experienced Salient officer and there were none. The officer, squat and wide, nodded at the men with him, who bounded from the trench and ran in opposite directions around the perimeter to relay the order.

  As soon as the Archivist's bearers had put him down, Whorlyr asked him, "Is the talking disk operational?"

  Zsii turned the device in his hands, brushing off charred soil. "It should be. I see no damage."

  "Make contact and send this immediately: The Apostate has attacked using the weapons of sorcery. Senior Assault Brother Khimech and three teams of Salient brethren opened fire on the bridge but were decimated. No survivors seen. The Emerald Gate should be opened as soon as possible to permit us to withdraw."

  It was nearly twenty agonizing minutes before the gut-wrenching reply came.

  "Direct withdrawal not indicated at this time.. You will move overland through Lhinstord, observing the advance of the Apostate's forces as you go and reporting all movements without delay. Reinforcements are being moved into position at a prepared line east of the city. You will assume command there on arrival."

  Knowing that the Salients were watching, Whorlyr kept all sign of the fears that ate at him from his face as Zsii repeated the words.

  "Assemble for a single line of march with a half team rear guard at no more than fifty paces," he ordered the Coordinator. He looked at the two Encouragers, both younger men, who still stood beside Zsii. "You will remain with Archivist Zsii to assist his movement and to protect the far talking disk. Both he and the Holy Relic are essential to maintain communication with our brethren in Mhevyr. You will keep both safe at all costs."

  The Encourager on the left, a tall black-haired Third, was senior. "As you say, brother."

  "We will be in the vanguard. Coordinator --"

  "Bheeb, brother. I am Coordinator Bheeb."

  If the news of the deaths of his commander and half of his cloister had affected the Salient at all, it was not apparent from his demeanor or expression.

  "Coordinator Bheeb, you will command the rear. Give clear warning at the first sign of any pursuit."

  Already, the Salients were running to assemble. Confident that they would follow exactly as he had directed, Whorlyr turned on his heel and started jogging straight south on a line that would intersect the highway. Zsii's bearers -- the Encouragers had caught up the Archivist between them again -- fell in immediately behind and Coordinator Bheeb waved the other brethren to follow.

  Whorlyr reached the pavement before his now swelling right foot forced him to slow to a fast walk. He would suffer for the abuse he was delivering to the broken foot -- he could very well end up permanently lame -- but he also knew that he had to keep going if he was to have any chance at all of escape from the Imperials.

  The Salients, of course, kept pace with him without difficulty.

  It was likely better than three leagues to the breached walls of Lhinstord. Even on the relatively clear highway, at the speed of a walk, that would take four hours. Had he been able to keep up with them, the Salients were capable of running the entire distance and could certainly halve that time.

  But even that was not good enough.

  When the Apostate brought up more flying boats, he would easily be able to run Whorlyr and the Salients down. With nearly all of the Shrikes now destroyed, the Mhajhkaeirii would now have total control of the skies. Even had he the armor and speed of an algar, he would be easy prey.

  His only chance was to get as far from this war as possible.

  The Brotherhood of Phaelle and all of its ambitions were doomed. The Apostate had totally destroyed the greatest military force that had been assembled since the ancient age of magic. None of the magical weapons left at the disposal of the Archdeacon would stop the Mhajhkaeirii. Now that the emperor of the Glorious Empire of the North had the full powers of a sorcerer, all the world was his for the taking.

  Mhevyr would fall, then so too the rest of the cities overrun by the Brotherhood.

  He saw no rational reason why he should fall with them.

  In spite of the increasing pain in his foot, he started running again.

  He ran three hundred counted paces, walked a hundred, then ran again. The line of Salients behind him stayed close. Paying them and everything else no heed, he continued on, walking to rest as he must, until Lhinstord came into view.

  As they had moved farther from the river, there had been no lessening of the destruction along the highway and he expected to discover the large city and its blue-white imperial era walls flattened.

  What he found was the city still as he had seen it last, with significant damage only along its main avenue between the eastern and western gates where his algars and the Shrikes had blasted their way through. The transition from devastated terrain to the rather normal looking cleared ground around the walls was as abrupt as if someone had drawn a line and said incineration up to here and no farther.

  Another odd thing was that the city was no longer burning. Whorlyr had been certain that the systematic arson ordered by the Archdeacon would have left Lhinstord smoldering for a fortnight.

  But, as a point of fact, he could see no indication that any of it had ever been set alight.

  When they came to the breach where the huge gatehouse had been, he also did not see the contingent of algars that he had left to guard the path through the city.

  Had they already been withdrawn or had the Apostate leapfrogged ahead of him and wiped them out without a trace?

  Though lined with blasted and collapsed buildings, the avenue that pierced the city remained clear. If there were any Lhinstordii still about, they were not showing themselves. He could see all the way down the straight and level pavement to the other side of the city two thirds of a league away.

  Nervous about a potential ambush, he sent a brace of Salients running ahead to scout, but did not pause. Neither Lhinstordii nor Imperial molested them, however, and they had reached the midpoint of the avenue when he caught sight of an algar coming at top speed from the east.

  He felt like whooping for joy when he saw the vehicle, but kept tight control of his voice and expression and did not rush ahead. The indignity of such undisciplined behavior would diminish him in the eyes of the other brethren. If the Salients lost respect for him, he was as good as dead.

  "As soon as the algar opens its hatches," he told the two Encouragers and Zsii, "The three of you will board to better protect the Holy Relic."

  "As you say, brother," Zsii replied. "I can be replaced, but it cannot."

  More importantly, this would give Whorlyr a valid excuse to ride -- that a commander must remain close to his mean of communication was a primary military tenet -- rather than continue to march with the remains of Brother Khimech's cloister.

  With swaying wood benches -- they looked as if they had come straight from a tavern, stains and all -- hung by ropes along its sides, the algar came to a halt within paces of where he stood waiting, but it was almost a full minute before its side hatch opened and Lheo stepped down. Lheo was a Preceptor and zealot whose Ability was nonexistent. These three factors had resulted in his being delegated to the cloister of maintenance and transport drovers.

  Whorlyr could see into the interior from where he stood and he saw only empty benches rather than the standard Salient crew.

  "Director of Forces!" Lheo called, almost dancing in agitation. He also tend
ed to be overly excitable, as was currently the case. "I have come to bring you back to Parill!"

  The drover was a slim, short man. His stature was so meager that Whorlyr had to actually tilt his head down to catch his gaze.

  "You have come alone?"

  "As you say, brother! Once I offloaded my contingent of Khai'loaghirii, I suggested to Subdeacon N'aamou'clou'li'meh'no'p that coming out to get you would be the most efficient use of my conveyance and he readily agreed!"

  Whorlyr thought for a few seconds. "The Subdeacon is the brother known as Nu?"

  "Yes! Brother N'aamou'clou'li'meh'no'p is Brother Nu!"

  Subdeacon Nu was a Promulgator and another zealot. Amongst the ranks of the rational members of the Brotherhood, he was also universally regarded as an incompetent buffoon who had trouble remembering how to walk and who under no circumstances was to be placed in charge of any project whose outcome actually mattered. Though he had no actual idea, Whorlyr had always believed that Nu's advancement to Subdeacon must have been the result of a freakish combination of nepotism, bribery, and a sudden bout of contagious insanity among the brethren of the College of Promulgators.

  If Nu and Lheo were characteristic of the reinforcements that had been assembled beyond Lhinstord, then this disaster had only become more disastrous.

  "What Salient brother is in command at Parill?" he demanded of Lheo.

  "That would be Senior Ascertainer Fhleoan!"

  "I do not know Brother Fhleoan. He is a Combatant?"

  "No, no! A Strategist!"

  Of all the Divisions of the Salient Order, the Strategists were only greater in number than the Assassins. Strategists often made able field commanders, but Salients who had trained as Tacticians and Combatants tended to be amongst the best of them.

  Whorlyr put aside further unpleasant speculation. "Your algar is empty. With the side benches, you should be able to carry all of the brethren."