Inconvenient Magic 01 - Potatoes, Come Forth!

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  “Everett … what’s happening?” She demanded, trying to sit up.

  “I don’t know. Just lie still.”

  She looked passed him to take in the open sky above. “Where are we?”

  “In Alarsaria.”

  “Where’s the air carriage?”

  “I’ll explain later. Right now we have other problems.”

  “I’m all right.” She pushed his hands away. “Let me up.”

  The wagon slowed and came to an abrupt stop as Clay, feet braced and back arched, strained against the horse leads. The Alarsarian soldier hurriedly tied off the leather straps, set the brakes, and stood to turn about. Everett leaned away from Sarah and she sat up, not quite steadily, swiveling her head to examine her surroundings. When both women sucked in sharp breaths almost at the same instant, he whipped about to look back along the road.

  The outpost was simply gone. Nothing could be seen of the quarter mile distant fortified compound save for billowing surges of towering smoke and the occasional shrouded flash of roiling fire. Small secondary detonations shook the ground as ammunition stores cooked off.

  Fifty yards behind the wagon, Serheighmon, silhouetted against the black and gray clouds, rose slowly from the dust of the road, holding his left forearm with his right hand, and began walking unsteadily toward them.

  Clay, perhaps unnecessarily, said in a dead calm tone, “It’s the Zheries.”

  “We’d better get out of here,” Everett recommended with some force.

  As if to punctuate his suggestion, another salvo fell upon the former farm, sending up globes of fire and debris a hundred feet high. Blasts of sound and scorched wind again buffeted them. Spooked once more, the horses dragged the wagon a good dozen yards, throwing Clay back into her seat, before the friction of the locked wheels forced the animals to halt, wild-eyed, shivering, and dancing in fright.

  As they righted themselves, Serheighmon trotted up, still holding his arm and now clearly grimacing in pain. “I think I broke my arm when I fell.”

  Everett hopped down to help the injured soldier into the wagon. “We need to get going,” he urged. “The next barrage might land right on top of us.”

  The soldiers did not immediately react to his suggestion, and he began to consider transporting Sarah and himself far ahead out of danger.

  Somewhat confusedly, Serheighmon wondered, “Maybe we should go back?”

  Her face expressionless, Clay shook her head. “Shells that big only come from six-inch guns. Our deepest bunker was only three feet and that’s not enough to survive six inchers dropped right on top o’ them. The Zheries had the compound zeroed. Everyone there is dead.”

  The other private looked stricken. “Oh, crap. Your Dad was a good man, Clay.”

  Clay shrugged. “He was a good sergeant. Not so much anything else.”

  “Sergeant Mallory was your father?” Everett felt sick to his stomach. The man had been kind in his way and now he was abruptly, impersonally, and ingloriously dead.

  “Yeah.” Clay shrugged again, her face unreadable. “And most o’ the rest were my friends. It makes no difference.”

  “Everett,” Sarah said, getting his attention. “We should transport out of here.”

  “Right.” He climbed onto the bed of the wagon and stood, searching for a locus to the south. Then, thinking to get a better vantage and not considering any potential repercussions, he leapt upward and said, “Take ye flight!”

  This time, rather than simply hovering, he soared upward a good ten feet, apparently spurred by his leap. At the top of his arc, he selected an unidentified rise on the horizon as a locus. As his spell expired, he rapidly spit out another cast to arrest his fall just before he struck the wagon bed and then clattered down just seconds later when it too expired. Serheighmon, Clay, and Sarah watched him with expressions of, respectively, amazement, curiosity, and calculation.

  “You’re a wizard?” Serheighmon asked, a bit in awe. “I’ve never been this close to one.”

  “He’s a Master Wizard,” Sarah confirmed. “Soon to be a Grand Master Wizard.”

  Everett eyed his companion, trying to divine her meaning. Had she also deduced that someone or something with the power to alter the normal operation of magic aided him?

  “So, Master Wizard, you’ve a Transport spell?” Clay asked, her eyes lingering on the destroyed outpost.

  “Yes. And with Sarah’s assistance, it will work for the four of us.”

  “Then let’s go. We’ve got five minutes or less.”

  Everett turned. Through the clearing smoke of the barrage, the shattered and heavily cratered farm had become visible. Perhaps a mile beyond the burning debris piles, a long line of advancing steam mechanisms could be seen, dense black smoke boiling from the stubs of smokestacks. With what appeared to be large gun barrels protruding from the front of their iron shells, the mechanisms were about the size of Bob’s road grader and coming on rapidly.

  Before he could restrain it, a needless question popped out of his mouth. “What are those?”

  “Steam driven artillery o’ some sort,” Clay said distractedly. “It’s a wonder that no one has thought o’ it before. Those things are a major technological advance and will change the entire conduct o’ the war.”

  As if struck by a sudden thought, she jumped to the ground, pulled a knife from a belt sheath and began slashing the horses free from the wagon. She swatted at the rumps of both and both bolted. As the two draft animals galloped off in different directions across, she climbed back aboard.

  “Couldn’t leave the poor beasts tied to the wagon. All right, get us out o’ here, wizard.”

  The first hop took them less than three miles, but Everett spotted another locus without delay and cast again. Serheighmon and Clay, clasping Sarah’s hands, navigated him toward the town of Bayou Dorking by the simple expedient of following the road. The rural center proved to be only thirteen miles from the devastated outpost and it was perhaps only half an hour later that they came within sight of it. Warned of the presence of beebeefields, he made sure that his last casting placed them atop a huge forward blockhouse on the outskirts of the town.

  The second after they appeared on the slightly sloped tar-slathered crest, Sarah released the hands of the two soldiers and slid slowly from his back. As he turned about, she essayed a shaky step, stumbled, and would have fallen if he had not caught her.

  She smiled weakly, holding his arm. “Sorry, I’m still a little woozy.”

  Everett smiled back and slid an arm around her waist for support. She seemed comfortable with this intimacy, draping her own arm about his shoulder. Events had clearly erased the strain that had existed between them on the air carriage. He dug in his pocket and offered her the remaining half of the field ration.

  “Eat something. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Thanks, Everett.” She did not attempt to move away as she began to chew the molasses bound cake.

  Clay glanced about and then strode to an armored hatch cover and began banging on it with her knife hilt.

  After a few moments, another hatch on the opposite side of the blockhouse sprang open and several infantrymen armed with rifles boiled out and dropped prone to take aim at Everett and the rest.

  A young officer stuck his head out of the hatch after a moment and pointed a pistol at Serheighmon, the nearest of the group to him. “How in the name of Technology did you get up here?”

  The young private slowly raised one hand and looked around at the others.

  “You should have said, ‘in the name of Magic,” Sarah, munching the field ration, corrected offhandedly by way of answer. “We are magickers, Everett and I.”

  There was evident pride in her declaration and she seemed to tighten the arm draped about his neck slightly.

  Clay, hands likewise raised, spoke up quickly. “Privates Serheighmon and Clay, lieutenant, with two displaced noncombatants. We’re Ninety-Second Scout Company, assigned to Forward Outpost Number Eight
.”

  The lieutenant emerged fully onto the roof and waggled his pistol to bring Clay closer.

  Without dropping her hands, (the other soldiers had not relaxed their rifles), Clay approached the man with hurried steps and saluted, somewhat awkwardly.

  “Report,” he barked at her.

  “Lieutenant, Forward Outpost Number Eight has been attacked and destroyed. The Zherians are coming across the border in force.”

  The officer’s countenance paled. “What? You must be joking?”

  “It’s a fact, sir,” Serheighmon seconded.

  In short order, the four of them were whisked from the roof of the blockhouse, down through labyrinthine narrow corridors, out an armored rear exit, and practically thrown onto a coach that was then driven at a gallop to the town.

  Most of the sturdy timber and plaster buildings of Bayou Dorking, a borough about half the size of Eriis, appeared abandoned; apparently, the civilian population had long since been evacuated. At the outskirts, the coach passed lines of earthworks under construction, fences of hastily strung barbed wire on steel posts, large bivouac areas, and several hundred Alarsarian infantry engaged in diverse mundane tasks, from filling sandbags to hanging out laundry. Aside from a few bored sentries, most of the soldiers lacked weapons. No alarm had yet been given.

  At the center of the town, the coach halted before an impressive stone building with four corner towers and a verdigris-greened sloping copper roof. The corporal and guards of the coach exchanged quick words with a sergeant commanding a detail of sentries. With but a single bit-off curse, this underofficer immediately rushed Everett, Sarah, and the survivors of Outpost Number Eight into the building, up a broad set of marble stairs, and into a red oak paneled conference room filled with a dozen or so Royal Alarsarian officers. The various accoutrements of a headquarters were in evidence: large marked and annotated maps pinned to walls, tables covered with stacks of multi-colored forms, writing instruments of all sorts, and trays designated with cryptic abbreviations, and numerous clerical rankers taking notes, rearranging stacks of forms, or simply being unobtrusive.

  “Sergeant Burke!” snapped an older man wearing a dress jacket hemmed in gold. By the demeanor of the others in the room, Everett immediately took him to be the senior officer. “I hope you have a good explanation for barging in like this!”

  Ramrod straight and tense as a banjo string, Burke saluted. “Major Schoenboerg! These infantrymen have brought word that the Zherians have crossed the border and attacked an outpost!”

  A pencil snapped loudly and then gasps and general expressions of shock passed around the room.

  Just under average height with a wide frame and dark hair, the major advanced to confront Clay and Serheighmon. “Details, now!”

  Clay, with occasionally clarifying interjections by Serheighmon, relayed the events of the destruction of their post in a succinct fashion.

  Schoenboerg, reacting instantly, rounded on a captain. “Sound a general alarm!”

  Activity exploded, with officers rushing from the room, dispatch riders being summoned, and a general hubbub of rapid-fire discussions and decisions.

  While this continued unabated, the major, who had not moved, returned to his questioning. “Steam driven six-inch guns, you say? How many?”

  “I counted more than thirty, sir,” Clay replied.

  “What infantry and cavalry?”

  “None that we saw in the short time before the wizard transported us here, sir.”

  “Wizard? What wizard?” Schoenboerg demanded, swinging his head to take in Everett and Sarah.

  Clay turned slightly to single out Everett with her eyes.

  Schoenboerg swung the confront him. “Who are you?”

  “Uhm, Everett de Schael.”

  “You are a wizard?”

  “Probably.”

  “They’re both magickers, sir,” Serheighmon supplied. “He's a Master Wizard but she's not mentioned her rank.”

  This earned the infantryman Everett’s immediate ire for the unwelcome revelation of Sarah’s magical status.

  The major measured Everett with his eyes and was apparently unimpressed. “What type of spells do you have, offensive or defensive?”

  “Sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.” His answer was honest, but he was afraid that it might sound obstinate so he smiled slightly in order to hopefully convey the fact that he was harmless to these armed men.

  Schoenboerg cocked his head slightly. “Your accent is not Alarsarian nor Republican. Where are you from? New Zindersberg?”

  “No, …sir. From Eriis along the Edze River.”

  “What are you doing here along the border?” The officer's suspicions were plain.

  “I have engaged him to assist me in traveling to Kleinsvench,” Sarah explained while Everett was trying to think of an answer that would not under any stretch of the imagination implicate him as a Republican spy. “I am a citizen of the demesne and have urgent business that requires me to return home from a trip abroad. We have been traveling overland but have encountered some difficulty. If you would be so kind as to aide us to continue our journey, I am sure that the Elector will be significantly grateful.”

  Schoenboerg altered his stance slightly, becoming less overbearing, but remained stern. “Kleinsvench is now a member of the Grand Alliance and as an allied citizen you will certainly be provided with all support due you under treaty. However, considering present conditions, you must realize that that support may be severely limited.”

  Sarah smiled winningly. “I understand completely, major.”

  A corporal dashed in at that moment and passed the officer a note. Schoenboerg read it hastily and then, clearly having more important matters that demanded his attention, pointed in dismissal to a set of ornate, padded armchairs shoved into a corner. “You two have a seat over there. I will decide your disposition shortly.”

  Sarah, to Everett’s surprise, meekly complied. After throwing a quick eye toward the armed sentries that were suddenly very much in evidence, Everett decided not to attempt to argue and followed her. While the Alarsarians made ready for war and hardly before he sank completely into his comfortable chair, Sarah required of him an accounting of the events that had led to their leaving the air carriage.

  “What is the last thing you remember?” he asked her.

  “I had sat down to eat lunch with some of the others. I noticed an odd aftertaste in the tea. And then nothing. A potion had been added to the tea?”

  “Yes. Edwin, Suzette, and Mitchell -- that I know of – are the culprits. They killed Aldo.”

  Sarah grimaced. “You clearly used your spell to rescue me, but how did you escape?”

  “They had guns and chased me up to the Observation Deck. I climbed into the rigging and then jumped.”

  “You jumped? Did you already have the flight spell?”

  “No.”

  “You expected to manifest a spell that would save you?”

  “No.”

  “Then that was really stupid.”

  “Yes.”

  In the ensuing uncomfortable silence, Clay appeared out of the hectic crowd of soldiers and handed them both a small slip of paper.

  “What’s this?” Everett asked, without bothering to read his.

  The young woman smiled apologetically. “It’s your emergency conscription notice. You’ve both been drafted into the Magicker Company.”

  “We’re not citizens of Alarsaria!” Everett protested.

  Clay shrugged. “I mentioned that to Major Schoenboerg. He said that if you did not serve the Crown then you must be Zherie spies. In which case he would have no choice but to have you shot.”

  “Tell the major,” Sarah announced with a chilly smile, “that we will be proud to serve with the Royal Alarsarian Army.”

  Clay braced to attention and saluted Everett. Her manner was stern and from all appearances authentic. “Sir, as you're our highest ranking magicker, the major’s brevetted you to lie
utenant and given you command o’ the Company. Serheighmon and I, since we’re currently without assignment, are to be your liaisons with the regular forces.”

  Everett’s mouth dropped open. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “These were the major’s orders, sir.”

  Sarah stood up quickly, resolute and decisive. “Everett should take command of the Company immediately.”

  As far as Everett could tell, there was not a single trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  TWENTY

  “Of course we can defend the town with four magickers and a half grown boy!” Sarah declared.

  As far as Everett could tell, there was not a single trace of sincerity in her voice.

  The entirety of the other members of the Magicker Company – all three of them -- stood in a single, casual rank in a small ground floor room. Outfitted in intricately carven black oak molding and carnelian tapestries depicting some ancient saga of lost love, the salon had a “lived in” look, with half-open books scattered about, tidily stacked but used dishes on a serving cart, and articles of clothing draped neatly over various furniture. Clay and Serheighmon, who had had his arm splinted by a corpsman, had complied without question, comment or delay with Sarah's demand.

  All of the Company appeared to be also conscripted civilians, rather than the professional soldiers that Everett had, remembering Lieutenant Smythe and perhaps naively, presumed.

  Everett cleared his throat, addressing the two women and adolescent boy in an encouraging tone to ameliorate the severity of Sarah’s pronouncement.

  “Well, maybe we should begin by introducing ourselves, giving our magician rank, and indicating which spells we possess that might prove useful for … in the defense. My name is Everett de Schael and I am a Master Wizard with two Potent spells that have proved useful in situations of conflict.”

  With an approving nod of professional respect, the woman on the left smiled. “Glad to meet you all. I’m Abigail Gallow. I’m a Common Magicker with four spells and I generally work in the agricultural industry. Don’t think any of mine will help with the war, but here they are. I can calm horses for shoeing, settle the stomachs of livestock and infants, invigorate grain crops up to ten acres, and cure the winter sniffles.”