Inconvenient Magic 01 - Potatoes, Come Forth!

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  The air carriage had disintegrated, scattering burning wreckage over a large swath of the southern half of Kleinsvench. Some of the debris had impacted on streets or commons and looked to be quickly burning out, but a majority had fallen on flammable structures and ignited hundreds of fires. These were spreading at an alarming rate. If something were not done quickly to douse them, the entire city would go up.

  He came to earth on a broad avenue within yards of a café whose terrace awning had been set alight. He cast about for someway to extinguish the blaze but found nothing to suggest itself in the blank stoops of the houses and shuttered shop front windows.

  A light came on in a house across the way and a man about fifty and wearing only trousers ran out and rushed to Everett. He thought he remembered the man from the potluck.

  “Monsieur Wizard! What is happening? Are the Republicans attacking?”

  “Yes, but I’ve brought down their air carriage, their flying mechanism. Tell me, is there a fire brigade in the city?”

  “Yes! Or, I mean, there was when everyone was still here. I don’t know if there are enough left to operate the pump wagons.”

  “Do you know where the wagons are?”

  The man pointed west along the avenue. “There’s a depot fifteen blocks that way. It’s a large stone building with an iron barred gate instead of a door.”

  Everett cast and bounded away.

  He was back within ten minutes, dragging a heavy iron pump wagon with full tanks. A younger man and a gray haired woman, also looking as if the disaster had inopportunely wrenched them from their beds, had joined the first man. All were in a general state of agitation as they watched the fire begin to spread to the interior of the café. The windows of the upper storey had already burst outward from the heat, scattering the pavement with glass that twinkled in the flickering firelight.

  “Here, one of you unlash the hose and direct it toward the fire!” Everett urged.

  Acting with alacrity, the younger man did so, opening the two-inch valve and dragging out thirty feet of hose. The other man and woman ran up to one side and laid into the reciprocal pump handle there. Their efforts barely budged the handle.

  “It usually takes ten men to build up a decent pressure!” The older man shouted to Everett.

  “Give me strength!” Everett took the opposite handle and began driving the pump at a pace that rocked the wagon. The other two volunteers, their handle snatched from their hands and snapping up and down at a speed that they could not possibly match, ran to help the younger man direct the hose toward the café as a solid stream shot from its end. Within a few moments, the café, what remained of it, had settled into a steaming, sodden mess.

  After a few abrupt surges, the pressure in the hose relaxed and the stream fell off to an inconsistent dribble. The tanks had pumped dry.

  “Where are the tanks refilled?” Everett demanded urgently.

  “The municipal cisterns,” the young man supplied, then shook his head. “This one pumper won’t help much, though. Look!” He pointed beyond the roofs of the buildings behind Everett, causing the magicker to turn about.

  Surging smoke and the glow of the fires that vomited it up were visible in half a dozen locations, some distant, but some uncomfortably close.

  “Monsieur Wizard, have you no magic that will put out the fires?” the woman pled earnestly.

  Everett started to shake his head, but then realized that he actually might. Without another word, he cast his strength and leapt straight upward.

  Floating at five hundred feet under the power of his twelfth spell, he once again could see the scope of the disaster. The growing fires threatened entire blocks and neighborhoods. He chose a particularly virulent conflagration that involved upwards of a dozen buildings on two sides of a narrow lane and tried a gambit that contravened all the basic assumptions of his magical education. He did not choose a single target for the spell, but rather fixated on multiple locus points and enunciated, “Manure, gather ye into a pile!”

  After twenty-three seconds, the spell actuated.

  The smell was atrocious, a gut wrenching miasma that settled over the lane like an evil fog, but when the various slithering, flopping, and mucking crap had returned once more to its non-magically enlivened state, the fires along the lane had unconditionally surrendered, smothered by an unyielding semi-liquid blanket at least a span thick at every locus.

  Some few hours later when dawn finally broke, Everett, exhausted beyond words, surveyed Kleinsvench from an aerial perch over the south-eastern quarter of the city and saw a metropolis whose sewers and compost heaps were somewhat the worse for his efforts but which had been spared a fire storm. While squelching the fires throughout the early hours of the morning, he had occasionally come across groups of citizens working with pump wagons and on three occasions, the bells had sounded from Mad Lydia's Folly, indicating that the Reserve Company worked to organize the firefighting effort. Twice, people waved him down and begged him to assist in the rescue of loved ones trapped in buildings damaged by the bombing or the explosion of the air carriage.

  In the first instance, he succeeded in clearing an entrance into the basement of a demolished three-storey apartment and freeing a dozen people that were bedraggled but without serious injury.

  In the second, when he used his strength to raise the collapsed roof beams and fallen stone walls of a once modest dwelling, it was to reveal only the lifeless, broken bodies of two adults and four children.

  The sight of the sheet and blanket draped forms laid in a line on the sidewalk surrounded by shocked neighbors and weeping kin was one that he thought would never dim in his memory.

  After that, he had taken out the time to fly over the shops of the apothecary, Mindelsen, and that of the gunsmith, Von Gylg. Located far from the main area of destruction, both were undamaged and their surrounding environs totally unscathed by the attack. Lights were on in both, but he judged that no harm had come to either and that there seemed little chance that they would be immediately threatened. Relieved, he returned to his task.

  Now, with the red rays of the emerging sun camouflaging the blemishes of char and filth in an otherwise undisturbed cityscape, he was finally free to return to Sarah. Thinking of how indignant she would be when she saw him again, he allowed himself an anemic moment of mirth as he counted down to the expiration of his flight Potent. At this point, the timing of his casts had become almost automatic and he renewed his flight inches from the brick paved median of a boulevard, cast his strength, and then leapt in a great sailing arc toward the north, aiming for the lower courtyard of the Residence, perhaps a mile and a half away.

  At the apex of his flight, he had an extended view of the territory around Kleinsvench. Like all cities, the area immediately beyond the unwalled limits was agricultural: grain fields, dairies, ranches, and sheepfolds that supplied food to the urbanites. There were some low hills and patches of forest, a large lake and a draining watercourse to the west, numerous small streams and creeks, but much of the area was relatively flat and open.

  It was the perfect terrain for the steam-mobile artillery mechanisms of the Republic.

  As the Zherians evidently also understood, since a large squadron of the smoke belching mechanisms was only a few dozen miles from Kleinsvench and coming on at full steam. Their path was unswervingly straight as they crashed through hedges, overthrew stone walls, and ground dark brown trails into corn and bean fields; they had a single target and knew exactly its precise location.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Everett landed on the esplanade that wound around the bluffs at the height of the crag, only a dozen steps from the arched pull-rope gallery at the base of Mad Lydia's Folly. Kyle and another member of the Reserve Company, a young female cousin, were standing at the parapet along the rim of the esplanade and gazing out over the city. Rushing up at once, they flooded him with excited questions.

  “No time for that!” he snapped brusquely, cutting them off. “Is there a co
de to warn the city to flee an immanent attack?”

  “General Alarm is three long peals of every bell,” Kyle responded immediately. “Retreat to the Castle is six alternating beats of the three bass bells with the three soprano bells.”

  “A continuous cycling of the codes means Without Delay,” the cousin added. “But we can’t sound any of those without help. The bells are so large that it takes two people to ring even a single one!”

  Everett threw back his head to eye the belfry high above. “Ding Dong!”

  His first spell, manifested when he could hardly speak more than the babbling language of babes, had made the bronze chimes hanging on the porches of his father’s house sound randomly for an hour. He had not cast the Insignificant in more than twenty years.

  Now he needed the great bells above to sound an alarm that all in the city could hear and understand.

  The first tone of the General Alarm shook Everett with its volume and echoed across the city like the condemnation of an angry god, causing Kyle and his cousin to wince and cover their ears with their hands. Then, half as loudly but still sufficient to deafen anyone within a hundred yards, the bass and soprano bells rang in sequence.

  When the cycle began again with only a three-second delay, Everett shouted at the other two, “WHERE IS YOUR FATHER?”

  Both shook their heads as they mouthed words lost in the blast of sound; nothing could be heard over the bells.

  Exasperated, Everett cast and bounded toward the Lower Ward. As he cleared the bulk of the main building, he searched ahead and sighted First Assemblyman Guillaume Monte-Jaune standing between the lines of sand bags with about twenty men and women of various ages, many of whom looked to be members of the Reserve Company. Everett readily recognized the stalwart Uncle Alec and some of his grown children. The entire wearied group had soot covering their clothes, hands, and faces and shouldered shovels and other implements, apparently having worked in the beleaguered city much of the night. As he descended, Everett saw that all had been gazing curiously toward Mad Lydia's Folly.

  Almost simultaneously, Everett and the senior Monte-Jaune demanded of each other, “Where is Sarah?”

  Everett made a grimace that matched the one that sprang to Guillaume’s face. “She’s not here in the castle?” he asked quickly.

  “No, she disappeared before supper last evening -- we had assumed that you had summoned her to you for some magical task – and have not seen her since.”

  Everett’s frown deepened. “I transported her back here just after the bombing. Could you have missed her in the commotion?”

  “No, she would have followed our emergency plan and assembled in the armory with the rest of those living in the Residence.”

  With a sinking feeling, Everett chose a nearby locus and enunciated, “Beautiful Woman, come forth!”

  As he had dreaded, Sarah failed to appear.

  “Some traitorous wizard must have taken her for the Zherians,” he growled in sudden anger. “They’ve shielded her from me with a magic canceling mechanism, but I know who has her and I know right where he will be!”

  Guillaume’s expression hardened. “Can you get her back, Everett?”

  Everett did not hesitate. “Yes.”

  The older man nodded. “What assistance do you need?”

  “None.”

  “Then I shall delay you no longer.”

  Everett contemplated Guillaume’s earnest and unyielding expression and then the haggard faces of the others. Cognizant of an unavoidable truth, he shook his head. “There’s another attack coming from the north. You can’t withstand it without me.”

  “Is it another flying craft?” queried Alec.

  “No, it’s a group of steam-mobile artillery. They will be on the outskirts of Kleinsvench in less than two hours.”

  Then a small band of men, women, and children rushed into the courtyard through the Serpent Gate. They carried bundles, hampers, babies, and pets. Some led tethered goats or carried chickens in wicker baskets. All showed various levels of fatigue and anxiety. As soon as they saw the First Assemblyman, the adults began shouting questions and crowding around him.

  While Guillaume and Alec tried to quiet the uproar, announcing the little that Everett had just told them, more townsfolk began to trickle in -- individuals with hardly anything but the clothes on their backs, prepared family groups with provisions, large well-organized contingents with packed wagons and horse carts who proved to be the remaining inhabitants of entire neighborhoods. Within half an hour, the courtyard was mobbed, with a logjam forming along the approach beyond the Snake Gate. The First Assemblyman and the members of the Reserve Company were completely engaged with the tasks of guiding the refugees to quarters in the Residence and its outbuildings, delegating volunteers to tend to the horses and livestock, procuring food and potable water, and implementing plans to secure the castle.

  Everett found himself pushed to the fringes by the influx of civilians and claimed a becalmed wedge-shaped nook between the gatehouse and a heap of sandbags to try to figure out how he would confront the new threat. He had made little progress in his plans when the gunsmith, Von Gylg, found him. Accompanied by one of his sons, the tradesman brought a welcome surprise.

  “Good day, Monsieur Wizard,” he declared as if certain that it was, in fact, just the opposite. He proffered a metal apparatus about a yard long. It was one of the launch tubes that Everett had hired him to fabricate.

  The magicker took it with a quick grin. “I didn’t think you could possibly finish so quickly!”

  “My sons and I worked throughout the night. When the attack began, it seemed vital to complete at least one.”

  “Have you any of the ammunition -- the lances?”

  “Yes, but only eight. That was all of the propellants and charges that Mindelsen had completed.” He gestured at his son, who shouldered a bulky canvas satchel on one side and a bundle of thirty-inch long one-inch diameter steel pipe on the other. “To make them easier to carry, we modified the drawings to add screw threads to the propellant shafts and a socket in the heads. The percussion charge must also be screwed into the head before you load the lance into the gun.”

  “All right. The Zherians are getting closer by the second and there’s nothing to be gained by waiting. Are you still determined to come with me?”

  “Without a doubt.” The gunsmith turned and took his son’s burdens to his own shoulders, then embraced the younger man. “Tell the family that I love them, son.”

  “Yes, Father.” The younger Von Gylg nodded curtly at Everett and made his way back through the throng.

  “Ready?” Everett asked, preparing to cast his spells, seize Von Gylg, and bound away.

  “Yes, but if you don’t mind a suggestion, I think we need an extra man.”

  “How so?”

  “One to fire, one to load, and one to assemble. If it comes down to needing to fire the thing in rapid succession, that would give us a better chance.”

  Though anxious to proceed, Everett could see the truth in the gunsmith's argument. “I suppose we could ask for a volunteer from among the Reserve Company?”

  “That would seem the thing to do."

  Someone had organized volunteer guides to urge the stream of civilians to continue into the castle in an orderly manner, and the logjam in the courtyard had begun to clear. They found Alec, Kyle, who now carried a bayoneted rifle, and a handful of Reservists, who were variously armed with shotguns and pistols, setting up a position behind sand bags at the Yellow Gate.

  “Where is Monsieur Monte-Jaune?” Everett asked without preamble.

  “He's in the citadel sorting out quarters," Alec replied. "I can send word if you need him?”

  “Not necessary. I just need one volunteer.” He briefly explained the operation of the explosive lances.

  “If Monsieur Von Gylg will assemble the lances, I'll load for you,” Alec proposed without hesitation.

  Thinking that the retired soldier would perfor
m well under the pressure of combat, Everett readily agreed.

  Alec's brow wrinkled in thought. “There'll be infantry with the smas?”

  “The what?”

  “Self Mobile Artillery is too much of a mouthful.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, they support the smas with ground troops.”

  “Then it seems to me that you need at least a squad for fire support. How close do you need to get?”

  Everett did not really know so he made a wild guess. “Fifty yards.”

  “The infantry will pick you off before you get inside of a hundred.”

  “I have magic that will defend me from rifle shots.”

  “Will it also protect the gunsmith and I?”

  Everett pursed his lips and admitted that it would not.

  “You intend to fly into the attack? How many can you carry?”

  “We could commandeer a wagon as we did before, could we not, Monsieur Wizard?” Von Gylg suggested.

  “We can, but we don’t have time to assemble a large force. We need to get going right away.”

  “Six more could give us some cover in a prepared position,” Alec asserted. “The eight of us would fit into that cart over there.” He pointed through the slowly trudging line of civilians to a two-wheeled flat bed that had been abandoned by its owners and shifted to the far side of the courtyard.

  “I’ll go,” Kyle declared.

  “Me too!” insisted the very same young woman who had stood sentry with him at the bell tower. The other Reservists, three variously aged men and a woman of indeterminate age, volunteered practically in unison.

  Recognizing that it would be quicker to acquiesce than to argue, Everett shrugged. “Load up.”