by Andy Boot
He studied, over and over, the images of the attack. Studied them from every angle. He could only conclude that Ramus-Bey was correct: there was nothing he could have done. He had warned the young adept, but still he came forward. His weaponry, up against magical power, was next to useless. He could only use his mind. Maybe the notion of luring the mind construct to where the strays lingered would have worked?
There was something that was nagging at him. The more he looked, the nearer it seemed to get, and yet stayed frustratingly out of reach.
Simeon tried to contact Daliel. He was unsure of his friend's exact position in Intel and Security. He knew only that the man had a cloaked comm-code: a sign of some authority. There were things about the squat, scarred warrior that baffled Simeon. It was as though the man he had spent so long with on the prison farm did not exist: that man had been a construct as much as any thought form. Regardless, Simeon clung to the persona he had known. Whatever else, Daliel was his point of contact.
The comm-device did not pick up. There was no redirection, no message pick-up, no-one on the other end. Just a continuous bleep as the comm-link registered, but was not answered.
There was much to report and Simeon would feel his duty had been better discharged if he reported to his superior as soon as was possible.
Cursing, he disconnected. He would have to find something to fill the time with until he could make the connection, or else the waiting would turn his mind. Already he felt like a wire, singing at the point of over-extension. While the entire Institute was gathered in the main hall, and the trackers and surveillance were up, running and checked, he should take the chance to relax. He hadn't been able to sleep, that was for sure.
Simeon left the room he had set up as the surveillance centre and went into the smaller bed-chamber. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He needed something to unwind; something that would completely take him out of his own problems.
He opened a cabinet by the bedside, and rummaged inside, drawing out a story pamphlet at random. Smiling to himself, he saw that it was one that he had read many times before. It would comfort rather than tax him to visit there again. The world of story pamphlets was a simple world, easier to understand. To escape for a while would be a relief.
His eyes skimmed the text, barely registering the words. He bathed in the familiarity, letting his mind drift.
With a barely suppressed cry he sat bolt upright. Escaping the present had certainly helped in one way: while he paddled in the shallows of the story, his subconscious had delved deep. He sprang from the bed and returned to the trackers, where he called up the recordings of the previous night. He played it over, maybe three or four times, just to check.
That was it. The thing that had been irritating him like an itch that couldn't be scratched. Not that it was a relief. If anything, it caused him more disquiet.
The thought form appeared in the same way, no matter how many times he replayed it. It materialised in the middle of the castle grounds.
Thought forms could be made to travel over distances. But they moved like living creatures - which, in a sense, they were once they had been conjured - they had to ambulate. By their very nature they could be sent vast distances once formed, but had to be materialised close to the wizard who created them. Which is why the thought creatures charmed by the adepts had always appeared on the internal trackers, and had never breached the surveillance around the castle walls.
He checked the tracker records. Double-checked on the perimeter surveillance.
When the surge had appeared the previous night he had not had time to register that it was not a wall breach on the screen, but a surge from within the internal trackers. He could see how this had happened. The surge had occurred just inside the southern most wall. At the time, he had assumed that he had picked up the signal as it breached the wall surveillance.
Not so. The thought creature had been cast as near to the wall as possible (to make him think it had come from outside?) but had materialised within the walls. Which meant that the wizard casting the thought form had to be nearby. It was a strong thought form; would need a wizard of immense power to cast it. The likelihood of one of those hanging around on a city street unnoticed was remote, particularly an out of state wizard.
Much more likely that it came from inside.
Ramus would use this to point out that it was an accident, an experiment gone wrong. But Simeon had already made up his mind. To conjure a thought form that powerful demanded deliberation. Whoever cast it knew what they were doing.
Which was unfortunate.
It meant that the enemy was within.
Year Zero - Period Two
Ilvarn. The capital of Varn. Like the continent itself, a place of colour, clash and contrast. As with Bethel, it was the only city of it's nation state to escape wholesale aerial warfare, and so was the only part of the continent where the old and new rubbed together, with white stone buildings from the ancient times sitting uncomfortably next to chrome and glass skyscrapers and with brightly coloured canopies and awnings that fluttered against the blue sky. It was a warmer climate than Bethel, and this reflected in the temperament of those who lived within the city's bounds. Two men were sitting in the grounds of the Ilvarn Institute. Spiky fronds screened them from the excesses of the heat, and they sipped at an iced tea made from herbs grown in the Institute's gardens. Both were dressed in colourful robes. The younger man had heavy, rich materials despite the weather. The other had a looser robe of lighter weave. It looked faded, almost as old as the man wearing it. It was the latter who spoke first.
"I would assume that you were paying your respects, if not for the fact that you've never had the grace to do so before."
"You are, as ever, as charming as a wart on the posterior, Vixel. Possibly the least likeable man I have ever met."
"I could say the same of you. Which suggests that we are well matched, my dear Minister. So, now we have dispensed with the niceties, why don't you tell me why you are here?"
"Our spies in Bethel..."
"Spies, when the war is over? Tut-tut," the Mage interrupted archly.
The Minister ignored this interruption. "Our spies have supplied us with some fascinating intelligence. Something that I feel is a little more in your line than in mine."
He paused, waiting for a response. The Mage enjoyed keeping him waiting, before saying: "If you tell me what it is, then perhaps I can agree or disagree with you..."
And so, despite the apparent cessation of hostilities and the subsequent treaty, the Chief Minister of Varn delivered a report of what had occurred in Belthan the night before. The Mage listened in silence. When he had finished, the Minister waited for the Mage to comment. Waited for what seemed like an age.
"Well?" he prompted finally. "What do you think?"
"I think it's very interesting that Bethel should receive back what they send," the Mage began, sipping at his iced tea. "I have little doubt that they were behind the attempt to take me in Praal. I wonder then, who would try to snatch that pompous old fool Bey? Not us, I take it?"
The Minister raised an eyebrow. "Magic of such strength could only come from you," he said blandly.
"I wonder... I ask because it wouldn't surprise me if you had an adept hidden away with such skills. Not everyone is suited to the academy life. And for certain it was not Bey who conjured the thought form that terminated my guard so abruptly."
"Who, then? Kyas or Turith?"
The Mage shook his head, after some consideration. "No. Not them. They're quite a way behind myself and Bey, even though the old fool is senile."
"Praal, then?"
This time the decision was instant. "No. Certainly not. Oh, they have the capability, I grant you. They are a spiritual people, almost to the point of sanctimony. Beyond, perhaps. And, much as I would like to believe that I am the strongest Mage on Inan, I know that Kathel is far superior in knowledge and ability. But he would not sully his hands by taking part in such a so
rdid manoeuvre."
"And you?"
The Mage smiled. It was like seeing a Sea Tallus grin before it ripped off your leg.
"I'm far too worldly to attain that level of skill. But that, on the other hand, has its advantages. For instance, I would find it amusing to sully my hands in such a matter. It would certainly muddy the waters of whatever little plot they have in Bethel. Such a labyrinthine mind as a race. Study of them would yield interesting results, I think."
The Minister picked at his robe, looked thoughtful. "Are you saying that the attack on Ramus-Bey did not come from another nation state? It came from within?"
"You're quicker than I would have expected, dear Minister. What I'm saying is that the thought form you describe is like a more powerful casting of the creature that tried to take me. I believe that came from Bethel, but not from Bey. It would be simple, would it not, for an ambitious magician and an ambitious Minister to conspire for the removal of a Mage, looking to effect substitution and also to place blame on another, in order to stir up a new conflict?"
"Then the attack on you..."
"Was an experiment. If it worked, then all very well. If not, then nothing lost. Rather, a lesson learned."
"And my lesson?"
Vixel's smile was as warm as winter in the Deadlands. "Is to use your enemies plans against them. Now, as for ours..."
The sun beat down. The Mage's bodyguard was despatched for more iced tea. There was much to discuss.
The days of this period passed slowly, or so it seemed at the time. Nothing much happened at the Institute in Bethel. Simeon finally made contact with Daliel, who listened with care, and then dismissed his suspicions. Intel reports had placed a rogue wizard from Kyas in Belthan at around that time. He had also caused trouble in Turith. Exiled from his Institute for practices that went against the spiritual laws of that nation state, he now held a grudge against the academies. Intel placed him leaving the nation state by boat the day after the attack. Tamlin was not a mistaken target per se: the wizard had a grudge against any academic. Anyone in an academy who was unfortunate enough to get in the way would likewise have suffered.
It sounded reasonable enough. Certainly, it satisfied Ramus-Bey. He was relieved that the death of Tamlin was not an internal accident, and crowed over the fact that he had been correct in maintaining that there was no attack intended on his person. But still Simeon found it hard to calm his nerves. He no longer felt like a stretched wire, but relaxing into his tasks was another matter.
Maybe that was why he was ready when it happened.
What it was exactly he was loath to say. Something beyond his understanding. Beyond, he suspected, that of Ramus-Bey, although the old man would never admit this.
It started on the fifth evening after the death of Tamlin. An ordinary day, coming slowly to an ordinary conclusion. Simeon was checking the trackers and surveillance when they flickered, then died. He cursed, checked the power and power back-up: they were functioning. Something had blocked the signals. Frowning, Simeon realised that there was no tech strong enough to block every single piece of equipment around the academy. It had to be magic.
First thing: check his charge.
Ramus-Bey looked up from his books when Simeon entered without knocking. "I hope there is..."
"No time. Just needed to check you were all right. Something's happening. I think it's magical." The warrior shivered involuntarily: partly at the drop in temperature in the room, partly at the thought of swimming once more out of his depth.
Ramus sighed heavily. "Not that again. I'm growing weary of this constant... I take it back. You may be right. I can feel something. Something not quite... how odd!"
Simeon waited for him to elaborate. Infuriatingly he did not, merely stood there, sniffing the air like a hunting beast.
The room seemed to close about them. Simeon felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, his balance upset as the floor seemed to move beneath him. His head began to spin, and he felt as though he might vomit. Yet when he looked straight down, all was as before. Strange whispers crept into his head - heard yet not heard - distinct, yet just beyond the grasp of understanding. His skin felt as though it was being pricked in a thousand - no, a hundred thousand - places. He looked around. The edges of the room were in darkness, closing in. Not a complete black, but the black of a million shifting shadows, threatening to engulf him.
He tried to move, but it was as though he were buried in peat, with only the merest give in any of his limbs. The blackness was reaching out tendrils to Ramus-Bey, trying to take him, and his guard was helpless. In fact, his guard was about to vomit. He finished retching, only to look up and see Ramus examining the tendrils as they twisted about his arm. He raised a finger, then looked perplexed when the tendrils failed to retreat.
Then it happened. That which made the strange become the truly bizarre. The tendrils began to fight each other. They twisted around themselves. The sounds in his head had two distinct accents, although the words, beyond random syllables, were still indistinct. The room spiralled back and forth before him, making the urge to vomit again stronger than before. He felt on the edge of consciousness.
Ramus gestured again. This time it seemed to have effect. The darkness began to retreat, seeming to separate as it did so. As another kind of blackness came over him, it occurred to Simeon that there was not a single attack taking place here: there were two, in direct competition with each other. And it was only their conflict that enabled the Mage to gain the upper hand.
How long was he out? It seemed like an eternity, but could only have been a few moments. The cold water, chilled by the room, was sweet in his throat, washing away the sour taste of his own vomit. Blurry vision resolved into the Mage, kneeling over him and cradling his head.
"Magic attack," Simeon husked in a cracked voice. "Looked like more than one... this is getting serious. I need help. Can't..."
"You foolish, foolish boy," the Mage snapped. He let Simeon's head drop, his anger needing an outlet. "You are here for corporeal menaces. I am a Mage. Nothing magical can touch me, for am I not one of the most powerful wizards in Inan? You think I have wasted my life so that a mere shadow charm can harm me? You concern yourself with a physical threat. I will deal with anyone fool enough to tackle me on my own ground."
The Mage returned to his books, pointedly ignoring his bodyguard as Simeon slowly got to his feet. All the while that Simeon cleaned up the vomit, mopping down the floor, the Mage kept his back to him. Like a spoilt, petulant child.
Why? Because Simeon had dared to question him?
No. Rather, Simeon suspected, because the Mage had been shaken by his inability to instantly repel the attack with the first charm. He didn't need a bodyguard to question his ability: he was only too well aware of the questions he must ask himself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Year Zero - Period Three
"If you say 'are we there yet' one more time, then I will, of course, be forced to kill you before we reach the target area."
"I would never say that... but are we?"
Jenna turned, pulling a face halfway between irritation and amusement. "No, of course we aren't. The Peta is a holoship, not a battle cruiser."
"Pity. It'd be a damn sight quicker." But he said it with a smile on his face.
There was no doubt that Simeon's mood had improved no end since they had passed over the coast of Varn. They were now in enemy airspace - or, at least, what had once been enemy airspace - and so that much nearer to their target. He was flexing himself mentally, thinking through strategies for when they hit Ilvarn. It gave him something to do rather than just pace the deck and stare out at the ground below, brooding.
Of this, Jenna was relieved. His tension had been getting to her, distracting her to the point where the speed of the Peta - by its very nature slow at the best of times - had been reduced to a near-crawl. Holoships had the advantage of being invisible to surveillance tech, and at times invisible to the naked eye (if the Ensign w
hose construct that ship may be had sufficient skill), but they could be incredibly slow. Thus, the very thing that had made Simeon approach Jenna for help was that which also frustrated his aim.
But now, as the pink sun cast its early morning glow over the dense undergrowth beneath them, he could feel that progress was being made. True, Varn was a vast continent, but it was some comfort that they were now over land and not sea.
While Simeon occupied his mind with exploring every possible scenario he could conjure, Jenna concentrated on extracting the maximum speed from her craft. It was far from easy: the construction of holoships and their projection through the skies demanded much mental energy from those who were trained in the arcane art. It had not helped that she had been dragged from her bed in order to make this flight. In its favour, it had to be said that this unorthodox mission was under-manned compared with the usual flight. Holoships had a history of either merchant flight, or undercover troop missions. Ensigns were trained to carry weight: two people in a holoship meant that greater speed could be achieved. Nonetheless, she could feel a pricking at the back of her eyes that indicated a need to sleep.
She willed herself to stay focused, to stay awake. The last thing she wanted was to fade out and plunge them into the jungles beneath. It would be an ignominious end.
Balance. Should she force herself to extract maximum speed and get there quickly; or should she hold back and save energy by reducing speed? Unable to decide, she kept the ship moving in a series of lurches.
If Simeon noticed this, he held his own counsel. In truth, his mind was in another place. The ship was Jenna's responsibility. His work would begin when they landed.
They gained from the change in climate as they travelled further inland, heading towards the centre of the continent. Beneath them, the lush jungle lands gave way to plains and plateaux of veldt, where muscular quadrupeds in spotted hues of red and orange roamed in packs. Scattered in these regions were modern towns with skyscrapers and aerial shuttle services running between them. These ran at a low level, and it was easy for Jenna to lift the Peta above the scattered clouds, out of their flight paths.