by Andy Boot
Ramus-Bey stood on the edge of the pond, looking down.
"Strange you should find water so frightening. For myself, I had forgotten how wondrous it could be. It's many anums since I last stood like this and just watched... if this is the work of the Gods, then how can we ever aspire to it?"
"That sounds to me like you're doubting your life's work," Simeon commented.
Ramus looked up from the water. "Perhaps. I could not shape anything like Inan. No that would be so vast, so complex. I could make environments of a limited scale and a certain complexity, and they may have a span of some moment. But they would not be like this," he gestured around him, "and they would exhaust me. The Gods provide for a near eternity, their bounds. To venture even within hailing distance of such an achievement is more than one could hope. Yet all that happens is that one ends up as the political tool of men with base ambitions and limited imaginations."
"I agree," Simeon assented. "I have gained from you, too. My life was about being a warrior, about fighting for what I thought was right. What I was told was right. I accepted it and believed that my place in things had been ordained for me. I didn't think. I suppose I had imagination. I just had no call to use it. No encouragement... but you, and this place... it's different here. Thought is how you live. How could that not have an effect on me?"
"For the good?"
It was Simeon's turn to laugh. "That depends entirely on what you mean by good. Now there's something else that I thought I understood. I didn't have a clue..."
The Mage gestured to his bodyguard that they be seated. Now that the surface of their new understanding, and equally of their concerns, had been breached, it was time for them to talk earnestly.
While the Mage listened, Simeon outlined his theories concerning the sources of the attacks. Varn was an obvious starting point, simply because they were the old enemy. Other nation states could be discounted with the exception of Kyas. They, too, were an old enemy, where the others had been allies or neutral. There was, as a matter of course, an accepted flaw. Why should a former ally not decide to cause conflagration by such a spark? However, as a working theory, it was better to start with the known animosities.
Mages could destroy the planet. But destroying each other would be difficult: they were, within certain bounds, equally matched. To mount an attack powerful enough to be effective before it could be countered would require a level of application that could not be done at a distance. It would require a Mage to be smuggled into Bethel, close enough to strike with the required speed.
At this point, Simeon thought of the newscast on which he had seen Jenna: could one of the trade delegation, kept out of sight, be Wegnak the Mage? It would be difficult to achieve this.
"There is another possibility," Ramus mused, shifting uncomfortably. "There are those who, shall we say, do not follow the true path. Those who do not wish to conform to academic conventions and work their magical learnings from the outside. We do not talk of them, for it's unlikely that they should gain sufficient power to be a problem, but they do exist... perhaps one of them sees himself as a challenger."
Simeon agreed warily with this. He recalled his suspicions that the first major attack had been generated from within the bounds of the Institute. How, he wondered, could he raise this possibility? Furthermore, he had his own dark imaginings about his own nation state's governing body. Best, perhaps, to put this first to the Mage. Who was more open to this than Simeon had expected.
"It is not so far removed from something I had been thinking. You recall my disagreement with the Chief Minister, no doubt," Ramus-Bey said. "I shall not go into details, except to say that he wanted me to act in a way that would, at the very least, have been provocative. It occurs to me that if I fail to co-operate with him, in fact become something of a problem to him, then he is unable to remove me less he incurs the wrath of the people. Unless, perhaps, he were to make it seem as if I were removed by an enemy power, thus making me a martyr over which to wage war."
Simeon assented. "Daliel had reasons for placing me here. I have not the prior experience for this post. I would be - at least in the view of such a man - a minor obstacle. What if he has somehow made contact with a renegade wizard, and promised him your post if he helps to eliminate you?"
"It is an unpleasant thought, but not beyond the bounds of possibility."
Simeon looked up at the skies. They had been so long and so deep in conversation that the evening was beginning to draw in. The cloud cover that had made the skies cerise now blocked the moon's light. He shivered, noticing for the first time the chill of descending night.
"There is one other possibility - perhaps the most difficult against which to plan."
"That both a rival nation state such as Varn, and our own, are both attempting to terminate my life?"
"Then it had occurred to you?"
The Mage nodded. "Since that night when I was attacked in my chambers. It occurred to me that I could feel two power sources, and that it was their conflict that drove each back. Certainly, I had little to do with it."
This last confirmed Simeon's suspicions. It was time to be bold: "Why have you been holding back your magic? Surely this is the time to let it out? You'll be defending yourself, your colleagues, and your nation state. Is that wrong?"
The Mage bit his lip, emotion struggling to stay hidden on his face. "It's not that simple. I wish it were. There are a multitude of reasons that..."
He tailed off, seemingly distracted. Before Simeon had a chance to ask him what was amiss, the portable surveillance monitor he habitually carried began to sound an alarm. The touch-screen peeled layers of images to reveal men in battle-suits breaching the walls on all four sides.
"Military assault?" The Mage queried. Before Simeon could answer - it was all too obvious - Ramus continued: "Magical too. From close by. A sudden surge, and powerful. We must..."
"No time!" snapped the warrior, rising swiftly to his feet and plucking the old man from the turf as if he were weightless. Such was the healing power of the adepts' charms that this sudden exertion failed to reveal even any stiffness in his recently torn muscles.
Simeon drew his blaster and made for the castle at a brisk trot.
With both hands occupied, he was unable to track the number of warriors in the grounds, but initial impressions had been of a force eight strong. Not great odds. Even less so as a series of minor thought forms sprung up before him.
They were intended to slow him rather than cause any real harm. He side-stepped them easily, and as the wizards and adepts poured out of the castle building, dispersing to face the threats, their hastily concocted defence charms either dissipated the thought creatures, or conjured stronger forms to counter and battle them.
Blaster fire seared the air around them, cutting up the turf before them and forcing Simeon to skid to a halt, back-pedalling to avoid being blasted by the power beams.
In the midst of the encroaching chaos he somehow found a calm space in which to reason. As he moved towards cover, his mind raced in fractions of moments...
There was something odd... different... about this attack. The others had been purely magical, and aimed at eliminating the Mage. The use of physical means was not, in itself, unexpected: that was why he had been nominally assigned after all. But a physical attack would have to be subtle, by subterfuge. This was anything but: eight men scaling the walls in blue and green battle-suits, and firing noisy blasters was going to be noticed. How they intended to make their escape was an interesting - if academic - proposition.
Termination was not their aim: of this he was certain. There were easier, less ostentatious means. This was about taking the Mage, an abduction.
That meant that they were most likely under orders not to harm the old man. Another reason why the thought forms had been so innocuous.
Vortices of light and sound spiralled around the castle grounds as charm met charm, cancelling each other in clashes of manipulated matter. There was enough confu
sion and activity to keep the wizards and adepts more than busy.
This just left the eight warriors and Simeon, which seemed to him just as it had been planned.
But they were not to know that he had worked out their strategy. He could use that piece of knowledge against them. It was, in truth, all he had.
He scoped the darkening grounds as he made for the cover of a clump of hanging trees. He could see shapes moving towards him.
They were tracking his position. There was nowhere he could hide. He was aware of the old man trembling, clutching at him. No time now to reassure him: besides, he wouldn't be fooled by any reassurance that was patently false.
All was against him, but he prepared to stand and fight.
CHAPTER TEN
Year Zero - Period Two
"This all feels so deliciously... wrong. It's quite, quite wonderful." The Mage Vixel smacked his lips with relish and grinned slyly.
Behind him, two warrior security operatives in brightly coloured ceremonial wear exchanged glances, then stared across at the bodyguard - dressed, as always, in a battle tunic - who stood across from them, facing his charge. He gave an almost imperceptible lift of the eyebrow. It was an acknowledgement to them, carefully delivered so that it would avoid the attention of the Mage.
Well, not quite...
"I know, I know," Vixel continued in mock regretful tones. "The old man's lost it. Never trust some doddering ancient in stupid robes. Lost in their own little world, don't know what it's like to be a warrior, and so on..." He turned to face them with a steely glare. It was all they could do not to flinch. There was an ice-cold quality there that belied his age and status.
"Have either of you grunts trained in the remote-view Intel programme?" He asked, his voice sharp, crisp and business-like.
"Sir, no sir," they replied as one.
"No, I suppose not," he mused, looking them up and down with the overt intention of insult. "Well, until you have, you can have no notion of what it is like to see an operation come together before your inner eye. There is no tech that can take you there quite like your own mind, gentlemen. If you could see... but no matter. This is an audacious mission, and it is frankly being realised with more than a little panache. Those fools have no idea what's hitting them."
"Uh, shouldn't you be..." his bodyguard began tentatively. He had been privy to the planning of this mission by default. It's hard to turn a deaf ear when you have to be by the Mage's side at all times. The other two warriors in the room had no idea of the part that Vixel was playing in the night's operation. If they had...
The Mage turned back to his bodyguard, face twisted into a sneer. "Cretin. Do I tell you how to prime your weapon? No," he answered without giving leave for reply, "so do not presume to tell me what I should be doing. The level of skill I have to deploy for this mission is next to nothing. I can do it without even consciously thinking. So never," his voice trembled with rage, "presume to talk to me in such a manner again."
The bodyguard stared straight ahead, taking the verbal lashing. Behind the Mage, the two warrior security operatives once more exchanged glances.
The Mage lapsed into an angry silence. These idiots had ruined his good mood. He would have to take solace from the confusion the mission was causing to that senile old fool Bey.
It was nothing compared to what more he had in store for him.
It had come to fruition following that fateful meeting between Vixel and his Chief Minister. The Mage had thought long and hard about his new relationship to Inan. Before the peace, he had been an academic, his burning sense of ambition and self occupied by the need to become the best at his craft, to attain levels of knowledge unrivalled by any other Mage in history.
Unfortunately for him he knew that he had the flaw of fallibility, the tempest of temptation within him. He was all too mortal, and did not have the spiritual depth of his rival in Praal. Not that he would have wanted to be that ascetic. He revelled too much in the pleasures of corporeality.
So Vixel was a bitter man, knowing that the thing for which he was striving was forever out of reach.
Then peace was declared. In the aftermath, a new kind of war: that of attrition on the nerves of the nation state governments. After such a lengthy war, it was an inevitability that peace would not be something to which there would be an easy adaptation. The transition would be fraught, and it would be a time of temptation for those who would seek to take advantage; who would seek to land a killing blow when the attention of the planet was distracted.
An ambitious man, one with intelligence and an equal level of cunning, could gain an advantage. Could make for themselves a name. More, could carve a permanent place in history.
Was Vixel not such a man? Did he not have the intelligence, the cunning, the drive to succeed?
So it had come to him, in the days following his meeting with the Chief Minister, a plan that would cement his place in history, whilst giving him great power and recognition in the now.
It was simple enough. The more he pondered the matter, the more it seemed to him that the attacks on the fool Bey were directed internally. Praal were above such things. He knew it was not his doing. The other Mages did not have sufficient power to achieve this from distance, and there was no indication from Intel that they had left their Institutes.
Vixel had always prided himself on his ability to step outside the circle. Most people could only think inside, where the circumference was closed and all were safely contained. Give them a situation, and they could only see it one way.
The Mage was not like this. He could look from the outside, escape the bounds of conventional thought and see the greater picture. He had insight.
His insight told him this: the only way that the current situation could be adequately explained was that Bethel had a rogue adept of great power and promise. It would be simple to persuade such an adept to go against his Mage if he was promised the post, and saved years of toil working his way through the ranks, hoping that he could outlive any rivals he may accrue on the way. In this, the military and the academy were not so far apart.
So assuming that there is a dark cabal within the Bethelian Ministry that has this aim, what do they hope to gain? They dispose of the fool Bey, crying that a rival nation state is to blame: undoubtedly they would pick Varn, as their old enemy. The rest of Inan is shocked at such an appalling act, and so joins Bethel in a planet-wide alliance. Varn is vanquished, and Bethel, by default, becomes the major nation state of the globe.
Who would suspect them? No-one who did not know about the rogue adept. To all intents and purposes, they would be a nation state stripped of their deterrent, open to attack and throwing themselves on the mercy of their former enemies and allies. By the time that they unveil their new Mage, seemingly from nowhere, the aim has been achieved.
It was a pretty plan. But what if Varn were to second-guess their old enemy? if they were to be blamed, then why should they not take advantage?
It was this audacious move with which he transfixed his Chief Minister. Attack the Mage, but not to terminate him: use magic to lay down a smokescreen, then take him. Spirit his body away to Varn where he can be kept until the Bethelian war machine, claiming his demise, is geared up for conflict. Then, at the last, produce him alive. Challenge Bethel to answer the charges that will be made against them, claim that the fool Bey was taken for his own protection by a concerned fellow Mage.
Varn becomes the saviour of Inan, preventing a plunge into total war. Vixel is the wisest of Mages, whose counsel and action prevented the destruction of the planet. His place in history is assured.
Meanwhile, Varn gets what it wants, and Vixel gets to play a few twisted games with the old man he has grown to despise over the anums.
It seemed, to the Mage, the best of all possible plans. He had put it before the Chief Minister, and from that moment he assumed a new role within the power structure of the nation state. Although Inan would never know the truth, Vixel became the first M
age to, in effect, lead his nation state. The full extent of co-ordination and planning was down to him.
Strategy. The deployment of military resources. Intel: the gathering and analysis of... all of these things were new to the Mage, but to a man of his training and intellect, used to the exertion of the will and the meditation upon the sublime, this was mere child's play.
In a very short time he was ready. He had marshalled the military and overseen their briefing. He had organised the deployment of Intel operatives in Bethel to determine the movements of Bey and his bodyguard. He also had counter-Intel operatives monitoring within the Bethel Ministry buildings. Before he left Varn, he had already briefed the Chief Minister on the double-dealings taking place within that institution, a division that would make their own plan that much easier to actuate.
It amazed the Mage that the Chief Minister seemed oblivious to the shift in power. If the man had been more intelligent, Vixel would have put it down to his giving the Mage enough slack with which to form a noose. As it was, he had to conclude that the man was a bigger fool than the target Bey.
No matter, the last stage of the plan was to move the military strike force and himself across to Bethel. Vixel had little doubt that he could control such a focused and ultimately diversionary magical attack from Varn, but he wanted to be a part of the action. What was the phrase he had heard the grunts use? 'On the ground.' Yes, he wanted that visceral thrill.
So, while to all intents and purposes the Mage went on a meditation retreat in the bowels of the Varn Institute, in truth he and his bodyguard had sneaked from the castle cellars, through the sewer system, until they surfaced in the Ministry building. It was less than dignified, but necessary. The watching world must believe him still in Varn. By the watching world, of course, he was thinking of the Intel of other nation states. Even their best surveillance tech could not penetrate the inner sanctum of an academy.
Disguised as a minor bureaucrat in a delegation dealing with the sanitary engineering in the recently established embassy in the heart of Belthan (a nice touch, he felt: a sanitary engineer who had engineered his own escape through the sewers... if only the world could see the awesome symmetry of his genius), he had travelled by conventional means to the capital of Bethel, and once installed in the embassy had resumed his true role.