The Guild

by Jean Johnson

  “How will we know when the mirror is destroyed on the other side?” Priest Grell asked.

  “Bits of debris will come through the opening, before the Gate collapses and is sealed,” Gafford told him. “Make sure to shield yourselves as you count to ten, and then check the floor behind you. If something has fallen through, grab your goods and retreat from the region, in case they recognized where you went through. If nothing glasslike has fallen . . . then flee even faster.”

  • • •

  “Today, I serve Guildra, Goddess of Guilds, Patron of this land.”

  The motorwagon jolted over a rut in the road. Alonnen clenched his jaw and continued loading his hand-cannon. Like most of the weapons developed in secret by the Munitions Guild for the Mages Guild, it was not a standard cannon. He didn’t have to measure the munitions powder and pack it into the barrel; he didn’t have to drop in the flannel charcloth or the lead ball and ram it down into place. Nor did he have to grease the openings to keep any moisture from reaching the powder and ruining it before the sparking gear could ignite it.

  “Today, I shall be a warrior of the Light of Heaven, striving to defend the innocent and protect this land from the profane.”

  Some clever soul with a secondary status in the Brassworks Guild had come up with clever little capsules with the powder tucked behind the payload. In Alonnen’s case, the missile being fired out of the short, heavy barrel was not one large ball, but rather, many smaller beads. The range was short, but that was fine with him; Alonnen was headed into the stone-walled confines of a temple, not facing down a foe from the far side of a battlefield. These “buck beads” might not go through a man unless fired from up close, but they would turn a chest, an arm, a leg, whatever got in their way into painfully shredded meat.

  “Today, I ask my Goddess to forgive my flaws, and grant me the purified instincts to do what is right and just with my foes.”

  He had the faces of Torven Shel Von and Archbishop Elcarei firmly in mind. He wasn’t entirely sure if firing a hand-cannon into their faces was going to be right or just; he only knew he’d feel safer without them in the world. Still, he tried to focus on the fact he was going to the temple to rescue the woman he loved and not to kill the most dangerous, annoying men in the world.

  “Today, I, Orana Niel, dedicate myself to the works of Heaven in my efforts to defend and cleanse this world of evil.”

  “Today, I, Alonnen Tallnose, dedicate myself . . .” he recited along with the other mages accompanying them into town, just as he had recited every other line given to them. They hit a pothole, and he almost lost the last two brass capsules. Catching them against the felted-wool coat of the man seated on the floor between his feet at the back of the wagon, he muttered an apology and pushed the little brass cylinders into the holes in the firing cogwheel.

  Orana paused, squinting a little at each man and woman crowded into the back of the wagon, then nodded. “Good. Your auras are suitably sanctified. Keep this feeling in mind, and remember to focus your thoughts upon Guildra as you enter the former temple. Picture the various guild symbols, and imagine a woman whom you trust, respect, and think of as strong marching in there beside you, ready to help you kick out all that is evil. Remember: What we think, our Gods become.

  “True, you lost control of the previous one, and you sank into hopelessness and despair as the priests seized control and power. That weight is gone. You face priest-mages who are still somewhat strong, but who are no longer backed by a False God who fed upon stolen powers. You have your own powers, and you know how to shield each other. More than that, it is you who have the power of the Heavens on your side this time. You are free to worship again . . . and you know what your Guilds honor, what cornerstones and foundation blocks underlie your best way of life.

  “Put those feelings into your Goddess, and She will manifest in ways both subtle and sublime.”

  The motorwagon swayed around a corner and lurched to a stop with a yelp from the driver, who had stomped on the stopper pedal. “Oy! Grinding idiots! They blocked the road.”

  Craning his neck, Alonnen stared at the scene. Several other motorcarts, motorwagons, and motorhorses blocked the street, all of them marked with the hammer-on-shield of the Precinct militia. Whoever had parked them here had turned this well-traveled thoroughfare into one long, open-air parking stall, with no regard for how anyone else would get through.

  When he realized there wasn’t even foot traffic in sight, Alonnen felt a stab of alarm. Scrambling out of the back of the wagon, he muttered a spell-ward around his hand-cannon before shoving it through his belt. The ward would keep it from discharging into his leg, or worse, but would only take the briefest of thought to dispell. Hopefully . . . hopefully his brother and the other officers in the Precinct militia had not just ordered their men to charge into the temple without waiting for magical protection.

  Behind him, he heard a few mutterings of confusion, then the sounds of the others dropping out of the vehicle. The air was crisp and cold, and it reeked slightly of motorcart fuel and cooling metal. They were still two blocks and a side street from the temple, but it looked like the Militia had arrived in full force. That also explained why no one else was moving by vehicle in this part of town; no one could remember the last time Captain Torhammer had mobilized so much of the Precinct’s forces outside of the old parade days.

  “Oy! Tall! Over here,” a voice called out from a shop door, speaking just loud enough to get Alonnen’s attention.

  Glancing that way, Alonnen frowned, then widened his eyes, recognizing one of his brother’s under-officers. The man beckoned Alonnen over, then pulled back into the shop, giving him room to step inside. Yet more leather-and-metal clad bodies shifted and shuffled, giving him room to work his way deeper into the shop.

  “There you are, Master Tall,” Rogen said, working his way through what had been a textiles shop. At the moment the bolts of fabric on the tables were covered with what looked like maps of the temple. Alonnen hadn’t even known such maps existed.

  Gathering his wits, he addressed his brother. “I’ve brought fifteen mages with me. Including our champion.”

  Turning, Alonnen looked toward the shop windows, only to see Orana right behind him. She smiled slightly, her robe pulled fully shut. Her frame looked a little odd, shoulders wider and bulkier than usual. Alonnen didn’t know what to make of that, since on the ride to the city she had seemed slender and normal.

  “Ahh . . . right. Leftenant Rogen Tallnose, this is Witch-Knight Orana Niel,” he introduced politely.

  His introduction immediately stirred a flurry of whispers around the men crowded into the shop. “Orana Niel!”

  “Orana . . .”

  “The Holy Knight is here?”

  “Praise the Gods!”

  “I got my cousin back, thanks to her!”

  “Enough!” Rogen called out as a few started to shift forward. “You can thank her later. We have the new Guild Master of the Holy Guild to rescue, and we need to do it before these bastard ex-priests sacrifice Master Longshanks to some dredged-up demon from the Netherhells. Master Tall, I’ve a portable talker-box operator coordinating with Captain Torhammer on the other side of town. What in the way of illusions can your people cast around the temple so that they don’t see us coming?”

  “Not many. I’m . . . not in charge of the main source for such things at the moment,” Alonnen was forced to admit. He had the unique experience of watching his unflappable brother’s jaw drop, and Alonnen quickly held up a hand. “It’s being used for the far greater need of sealing off the entire region from the ability to create cross-universe Portals, which will prevent more demons from being summoned. What we can do is shield you and your men. The rest will be up to Witch Orana.”

  “I can toss up a static illusion if all the streets are empty of people,” Orana offered. “But there cannot be any people moving aro
und, if you want my attention free to be able to go with you into the temple itself.”

  “I vote bringing the only highly trained mage we have in the area into the temple with us,” Alonnen interjected before his eldest brother could do more than open his mouth to speak. “But what do I know? I’m just the Guild Master.”

  “Don’t be a piston,” Rogen muttered back, giving him a dark look. “I’d agree to the same. What I was about to say is that we’ve already sent out an order to clear the streets. You can cast the spell as soon as you’ve ascertained it’s clear. I’ll assign you a squad to move you around between the shops and streets unseen.”

  “No need. I have a scrying mirror with me.” Pulling it out of her copious sleeves, Ora moved over to the table with the maps.

  Rogen leaned in close to his brother, speaking under his breath. “How did she get here just when we needed her?”

  “My guild has its ways,” Alonnen murmured back. “Now that Mekha is gone, we can import teachers across the borders by land as well as other means . . . if we have stable borders. There’s peace around Heiastowne and some of its immediate neighbors, but not everyone has it or wants it.” He shifted, impatient with the preparations despite knowing they were necessary. “I don’t like waiting. I want to go in now.”

  “You never served in the Militia,” Rogen reminded his brother. “Far more battles are lost through lack of care and planning than are won. What seems like a sudden ambush is often the product of hours and days, even weeks of preparation.”

  “We don’t have hours, never mind days and weeks,” Alonnen countered.

  “We’ll do our best,” Rogen said. “But I will not send my people into a slaughter, and I will not send yours, either.”

  “And I don’t want to send them, either,” Alonnen agreed. “I’m just . . . I’m afraid they’ll interrogate her,” he muttered. “If they do . . . she’ll forget everything about the guild. She’ll forget me.”

  “Try praying to that Goddess of hers,” the leftenant offered dryly. “Ask Her to intercede. That’s supposedly why Patron Deities exist, isn’t it? To pull off miracles and make amends when mortals cannot manage?”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “No buts. Start praying,” Rogen ordered him. Lifting a hand, Rogen poked his sibling in his wool-covered chest. “One more thing. Just in case she has been interrogated and has forgotten you, don’t run up and hug her. I know you. I know that’s what you’ll do. But if you do that, she won’t realize why this complete stranger is trying to embrace her, and she may panic. She might even think she’s being attacked . . . and if she calls out for help, I am duty bound to have to arrest you.”

  Alonnen gave him a disbelieving look. Rogen lifted his brows in pointed, silent reply. Scowling, Alonnen folded his arms across his chest.

  Rogen shrugged and folded his own arms as well, echoing his sibling’s disgruntled pose. “If I don’t do it, Captain Torhammer will, and he won’t care about your reasons why or your past relationship with her. All he’ll see is a frightened woman thinking she’s being mugged by a stranger, not just hugged. Sorry, Brother, but if she has been spell-bound to forget you, then . . . well . . . you’ll just have to start courting her all over again. From day one. Start with words, not touches.”

  As much as he wanted to argue the point, Alonnen knew his elder brother was right. He hated it, but Rogen was right.

  “It is done,” the Witch in their midst announced. She turned to face the leftenant, and the edge of her robe parted, showing a glint of rune-chased metal. That was what she had under her Witch-robe: armor, undoubtedly infused with spells both offensive and defensive. Some property of the sleeved, hooded cloak had hidden the aura of its magic before the folds parted, but Alonnen could see it now.

  I’ll have to speak with her about how to imbue metal with various spells. We could seriously use them on things like the motorhorses and motormen, should we ever have to go to battle. There’s no guaranteeing the northern precincts won’t stop just at their own borders in their effort to throw off the old shackles and impose a new set of leaders and a new set of rules.

  “Right, then,” Rogen stated, raising his voice so everyone in the shop could hear. “Master Tall, break off your . . . guildmembers into six groups. I’ll pair five sets of them with a scout to take them straight to the other groups around the perimeter. Your job, m . . . mages,” he added, stumbling a little over the dreaded M word, “is to shield our forces from any spells being cast. One of the favorite tricks of the priesthood is a sleeping spell that will hit an area around you. Another is a gluelike spell that will knock you down and lock your body to the floor . . .”

  Alonnen wasn’t the only mage in the shop who nodded; they were familiar with such things and knew a few counters for them. And some of those counters aren’t even spells, he thought grimly, fingers going to the grip of his hand-cannon. Hurt a priest badly enough, and they won’t be able to concentrate to cast any spells.

  “One warning,” Ora called out as Rogen came to the end of his list of known spells to counter. She flicked her hand, and a hovering illusion of a single man appeared in the air over their heads. It made the non-mages gasp and shift back, and the mages sway forward in envy at her skill. “This man, Torven Shel Von, must not die. Do not kill him.”

  Dammit, Alonnen swore, wincing as he realized where her speech was headed. Gods in Heaven, You are just bound and determined to mock me, aren’t You?

  “We have determined that this mage is the reason why these other priests have not unleashed unchecked demons upon this world. He is an Aian, so you will know him by the differences in his features from the common ex-Mekhanan, as you can see. He must be allowed to live and to escape, so that the various prophecies will come true regarding the successful thwarting of these demon summoners’ ambitions. Mark his face and learn it well.

  “I may even have to save him,” she added grimly. It was the first time Alonnen had seen the normally serene woman unhappy. “But I have learned from personal experience that either you work with a set of prophecies to make them come true in a way that benefits you . . . or you’ll find out just how badly they can piston you from behind. Without pomade.”

  Reminded abruptly of last night’s activities, Alonnen felt his cheeks burn. Rogen slanted him a bemused look, but thankfully did not ask why his middle brother had turned so red in the face. Hopefully the other men and women in the shop would think it was simply from Orana’s crude mention of a topic best reserved for the privacy of a bedroom or a brothel visit. And, dammit to a Netherhell, we won’t be able to do any of last night’s activities for however long it takes me to get her to fall in love again!

  Focus, Alonnen, he ordered himself in the next breath. That’s a petty whine about a sprained finger, when the world might have all of its bones broken within the hour. Do your job, and help your brother to do his. Clearing his throat, Alonnen addressed the dozens crowded into the shop. “You heard our champion, people. Let’s go save Rexei and, hopefully, the rest of the world.”

  • • •

  The key in the enchanted lock warned her someone was coming. Rexei tensed, prepared to zap whoever it was with a sleep spell if they were alone. The door swung inward, revealing a clutch of five apprentices. She checked the change in her inner melody before it could actually start, and forced herself to continue humming the tunes that kept her mind clear and her body able to act, if at a price.

  Moving up to her side, the foremost of the five apprentice priests, Apprentice Stearlen, poked his finger against her control collar. “On your feet, boy.”

  She didn’t feel any prickling compulsion to move. Rexei had a split second to realize why, then she quickly jerked herself up off the cot. By calling her boy when she was actually a female, he had robbed the collar of its depth of control. She couldn’t let any of the apprentices know that. Not when trapped in a room with four of them blocki
ng her only escape route.

  His next order didn’t come with a wrong-gendered epithet, however. Ordered to follow the one who had poked her collar, she debated trying to escape the moment she reached the hallway. The others flanked her, clearly unwilling to take chances. Neither was she, save for one thing: they were clearly herding her toward the nearest entrance to the power room, where Mekha had once sat and drained His victims. Chanting, filled with syllables and sounds that made her stomach feel queasy, echoed from within the chamber.

  Now or never! Letting her body walk forward under the spell’s compulsion, Rexei hummed out loud—softly but with every bit of intent she could muster. Two of the apprentices let out soft but audible sighs before crumpling. Their bodies hit the floor with soft thumps and velvet-draped rustles, turning the other three around. While the young men narrowed their eyes, Rexei gathered her energies for a second strike.

  She hummed aloud again—and Stearlen cut her off with a grab of her throat and a sharp, “Stop that!”

  One of the apprentices fell; the other staggered into the wall and braced himself, but managed to stay awake. Unable to run because she was being held up onto her toes by the taller youth’s grip, Rexei was forced to grab at his fingers in the effort to pry them off her neck. The metal collar prevented only two of his fingers from squeezing painfully into her throat; the rest dug in deep enough to choke.

  Stearlen shook her even as he tightened his grip, growling, “Don’t you dare try any more spells! You will come with me and stand where I tell you, and you will not move from that spot until we tell you what to do, you little grease stain!”

  Dragging her forward, he didn’t wait for the last apprentice to finish shaking off the dizziness imparted by her spell. Forced to stumble in his wake, Rexei continued to try to pry his fingers from her neck. It hurt to keep humming the warding spells in the back of her mind, but she was so close to escape, she had to get them back up and running strong so that she could . . . step out between the slanted steps of the tiers ringing the power room, endure another shake from the novice, and be ordered to stand still and be silent.