Harmonic Magic Series Boxed Set

by P. E. Padilla

  Until now.

  The monk never even raised his guard. He watched the sword pass in front of him, watched it change direction, and then stepped in with a cut of his own, taking Scrin Tael’s hand off at the wrist. He hardly did more than put his blade in the way and allowed the commander’s own momentum to cut his own hand off. Tael felt a sharp pain and then saw blood spurting out of the stump of his wrist. His sword spun off into the night, his severed hand still clutching the handle.

  Not dead yet, the commander drew his long knife with his left hand and thrust it toward the monk. Again, the monk hardly moved, taking a half a step to the side, bringing his sword around in a lazy circle. And taking Scrin Tael’s other hand.

  The commander of the First Hunter Unit dropped to his knees, watching as his blood spurted from both stumps. He looked up to the monk.

  “I thank you for honorable battle.” The man’s bald head reflected softly in the moonlight, a splatter of blood on top of it, dripping down the side of his face. “You are truly not worthy of mercy, with how you have tortured and killed my brothers and sisters, but I will not withhold it from you. Your dishonorable activities are at an end.”

  The last thing Scrin Tael saw was the flash of a sword in the moonlight, and then nothing more.

  “We have lost contact with how many units?” the Gray Man asked, eyes shining blood red in the light from the nearby brazier.

  “Five of the six, my lord,” Dodson Drees said, standing at attention in front of the Gray Man. “One man survived from the sixth group. He lay down amongst the dead when the fighting first started, knowing that they were outmatched from the beginning.”

  Shordan Drees gritted his teeth. He had wanted to kill the man on the spot when he returned. The coward. His father had stopped him, saying something about the importance of the information or some such nonsense. It made him sick to be in the same room as the cowardly soldier. Still, he would obey his father, his commander, and not do anything to the survivor.

  “That was wisely done. Did he know the monks would not go through the bodies to finish them off, or did he get lucky?” the Gray Man asked.

  “He has been hunting the monks for months. He has studied them. I believe he knew they would have their battle and then leave.”

  The Gray Man nodded.

  “Dodson,” he said softly, “how many troops do we have, altogether?”

  “Two thousand, one hundred, seventeen, my lord, including the forty-seven Collectors that are out on assignment, but not including any of the Hunter Units, which I presume to be dead.”

  “I had hoped to have twice that before going to war.” The Gray Man steepled his fingers and tapped his bottom lip, looking over the map lying on the table in front of him. The corners were weighted down with figurines made of gold, a metal that was worthless on Gythe.

  Dodson Drees waited patiently as the Gray Man considered. Shordan Drees looked over at the two. The Gray Man and his bald, pasty light-colored skin and dark, almost-black eyes with their red rims, Shordan’s father with his gray dappled hair and scarred face from a lifetime of combat. He started to grow anxious and began shifting from foot to foot.

  Lately, Shordan’s father had been grooming him for command. They came from a long line of soldiers. Battle was in their blood. Shordan never remembered wanting to do anything else but fight, and even now saw nothing more than that in his future.

  His grandfather was such a brilliant battle commander that he was actually offered a position that was so close to kingship as to be indistinguishable. He declined, stating that he was a soldier, not a politician. Instead, he backed another and ensured his reign was successful for over thirty years, until the king felt threatened by his general and reportedly had him murdered.

  By the time the Arzbedim came to power in the region, Shordan’s grandfather was already dead. When the rogue rohw users eliminated the king, Dodson, pledged his service to them.

  When in turn the Gray Man eliminated the Arzbedim, Dodson transferred his service to the new master of the Gray Fortress—formerly the Black Fortress—and continued on as before.

  Dodson was a good soldier, a good commander, but without the clever tactics of his father. Clever tactics were overrated, Shordan thought. Dodson had the right of it. Basic strategy and superior strength of arms were the ways to victory. He needed no tricks to succeed.

  “I have been experimenting with a particular set of artifacts left to me by my predecessors,” the Gray Man chuckled softly at his own joke—he had murdered all the Arzbedim that preceded him—“and I believe they can be useful in this case.”

  “Choose out the best six hundred troops, and split them into two groups. Add enough of the remaining soldiers to one of them so that we have a force consisting of half our soldiers. We leave in three days.”

  “Leave?” Dodson Drees said, puzzlement clear on his face. “Leave to go where?”

  “Why, my good Dodson,” the Gray Man’s red-rimmed eyes flashed, “To the Zouyim Temple. Where else?”

  Chapter 7

  Three days later, in the hours just past midnight, over a thousand of the Gray Man’s soldiers were assembled in one of the massive training yards in front of the keep of the Gray Fortress.

  The soldiers milled around in loose formation, chatting softly with each other. Shordan Drees was standing next to his father at the forefront of the men, waiting for the arrival of the Gray Man. He still didn’t know what they were going to do. He had asked his father repeatedly, but the Gray Man had not told his battle commander, either. Dodson told his son that all he knew was what they both heard during the meeting three days ago.

  It was troubling. There were no manu birds, no pack animals, not even any supplies evident. How would they travel to the temple without supplies? He wondered if the Gray Man had finally gone insane. More insane. Shordan always thought the man had a tenuous grasp on reality. Dealing with magic would do that to you.

  The Master of the Fortress finally arrived. As he led a group of men carrying something covered with a blanket, the troops all quieted and stood at attention, arrayed in perfect rows and columns with exactly the same space between them. The silence was eerie, having generated spontaneously, without any command or gesture from his father. One thing was sure: whether from respect or fear, these men and women would go anywhere the Gray Man directed.

  The men carrying the blanketed item set it down gently in front of the Gray Man. He watched them intently as they did so, as if to make sure they didn’t damage it. There was a soft chiming noise when they settled it into place.

  The Gray Man turned toward the soldiers assembled. He scanned their faces, seeming to be memorizing each of them. When his gaze settled on Shordan, the big man felt his face grow hot and recalled what he had just thought about the man. He couldn’t actually read minds as some thought, could he? He gulped to wet his dry throat and hoped not. The gaze passed to the next soldier.

  “Tonight,” the Gray Man said without preamble, “we will avenge our brothers who were slain by the Zouyim scum. Tonight, we will prove beyond doubt that we are the superior force in this world. Tonight, the Zouyim will pass into memory.”

  He looked around at the crowd, scanning them. “Are you ready for a battle that will be talked about for a thousand years?” The men and women before him cheered and raised their hands in celebration. Some stomped their feet or clapped. He let them continue for a time, then raised his hands to quiet them. The silence filled the courtyard again, much too quickly to seem natural.

  “I have here,” he pulled the blanket off the object the men had brought, revealing a wooden frame with a series of bells mounted to it, arranged from smallest to largest, “the means for us to go instantly to the Zouyim temple at Kokitura Mountain. The Arzbedim needed to coordinate several rohw users to utilize these artifacts, but my power is such that I can perform the ritual myself.

  “I want everyone to clasp hands with the person on either side of you, those on the edges clasping the
shoulder of the one in front of you. Everyone must be joined in this way or they will be left behind.” He motioned for Dodson and Shordan to come closer. “Take a few of the men and make a link from the main group to me.”

  Turning his attention again to the soldiers before him, he continued in a loud voice, “Continue to clasp each other’s hands or shoulders. I will strike the bells in the proper order and complete the ritual necessary. When I strike the final bell, we will all be instantly transported to the temple. There will be a little disorientation, but it will pass quickly.

  “When it does, you must attack the monks immediately. We will only have scant seconds before they realize we’re in their home and they attack. Kill them as quickly as you can. If you can kill them sleeping, so much the better.”

  He looked out at them intensely, seeming to lock eyes with every individual. Shordan was glad he was only two men away from him in the chain, so he was spared that stare into his own eyes.

  “Don’t be fooled. We will surprise them, but only briefly. Their skills in combat are supreme. Don’t give them a chance to fight. Kill them quickly and ruthlessly.”

  The Gray Man turned to the bells, allowing Dodson to place his hand on the leader’s shoulder to complete the link. He struck the bells in succession, chanting something under his breath too softly for Shordan to make out. When he at last struck the final bell, the world spun dizzily and he felt himself falling.

  The cold air bit at him, helping him to shake off his disorientation. He looked around and saw the gracefully curving wall and the stone buildings beyond. Trees were cultivated around the area, which didn’t make sense to him, knowing how high Kokitura Mountain was. There was no doubt, though, where they were. Two robed monks were even now yelling as they threw themselves at some of the troops still trying to shake off the lethargy from the transport. The effects of the altitude, no doubt.

  Shaking his head, Shordan saw another monk heading for a large gong. He ran toward the man, drawing one of his short swords and throwing it in hopes of killing him before he could sound the alarm. The battle was on.

  A sudden, jolting force came through the peaceful rohw of the temple. Ardu Sett woke instantly, rolling from his simple bed onto his feet. The force he felt was enough to rouse him from his sleep, but still too subtle for many of the other monks to have detected. Casting his senses out, he could feel intruders in the temple. Many of them. His worst fear had come to pass. They were being attacked.

  He heard the muted sounds of combat. The monks on guard would have taken up the first defense, but why was the alarm not sounded? And how did so many enemies make their way to the temple. They should have been sensed long before they could make it to the temple proper, at least by those who were awake. But these were mysteries for another time. The only thing that mattered now was to defend their home.

  The Grandmaster of the Zouyim order burst through his door and dodged quickly to the side, allowing the arrow coming at him to pass within an inch of him, doing so harmlessly. He snatched a small figurine sitting on a pedestal beside his door and in one fluid motion threw it at the archer. It struck the woman between her eyes, which rolled back in her head as she fell to the ground.

  The alarm gong finally sounded. Within seconds, Zouyim poured out from doorways, ready for battle. Some had picked up weapons, but others came out unarmed. It mattered little. Zouyim were as dangerous with bare hands as they were armed.

  Two men came at the old monk, one from either side. They both had swords, obviously believing their weapons gave them an advantage. They realized how wrong they were when Ardu Sett left them at his feet, one dead and the other dying from a broken neck.

  The Grandmaster moved quietly through the space between buildings. When he rounded one of the monks’ quarters and got his first good glimpse of the courtyard, he felt as if his heart had turned to stone. There were hundreds of soldiers defiling the temple grounds, surrounding his brothers and sisters, doing their best to kill them.

  He paused for only the briefest moment before he joined the fray, laying about him with fists and feet, causing death wherever he touched. As he did so, he used the rohw surrounding him and shouted, much louder than a man should have been able to.

  “To me, my brothers and sisters, to me,” he called. He paused in his speech to dodge a long knife on one side of him and an arrow coming from straight ahead. As the arrow passed, he snatched it out of the air and still turning with his momentum, drove it into the chest of a woman who was coming at him from behind with a sword. A hard kick to the ribs of the knife wielder that caused several ribs to shatter finished off the other foe. “Organize yourselves and scatter this rabble,” he completed.

  The Zouyim rallied, stepping into a loose rank that allowed each one the space for free movement but not so much that they could be surrounded by more than four or five attackers without another monk being there to aid them.

  They began to push the soldiers back. Little by little, one victory after another, the wave of soldiers trying to push further into the temple were slowed, stopped, and then forced back toward the front gates.

  Ardu Sett nodded as he watched it happen. Perhaps the temple would survive the night. He saw the bodies of several Zouyim on the ground from the initial attack, but now that they had been alerted, the monks were performing admirably, receiving only minor wounds, when they were struck at all.

  Applying his mind to the task at hand, he set about defeating as many of the invaders as he could. He was unsure how many there were, but he knew that if they persevered, they could defeat the intruders, no matter how large their force. Was this not what they had trained for?

  Chapter 8

  The Gray Man stood back to oversee the battle, letting Dodson command his forces. They didn’t surprise the monks as fully as he would have liked. They had killed a dozen or so of the Zouyim within the first two minutes, but the monks had rallied much too quickly for his liking. His forces were in for a hard fight.

  He didn’t know how many Zouyim monks there were, but from all the information he had gotten, he estimated there were nearly a hundred. At odds of more than ten to one, coupled with the surprise factor, they should have been able to defeat them. But he had not thought about the altitude.

  The temple was very high, over fourteen thousand feet in elevation. The monks were used to breathing and exerting themselves here; his men were not. They were sluggish, tired, some even becoming incapacitated by altitude sickness. He chastised himself. He thought he had considered everything. A mistake like this could cost them the victory. Stupid!

  “Dodson!” he shouted for his commander. The man finished off a monk who had been struck with no less than fifteen arrows but was still fighting. The commander blocked the slowed sword-strike from the monk, sliced the tendons in his forearm to cause him to drop his sword, and then buried his own in the monk’s neck. He never would have been able to pull off such a feat if the monk was not almost dead from blood loss already. The leader of the Gray Man’s forces jogged to his master.

  “Yes, my lord,” he said, bending over and putting his hands on his knees. The thin air was getting to him, too.

  “I need you to find out what is happening. Don’t spend so much time in combat that you don’t lead your forces. I want constant reports of how the battle is going. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the commander said as he snapped to attention and saluted crisply, fist pounding his breast plate over his heart. He jogged toward the front lines.

  A moment later, the big man came loping back to the Gray Man.

  “The monks are rallying, my lord,” he said without preamble. “They are pushing the men back. We have a line of archers just behind the front line, but we can’t shoot without hitting our own men.”

  “Tell them to shoot.”

  “My lord?” Dodson Drees face filled with confusion. “We can’t keep from hitting some of our own men.”

  Dark, red-rimmed eyes glowed in the moonlight, directed
at Dodson. The commander took a step back and then both of his eyebrows shot up in surprise that he had done so. “If the men are in close quarters with the monks, they are dead already. All that remains is for them to realize it. Take the opportunity while the Zouyim are busy and put as many arrows as you can in them. For every one that is bleeding from an arrow wound, a dozen of our soldiers will not be killed…as quickly.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the commander saluted again and went off to give the order.

  The Gray Man stayed where he was. Looking up at the almost-full moon, he wondered if his men would be enough. The screams, the clash of metal on metal, the sickly sound of meat being cut by sharp weapons, the metallic smell of blood assaulting his nose, all faded into the background. All that was important was that the Zouyim ceased to exist this night. That was all.

  He had predicted that he would lose his force of men, written them all off as casualties. That was what one must do in a battle such as this. The long-term results were much more important. He would enter the battle himself, but not yet. He was powerful, but he was still just a man. If he tired himself too much by entering the battle too early, he may find himself drained and vulnerable. That could not be.

  Granted, it would take time to rebuild his forces, but without the meddlesome monks about, he would have time to do so. War was all about compromise and sacrifice. Every battle commander knew that. You couldn’t make omelets without cracking a few eggs. He wondered where he had heard that saying. The word “omelet” meant nothing in Kasmali, the language of Gythe. Strange. He knew the sense of it, anyway.

  The Gray Man heard faintly an order being given, then he heard the composite sound of the twang of dozens of bows and crossbows. The grunts and screams were unfulfilling. He knew the monks would silently receive the arrows, so he was sure the noise had come from his own men, men caught in “friendly fire.” He hoped more monks were hit than his own soldiers.