Key to Magic 02 Magician

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  “Aye,” Mhiskva approved. “What think you, my lord magician?”

  “That might deflect the lances,” Mar agreed. “I think it’s worth a try.”

  “See to it, Berhl,” Mhiskva ordered. The large captain studied Mar a moment.

  “My lord magician, I would ask as a personal favor that you insure that the Prince-Commander returns unharmed.”

  Mar did not answer immediately. Mhiskva’s polite request would require that he assume complete responsibility for the injured Prince and Mar’s natural inclination was to reject the request out of hand. Having others depend upon him and his magic was unsettling, almost worrisome. It was true that he had saved Mhiskva and his men but only as a consequence of preserving his own life. Still, there seemed little chance that Lord Ghorn would come to harm during the short flight; Mar intended to stay far away from any of the Brotherhood and their magical ships.

  “I’ll do my best,” Mar told the large man.

  “That is all anyone could ask, my lord magician. And from what I have seen, your best is much superior to that of most men.”

  Mhiskva braced and awarded the young Khalarii a precise salute, then, leaving Mar slightly bemused, pivoted to speak to Lord Ghorn. “I should learn the status of our defense. By your leave, my lord Prince?”

  “Aye, you need to see what the esteemed lords Purhlea, Zhelorthoz, and L’Ghevh are doing with my men.”

  The captain nodded.

  “Leave enough of your marines to assist Berhl and see to Commander Aerlon’s comfort.”

  Mhiskva saluted, spoke with Berhl too quietly for Mar to overhear, took Aerlon in tow, and departed. As Berhl dispatched Ulor and two others in search of the shields, Mar saw Lord Ghorn gesture for him to approach.

  “I would like to test my sea legs, so to speak, up in the air,” the Prince-Commander told him. “Perhaps we could attempt a trial voyage – up, say ten manheight, and then back down?”

  Mar considered it. The request seemed harmless. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  He moved toward the end of the raft and climbed over the side onto his bench in what was arbitrarily the bow. The interior space was about an armlength wide – the length of Mhiskva’s axe handle in point of fact – and most of three and a half armlengths long. Though there was room for another, the marines had installed only two benches; Mar planned to use the additional space for cargo. Seated, the sides were close without being confining and the front side of the raft was within reach of his hand. He had specified a height for the benches that allowed his legs to fit without constricting and left his feet – still bare, he would have to remember to ask for boots – resting flat on the rough boards of the deck.

  He asked over his shoulder, “Ready?”

  “Aye, as I will ever be.” The prince took firm hold of the leather straps that Mar had had fixed to either side of both benches.

  The spells – Mar had resolved, for purposes of clarity, to think henceforth strictly in magical terms – were quite familiar now. With Berhl and his assistants watching, the raft began to rise slowly.

  “Good luck, my lords!” Berhl called.

  Mar adjusted his spell to allow the raft to rise steadily, taking the opportunity to explore the differences between the wood of this current vehicle and the sand of his original one. He had had to make some minor modifications in his spells, but the wood responded as well as had the sand and he felt confident that he could sail this new raft with no difficulty.

  A strong wind had sprung up out of the north and as they cleared the shelter of the keep walls, he had to adjust against the force of it. Far to the northeast, the sky had darkened.

  Lord Ghorn raised himself up to look over the side. “Incredible,” he murmured.

  Mar brought the raft to a gentle stop. When he was satisfied that it would hold its position without his attention, he swiveled about. “I suppose it is, but, like anything, you get used to it.” He gestured toward the lowering horizon. “I think a rain is coming.”

  The prince turned to look. “Aye, a thunder storm most likely. We have them often of afternoons at this time of year. It will not arrive till near sunset, I would judge. The storm may be a boon or a curse, depending on how the Monks react.”

  “They attacked me once before in the midst of a storm,” Mar recalled.

  “It is difficult to marshal legions in pouring rain and commands tend to go astray in thunder. But we shall have to see.”

  “Well, should I start back down? The sooner Berhl adds the shields, the quicker we can start out on your scout.”

  A shadow of steely sobriety fell across Lord Ghorn’s face, as if he had let drop some facade. “No, tarry here for a few moments. I would like to speak to you where none can overhear.”

  Wary, but curious, Mar watched the prince carefully.

  “Mhajhkaei will fall before the start of Waning,” the prince stated flatly.

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “Is there anything – anything at all -- that I could offer that would convince you to remain?”

  “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

  “Not when the fate of my people lies in the balance.”

  “I can’t save Mhajhkaei.”

  “I agree. With the harbor taken and the Citadel breached, the city cannot be successfully defended. We have perhaps six and a half thousand trained armsmen of all sorts remaining, including the ceremonial Palace Guard. We do not have the weapons to arm many more of the citizenry and most of the volunteers we do have are tradesmen and merchant sailors, with barely any experience in warfare, and old men or boys with none. They will be slaughtered in the first pitched battle. All told, we have less than eight thousand men under arms. The Phaelle’n have at least half again our numbers, the bulk of them their own veteran legions. Even without their magery the Citadel would fall. We need twelve thousand men to fully man the walls and another six thousand as a reserve. With what we have, we cannot concentrate our forces without fatally weakening the defense elsewhere. We can hold the south breach for perhaps two days if we put every third man there. If they attack the south and at another gate simultaneously, as I would, we would be overrun at both.”

  “But they will use their magic against you,” Mar pointed out, stating the obvious.

  “Yes. Their next attack will certainly follow a sustained bombardment. They will not be satisfied with simply bringing down a portion of our fortifications this time. They will strike the Citadel till no resistance remains. A single magician, no matter how powerful, cannot prevent this.”

  “So, you want me to stay and die with you?”

  “I want you to stay and help me save as many as possible.”

  “How?”

  “Fly them out.”

  Mar waved out at the city below. “There must be tens of thousands – “

  “More than sixty-thousand.”

  “I could never get that many out in just a few days, even if we built a larger raft. A few hundred at the most, maybe a thousand if I worked night and day.”

  “Then save that thousand. When the Phaelle’n attack, I do not doubt that they will bring the full might of their ships to bear. Many, if not most, of the citizens sheltering within the Citadel will perish. Likewise, any of the defenders that survive the bombardment will, I feel certain, be put to the sword.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” Mar asked, though he actually had no doubt of it.

  “The Monks have sent ambassadors to the Principate Council for months, trying to convince us to merge their Princedom of Bronze with the Principate. Their terms would have dissolved the Council and forced all the princes of the Sister Cities to make obeisance to the child prince of Mhajhkaei. The current Lord-Protector would have been removed and a monk appointed in his place, effectively giving them absolute control of the Principate. Their last missive, just a fortnight ago, threatened total destruction of Mhajhkaei and slaughter of all her people if the Council did not submit. To my knowledge, the Monks have
never shown mercy.”

  Burning with silent anger, Mar simply stared hard at the prince.

  Compassion was a weakness.

  He knew this fundamentally, as a basic fact of existence. Helping others or asking help of them was a recipe for disaster.

  He had helped Sihmal, and Sihmal had died.

  Lord Ghorn watched Mar carefully at length, then, in the manner of one who expected his proposal to be declined, suggested, “I can offer you any amount of treasure that can be found within the Citadel. It will all be taken by the Monks in any event.”

  “I don’t need gold,” Mar scoffed. Though he did not laugh, the accuracy of that statement struck him as comical. He had begun this journey for a payment of a mere twenty gold thalars, which had once seemed an astronomical sum. Now he had been offered the entire wealth of The Greatest City in All the World, and he had absolutely no use for it. “Gold can’t fight the Brotherhood.”

  “But men can and gold is needed to feed men and arm them.” Lord Ghorn took a long breath, pausing as if he were about to take an irretrievable step onto dangerous ground.

  “I can make you Prince of Mhajhkaei and give you command of all forces subject to the city. Even after Mhajhkaei is destroyed, there will be garrisons and ships in the provinces and Sister Cities who can be rallied to the Sea Blue.”

  Mar was stunned, but concealed it as well as he could. “How could you make me a prince?” he derided. Without bitterness, he added, “I was born in a gutter.” It was a simple fact.

  “The Prince of Mhajhkaei is a young child. His parents, Prince Rhevahl and Princess Lyiane, died of a mysterious illness not three months ago, though most, including myself, suspect poison by agents of the Monks. Rhevahl’s grandfather, Hhrahld, holds the throne in the child’s name as Lord-Protector. Frankly, Hhrahld is mad, among other things, and could be set aside. All other close claimants to the throne, save one, have died fighting the Monks today.”

  Mar made the logical connection, as he knew the Mhajhkaeirii intended. “That one would be you?”

  “Indeed. In the face of this war, I could assume the throne without question. I would then declare you my illegitimate son – I went to sea in my youth and such things are not uncommon – and abdicate in your favor. As I have no other children, under the imperial principle of Blood Heirship, which Mhajhkaei has always followed, legitimacy is irrelevant and your claim would be irrefutable. The ship captains respect Mhiskva, the Marines are his, and he is loyal to me. As Prince-Commander I hold the command of all legions marching under Mhajhkaeirii’n colors.”

  “And you would be loyal to me?” Mar left no doubt that he did not believe this.

  “If you save as many people of the city as you can, I will be. Till death.”

  Mar felt as if he were being sucked into a maelstrom and had no strength to resist it. For months, the entire course of his life had been and was continuing to be shaped by people and events beyond his control: a fool’s misstep, Waleck’s quest, an ancient sorcerer and his beguiling text, Telriy, the Brotherhood, suspect visions, a war he wanted no part of, and now this unrelenting prince of Mhajhkaei.

  “I’ve no desire to be a prince,” Mar told Lord Ghorn dully. Or a king, he added silently to himself.

  Lord Ghorn sighed. “But you will help us?”

  Mar said nothing for a long moment.

  He had lived most of his life in solitude, refusing friendship, avoiding social ties, and denying dependence of any kind. Until his chance encounter with Waleck, he had allowed no one to make claims upon him. The only life he had had to preserve was his own.

  Then he had been only a petty thief, insignificant, unknown, and powerless.

  But now he was a magician. He had great power, the limits of which even he did not know, influence over the rulers of The Greatest City in All the World, and the ability to save or condemn thousands simply by making a single decision.

  Finally, cursing his own weakness, he said simply, “Yes.”

  SIX

  “Brother Oraen reports that members of a Brohivii’n cloister native to the city are performing forced conversions,” Bhrucherra read from the report.

  “Not necessarily counterproductive,” Traeleon commented.

  “He also reports that several temples of the Forty-Nine have been desecrated by persons unknown. Several priests of Gz’l have been found castrated and beheaded.”

  “That is certainly counterproductive. Suppress this activity.”

  The launch from the Duty slowed as the helmsman maneuvered adroitly alongside the floating wooden dock. Crewmen quickly fixed lines to bollards and secured the launch. The Archdeacon stepped easily to the bobbing dock and advanced to the fixed iron ladder that led up to the pier. Bhrucherra, still leafing through his notes, and Lhevatr, with sword and full armor, followed. When Traeleon reached the freshly swept stone of the pier, a waiting Junior Assault Brother snapped out a command and a full combatant cloister braced to attention.

  These were not simply an honor guard; Traeleon’s normal guard contingent, all trusted brethren of his own community, had been slain by the apostate’s attack, the very same that had decapitated the previous Conclave. Traeleon read their tattoos. They were a mix of senior rank Salient Brothers, Veterans, Scouts, and Coordinators, but no two were of the same community and only three shared the same congregation. Unfamiliarity would mean that the cloister would lack combat efficiency. That weakness might exacerbate any risks inherent in visiting the city.

  “Who chose these brethren?” the Archdeacon asked of Lhevatr.

  “I was told that they were selected from unassigned replacements, Preeminence. I sent the order to the brother in command here, Senior Commander-of-Cloisters Allhsiai, within the hour. The unannounced nature of our visit did not permit more precise preparations.”

  “One more in tune with the Duty would perhaps anticipate the needs of archdeaconate.”

  “The Duty requires many things of those dedicated to it,” Bhrucherra commented.

  Bhrucherra had proven skillful in speaking in a manner that verged on the insubordinate but could not openly be faulted. Although Traeleon had set trusted allies in the College of Inquisitors to keep watch on the First Inquisitor, he had determined that the man presented no immediate threat. In any event, Bhrucherra’s subtle insolence was a refreshing counter to Zheltraw’s toadying.

  Traeleon turned to the waiting formation and raised his arms to make the sign – very studiously orthodox -- of the Tripartite. He pitched his voice to carry. “Let us give honor to the Work!”

  “WE SERVE THE DUTY!” The response was somewhat disharmonious, but enthusiastic nonetheless.

  “The Restoration shall come!” Traeleon finished with another Tripartite.

  The Archdeacon had come ashore to bless the wounded; there were certain spiritual functions required of the office that he could not safely delegate to underlings. The zealots and true believers were in the majority among the lower ranks, and a perceived lack of rigorous faith in the archdeaconate would sow dissention and schism. In the near thousand-year history of the Phaelle’n Brotherhood, such had been all too common. Several pernicious breakaway sects persisted even today, although Traeleon and the three likewise publicly orthodox Archdeacons who preceded him had worked fiercely to root them out.

  Also, those among the brethren who were more pragmatic than faithful viewed the position as entirely political in nature. That was the more important constituency, as all real power within the Brotherhood rested in their hands. Traeleon knew that he had to circulate among the brethren from time to time to maintain a presence. Still, the oversight of the conquest of The Greatest City in All the World monopolized his time and he planned to spend only one hour in the task. Of the Conclave, only Bhrucherra and Lhevatr accompanied him.

  Traeleon smiled kindly at the commander of the cloister. “Greetings, brother. May I ask your name?”

  “Junior Assault Brother Khendl, Preeminence!”

  The man could
not have been older than twenty. Rapid advancement usually meant skill or patronage. In this case, Traeleon decided the former more likely. The young man’s mahogany hair marked him as a mainlander and the Brotherhood had only begun expanding out from the Archipelago in the last decade, too little time for many of the mainland brethren to gain much power in the hierarchy.

  “The diligence of your cloister does honor to the Work, brother.”

  Brother Khendl’s eyes shown. “Preeminence, I only do the Duty that all men owe that I may aid in the Restoration!”

  A pity. As Traeleon had feared, another zealot. Most of the mainlanders tended to that. He was likely also a Brohivii and that would make him fiercely loyal but also unpredictable.

  “We shall go to the hospital, straight away, Brother Khendl, so that we may minister to those who have suffered injury in the service of the Duty.”

  “SIR! CLOISTER, FORM SQUARE!”

  As the guards marched stiffly into the defensive formation, Traeleon scanned the wreckage of the merchant buildings beyond the wharves. Noticeable improvement had been made in the few hours since last he had seen them. Hooded scribes from the College of Promulgators were inventorying salvaged goods and press-ganged Mhajhkaeirii were at work clearing obstructions from the roadways. The air, however, still held the heavy taint of smoke.

  “What progress is there with the fires?”

  “As you know, my lord,” Lhevatr replied with a measured tone, “little planning was made to deal with the non-military consequences of the capture of the city. Unfortunately, the colloquiums that planned the attack gave no thought to dealing with conflagrations that we ourselves ignited, but the Relic of Anmblaevf has proven useful in combating the larger blazes. Brother Allhsiai believes that most will be under control by nightfall.”

  “I am not familiar with the Relic of Anmblaevf. What is its function?”

  “It is a minor relic recovered in the 713th year of Preparation. It slowly removes the air from a cubic area measuring ten armlengths in each dimension.”