“The Power of Magic should not be underestimated.” Quotes of the Books of Phaelle were always useful, but with Khendl and his cloister close enough to overhear, they were vital.
“The Work!” Khendl declared, as Traeleon knew he would.
“The Duty!” the Archdeacon responded.
“THE RESTORATION!”
The shouted response from the cloister echoed faintly off the distant standing buildings, but then the cry began to reverberate from all the Phaelle’n within sight so that the spreading roar grew to drown all the other sounds of the city.
SEVEN
“Shame that we cannot make a run at those ships,” Lord Ghorn called cheerfully over the sighing of the wind. “A feint might cause them to sail out of range of the city and gain us some time.”
Mar swept the raft into a long banking turn. “I don’t have any missiles ready.”
“Ah. I thought perhaps you threw balls of fire from your hands, or some such?”
“No.”
“A pity.”
Despite himself, Mar grinned.
Berhl and his assistants had made short work of attaching the shields to the raft. Enough had been found to overlap the armor like fish scales – Berhl’s idea – so that no portion of the wood was exposed. Berhl had also, at his own initiative, prepared several modifications for the vehicle: a simple rack with a strap for a jug of water and cups, straps for a crossbow and quarrels, and additional looped straps for handholds. The Mhajhkaeirii marine’s last addition had been a manheight long spear shaft that he had fixed upright to the right corner of the bow.
“What’s that for?” Mar had asked him.
Sporting a lopsided tentative grin, which had looked rather out of place on his weathered face, Berhl had answered hesitantly, “Well, sir – my lord, I mean -- I was wondering if you’d like to fly the colors.”
“Colors?”
Slipping a folded pennon from his smudged tunic, Berhl had presented it reverently. Divided horizontally by a gold stripe, the upper half had been sea blue but the other a black field dotted with small gold points and a single arcing silver stripe.
“What’s the black stand for?”
“This is the Marine standard. The black is the night sky over the bow of a rolling ship. By your leave, my lord?”
Mar had shrugged and the grinning marine had leapt to the task. When the raft had risen the second time to begin Lord Ghorn’s scouting expedition, the pinion had fluttered gaily above Mar’s head and Berhl, Ulor, and the three other marines, forming a line, had saluted proudly in unison.
Lord Ghorn’s pen scratched as the prince made a note. He had sent for and received a small naval lap desk complete with spill-proof ink well, pen, and clamps for paper.
“Well, it is true. The Monks have broken the siege. Their forces have retired and formed a line along Greenbriar Street in advance of the harbor wall,” the Prince-Commander commented thoughtfully. “They are putting up barricades at the intersections, but it does not appear to me that these are meant to be permanent positions. Though they could move quickly to lay siege to the Citadel once again, I begin to wonder if they have suffered greater losses than I had thought.”
“Maybe they’ll leave the city altogether?” Mar suggested half-hopefully.
“I would be very much surprised. They are regrouping, factoring the new element – you, my young friend – into their plans. This day is almost spent and it will be raining in just an hour or two. Regardless of their losses, my thought is that they will attack again at first light and I shall act accordingly.”
“Have you seen enough then?”
“No, I would like to take a turn over the harbor fortresses, if we can. The first one is there to the west.”
Mar banked the raft in the indicated direction. He had maintained an altitude of better than fifty manheight and he felt that this height made him fairly immune to the Phaelle’n magic that he had seen thus far. Still, it was the magic that he not seen that concerned him. He had made up his mind to come no closer to the Phaelle’n warships than a full league and had stipulated this restriction to Lord Ghorn. The prince had voiced no objection and they had begun their flight with a slow circumnavigation of the Citadel, about a third of a league out. The Mhajhkaeirii commander had been particularly interested in the areas devastated by Mar’s missiles and the Phaelle’n catapults. On discovering that the maroon and gray armsmen of the Brotherhood had apparently withdrawn from the northern sections of the city, Lord Ghorn had asked Mar to fly south of the Citadel to investigate.
Thus far, the flight had been without incident and Mar had been able to hover above or swoop by locations of interest to the Prince-Commander unmolested. Also, the air above the city had cleared, allowing Lord Ghorn unrestricted view of the majority of the city from the bay to the outskirts. Though some areas still smoldered, most of the fires the invaders had set had burned themselves out, leaving great swaths of ash and blackened masonry. The small fire set by Mar’s first attack had been contained by Mhajhkaeirii legionnaires sallying from the Citadel and would soon be extinguished. The stiff winds coming off the approaching storm had blown much of the remaining overhanging haze out to sea.
Lord Ghorn spent several moments sketching the western fortress and the dispositions of the legion holding it. The prince stood as the raft hovered, leaning precariously over the side to point.
”See that flag? The one flying from the seaward bastion? Black and silver are the colors of Droahmaer, I think. Droahmaer is the only other island in the Bronze chain large enough to field a complete legion and that might well be the Droahmaerii legion pressed into service for the Phaelle’n, just as were Commander Aerlon’s Plydyrii.”
“Do you think they could be brought to your side?”
“Perhaps, but I do not know for certain. I know very little of Droahmaer. It is at the far end of the Archipelago.”
Mar shrugged. He had never heard of Droahmaer at all. He steered the raft in a wide curve out to sea, aiming for the other fortress across the bay, but not wishing to pass over the Phaelle’n fleet.
Staring to port at the anchorage, Lord Ghorn asked, “How large a raft can you take aloft? As large as the house or would it have to be much smaller? It seemed you had difficulty keeping it together.”
“If the craft has been built well and entirely of wood,” Mar answered without turning, “I don’t think I would have any trouble flying one that large. The problem with the solarium was the materials of its construction. Stone and mortar won’t hold together under the stress of flying.”
“I would like you to oversee the construction of the larger raft first thing tomorrow, if you would. Mhiskva will supply you with anything you require.”
Mar thought for a moment. “Couldn’t some of the people escape through the northern part of the city now that the Brotherhood has pulled back?”
Lord Ghorn shook his head. “If I had enough men to attack and pin the Monks’ forces near the harbor, perhaps some could win through to the north, but not as it is. Any such attempt would result in a massacre.”
“When do you want me to begin flying people out?”
“As soon as the larger raft is completed. If possible, I would like it to be done without unduly alarming the citizenry.”
“How will you choose who goes?”
“The families of the defenders will go first. It will stiffen their resolve to hold out. As you reject the princedom, it is necessary that the young prince, his bodyguards and a select cadre of ministers of the Principate are also preserved to continue the battle.” The prince paused for a beat. “No other able bodied men will go. The longer the Citadel holds, the more non-combatants can escape.”
Mar thought for a moment. “Mhiskva and you?”
Lord Ghorn’s response was fiercely determined. “I, and all those subject to my command, will defend the city to the last.”
The Prince-Commander’s tone indicated that he would say nothing further on the matter and Mar
found himself with no desire to ask any more questions. Without actually considering the matter, he had assumed that the Prince-Commander, the captain, Berhl, Ulor and all the others he knew personally would be among the group that he brought forth from the city.
“Why have we stopped, magician?”
“Stopped?”
“Yes, the raft is not moving.”
Mar raised himself and poked his head over the side. It was true – the raft had become stationary above the sea foam below, perhaps half a league out from the breakwater.
“Sorry, I must’ve been distracted.” He had become so accustomed to directing the raft with only a portion of his mind that he had not been paying close attention. It seemed that this inattention had allowed it to come to a halt. He urged it back to its course, then stopped it again quickly.
Moving the raft made him feel uneasy.
During the entire day, it had been as if the especial warning from his gut had deserted him. It had alerted him only once to danger, and that just seconds before the archers had brought his first raft down. None of the other direct attacks against him by the Brotherhood had generated even a recognizable twinge. And, now that he thought of it, not since Khalar had he felt truly uneasy.
Now the feeling forbade him to travel any further eastward.
“Magician?” Lord Ghorn prompted.
“Wait. There’s something wrong.”
“Should we return to the Citadel?”
“No, hold on a minute. It’s magic -- I think.”
These warnings he had felt all of his life, could they be anything else? Not simple intuition, lucky guesses, or unconscious deduction, but an authentic magical premonition? Marihe had foretold his future, so had the moon pool after a fashion, so there were flux modulations -- spells -- that could reveal the future. Hidden somewhere in the ether there had to be a sound-color that reflected coming events. Had he been born with some type of innate ability that could tap directly into that ethereal mirror to foretell dangerous situations?
“Magician?” Lord Ghorn queried concernedly.
“We can’t go east. I’ll try another route.”
Mar maneuvered out to sea, turned back when that felt wrong. He tried to backtrack to the west, but had the same result. Reluctantly, he swung around to the north.
North, over the bay, felt right. But that was directly over the Phaelle’n ships.
“Could you tell me what is happening?” Lord Ghorn inquired stiffly.
Mar stopped the raft and swung his head around. “I’m having a premonition of danger. I’m trying to steer us away from it. I can’t explain any more than that.”
Mollified, the prince nodded slowly. “My pardon, my lord magician. The ways of magery are still strange to me.”
Mar whirled about and looked out at the harbor in front of him. The Phaelle’n had anchored the gray ships in a line, bow to stern, directly astride the path that his premonition indicated as the only safe one. Also, he felt as if he should drop lower.
“Hang on. I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”
“Aye, a moment if you please.” Mar heard steel squeal as the crossbow ratcheted, then leather creak as Lord Ghorn twisted a hand in a loop.
“Ready.”
Cautious, Mar allowed the raft to descend.
“A faster target is harder to hit,” the Prince-Commander mentioned, raising his voice above the sound of the wind.
Bracing himself against the timbers in front of him, Mar crouched low, thinking belatedly that a smaller target would also be harder to hit. He pressed speed into the raft, Berhl’s pinion flapping in staccato accompaniment, and dropped the bow toward the cobalt waters of the bay.
With Mar’s premonition determining its course, the raft swept over the breakwater and dove to within a double manheight of the water. As it rushed toward the westernmost gray ship, the wind thrown in its wake fractured the waves below it and tossed up a fine spray. Berhl had built well; the raft raced above the swells at greater and greater speed with no complaint or vibration.
Mar studied the gray ship, evidently his premonition’s target, as it grew larger in his view. Large rounded and domed bulwarks dominated fore and aft of a blockish windowed structure sited just forward of the center of the ship. Frames extended on an angle from the large bulwarks and he guessed that these were the magical catapults that the Phaelle’n had used against the city. Several smaller and unroofed bulwarks were situated in alcoves along the length of the ship. As he watched, figures ran along the deck and the small bulwarks, obviously containing magical engines of some sort, swiveled to bring dark protuberances to bear on the raft.
And yet, Mar’s premonition insisted that he continue toward the ship.
At two hundred paces, black fire erupted from the small bulwarks.
Lord Ghorn grunted as the raft skittered left then right then left again, throwing him against the starboard side. Before the raft could leap right again, splinters suddenly exploded into its interior as metal and wood burst and ripped, pierced by the streams of black fire. A large shield on the port side, holed and dented, wrenched free with a shriek of tortured metal and spiraled away.
Mar gasped as something punched through the bow and stuck him a glancing hammer blow in the chest before holing the port side near his shoulder. He sagged in pain, caught himself, and then swung the raft sharply left to dodge around the central structure of the gray ship. As the raft flashed by, he had a fleeting glimpse of a group crowding a railed catwalk along its near side. Incredibly, he heard the sound of the crossbow firing. For just a second, the central structure of the ship blinded the raft to the black fire from the magical engines, but as it cleared the gray ship’s starboard rail, the bulwarks along that side cut loose.
With the stern of the raft taking hits, Mar threw himself to the deck between his seat and the ruptured bow and covered his head with his arms. His breath rasped in his throat from the pain in his chest as he strained to maintain control of the raft’s magic. He could clearly sense the gaps and irregular beats in the familiar refrain that corresponded to the punctures and rips evident to his eyes. Physically sieved, the raft’s magical integrity had been broken, and the ethereal energy of its spells escaped in spurts and bursts despite his frantic attempts to contain it.
Like some mortally wounded bird spending its last strength in a desperate leap into the sky, the raft sprang above the slashing fire. It strained upwards, climbing beyond the range of the gray ship, but then sagged weakly, dropping alarmingly back toward the water. With a tremendous effort, Mar caught it and enticed it to continue a slow, unsteady ascent. It shuddered and jerked unpredictably, building with teeth-rattling vibrations towards some rapidly approaching self-destructive resonance.
Mar peered over his bench toward the rear. Lord Ghorn had also survived. The Prince-Commander’s seat had split in two and a hole as large as Mar’s head showed through the deck below. The prince sprawled in the cargo space, the empty crossbow clasped to his chest. Blood trickled down the Mhajhkaeirii’s face and a thatch of splinters sprouted quill-like from one shoulder and biceps, some lodged in his mail but others obviously sunk into flesh.
“I think that was a mistake,” Lord Ghorn called, plucking quills carefully.
“We have to go back,” Mar shouted to the prince over the rattle of the wounded raft.
“Not wise.” The prince caught a gray cylinder rolling across the deck and examined it. “Those smaller catapults are throwing steel slugs.”
“Telriy is down there.”
Lord Ghorn smeared blood away from his eyes without rising. “Telriy?”
“She could be my wife.”
“I am sorry, magician, but I do not quite understand.”
“Neither do I.”
EIGHT
Lhevatr lowered his head as he stepped through the watertight hatch into the Archdeacon’s chamber. Rather than bowing, he gave the ancient imperial military salute. The Salients did not use it, but Lhevatr’s community had
been founded by imperialists.
“Speak,” Traeleon commanded, laying aside the reports he had been reading.
“The apostate has flown close by the Restoration. Brother Whorlyr and several of his cloister have identified him with spy glasses.”
The Archdeacon’s expression hardened. “I am displeased. It does not advance the Work that he survived our bombardment.”
“I concur, my lord.”
“He did not attack?”
“Not with magic as yet, Preeminence. The enemy fired a crossbow bolt at one of the brethren on the bow observation post but missed. The Restoration’s anti-ship weaponry reacted, keyed by a proximity ward, and fired upon the flying craft. While the craft appears to have taken damage, it escaped and is now flying a large circle high above the harbor. He is beyond the range of all of our weaponry, both magical and physical.”
Traeleon indicated a hand written page on one side of his desk. “Senior Brother Trhalsta, Brother Khlotr’s successor, believes that the explosive devices used by the apostate to attack our legions are enchanted vessels of an extremely high order. How likely are these to damage the Restored Fleet?”
Lhevatr locked his hands behind his back. “If he strikes with a heavy bombardment from beyond range of our defenses and scores several direct hits on the upper decks it is possible that he could expose the bowels of the ships to attack. Further attacks that penetrated into the interior could sink or severely damage one or more of the Holy Trio. Any damage whatsoever to the main weapons would be irreparable, as the cloister studying their ethereal mechanisms has failed thus far to delve their complexity.”
“Loss of the main weapons would be utterly unacceptable, Martial Director. Should we withdraw the fleet from Mhajhkaei?”
“I directed several brothers with knowledge in the mathematics to observe the flying craft. They have calculated that it can achieve speeds in excess of twice the highest speed of our fastest ship, Duty.”
Key to Magic 02 Magician Page 5