Key to Magic 02 Magician

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Without thinking, Mar slapped the upright rib of the new skyship. “For this.”

  His fourth flying craft would be a true skyship rather than a lowly raft, with a twenty-five armlengths solid keel, which they had already laid including the stem and stern post, and a beam of ten armlengths. It would have two decks, with an elevated steering platform above both in the bow. He figured it would comfortably carry better than a hundred people at a time. The timbers were seasoned wood brought from the siege stores of the Citadel and had been waiting with a full set of tools when he arrived. The remains of the solarium had also already been cleared away during the night, except for some of the quarry blocks, which Berhl had had put aside to use as a cradle for the keel.

  “This isn’t a warship.” Ulor guessed. There was no anger or sadness in his tone.

  Mar examined the two marines. Neither seemed surprised. Lord Ghorn had not told him to keep silent about his plans to evacuate some of the people trapped in the Citadel, but Mar had known intuitively that the prince had not wanted those plans to be discussed openly.

  Berhl and Ulor looked at each other and then Berhl eyed Mar candidly. “Sir, me and Ulor have been talking, not in front of the men, you understand, but we figure that we won’t be able to hold out against another attack on the South Gate, or where it used to be, anyway.”

  Mar decided to be candid as well. “Not for long. The city is lost. The only question is how much time we have before the Phaelle’n overrun the Citadel.”

  “Not enough,” Ulor said, his face hardening.

  “I don’t doubt that you are right,” Mar told the marine evenly.

  Determined, Berhl suggested, “Then we had better get back to work,”

  “I want to put in the bottom deck first, before we start on the hull,” Mar told them, eyeing the growing stream of non-combatants.

  “Aye, sir,” Berhl agreed meditatively. “That might be wise.”

  Mar thought a moment. “We don’t even need sides all the way up. Just something to keep people from accidentally falling out. Perhaps we could use nets? It doesn’t have to be watertight, after all. And we need more men to work. At least a dozen, better two. This ship must be finished by morning.”

  Berhl saluted briskly. “Aye, sir. I’ll fetch some of the men on post at the main gate that can work wood and send for what’s left of Captain Wehg’s troop. All their officers are dead or wounded, but they’re good men. They’re in barracks and can be here in half an hour. We’ll get teams working the saws and have the rest fitting boards. Might get in each other’s way, but we’ll have her done by nightfall.”

  Mar nodded. “None too soon.”

  Berhl saluted a second time and took off at a jog, slowing only to press through the crowded courtyard gate.

  “I’d best relieve Drev, sir,” Ulor suggested. “He looks like he has something of a domestic crisis on his hands.”

  “Ulor?”

  “Sir?”

  “Is your family here yet?”

  The tall marine nodded seriously. “Aye, sir. My wife and daughters, and her sister and her son – her man died of some kind of pox a year ago. They’re already inside the old Lord’s Apartments along with half a dozen other families.”

  “What about Berhl?”

  Ulor grinned lopsidedly. “He’s a confirmed bachelor, sir, though he’s got two camp nephews that he pays the upkeep on.”

  “Camp nephews?”

  “That’s what we call them, sir, when the mother’s employed, if you know what I mean.”

  “Right. They’re here?”

  “Aye, sir. Mothers too.”

  “Good. That’s all.”

  Ulor saluted and hurried away to rescue the beleaguered Drev.

  Mar was somewhat amazed at the ease with which he had grown accustomed to that – the salutes and the quick obedience. He was not Mhajhkaeirii and was not, to his mind at least, genuinely an officer, but all the surviving marines in Mhiskva’s troop seemed to have unquestionably accepted him as just that. In a way, it simplified matters. Berhl had contributed more to the design of the new skyship than Mar, but had cheerfully and without dispute deferred to all the younger man’s revisions. It was odd and Mar did not care for it, but he was in command – of the skyship, if nothing else. There was no actual need for a crew, since his magic would propel and steer the skyship —- not sails or oars -- but Berhl and his quad had taken it for granted that they would be assigned to it – and to him.

  Alone again, Mar turned his mind back to the skyship. Not curved like that of a waterborne vessel, the rib before him was a simple upright timber a span square with two temporary braces staked to the ground to hold it in place. It jutted from a horizontal crossbeam attached to the keel. The bottom of the skyship would be flat for stability while grounded and would rest directly on the earth. He delved the wood and found that the white oak would accept a slightly redder and less boisterous shade of brown. It was certain to fly and would do so very well, he thought.

  Still, this single ship, large as it was, was woefully inadequate. Since he had awakened, the fate of the people of Mhajhkaei had gnawed at the back of his mind. The long trip from the Palace to the Old Keep through the crowded streets had driven it directly to the forefront of his thoughts. From every house and building, from tents jammed in every square, from nervous clumps on street corners, faces had peered at Mar and the marines as they passed. Young faces, old faces, heartbroken faces, faces filled with doubt or fear, and even some hopeful faces, but thousands on top of thousands of faces belonging to people who, baring some miracle, seemed destined to die in the fall of the Citadel.

  He knew that he could not save them, but some part of him refused to accept that inevitability. One ship was not enough, but with an entire fleet of skyships – a dozen, two dozen, or more -- Lord Ghorn and his Mhajhkaeirii would be able to save themselves.

  What he needed to make that fleet fly was a spell, a real spell with a “vessel,” a “binding,” and a “key,” something that anyone could use, whether he were a magician, a sorcerer, or just a simple marine.

  The skyship itself was obviously the Vessel as it would contain the two sound-colors, the lifting brown rhythm and the driving – he listened-looked -- sonorous yellow-lavender. The two spells themselves were persistent, in that they did not expire or fade, at least not in the wood, and would remain at the same intensity unless he changed them or removed them.

  Now, the Binding. It seemed to Mar that a Binding was not the act of being bound, but the thing that bound, constraints like ropes or covers. His recollection of the text left him confused as to whether this was some sort of box or some type of lock, though he was inclined to think both. It was clear that the Key worked on the spells through the Binding. A locked box?

  He had already devised something of that sort for his crossbow missile. He had discovered an ethereal barrier between the water in the jug and the ceramic of the jug itself, which had seemed not to be a property of either but rather a result of the interface between the two. Within the barrier, the ether had been still, as if frozen, and when he had added screaming red from the sun, this state had not changed. It had proved a simple matter to reproduce the barrier in the form of a bubble within the shape of the crossbow and equally simple to create his driving spell at an extreme intensity within the bubble. But in that prior case, he had simply burst the bubble to release the spell and send the crossbow on its way. The skyship would require a permanent container that would allow the power of the spells to be controlled in a gradual fashion. He needed a type of bubble that would react to an outside influence and pass that reaction to the spells within.

  Unfortunately, this trail of thought ended there. He simply had no ideas on how to create such a bubble. Well, what about the Key?

  He could now, dimly, if he looked deeply without using his eyes, discern a uniform sighing ash vapor that seemed to pervade the whole world – something he took to be the “background ethereal flux.” Oyraebos had said of
Keys, “an action which generates a disarrangement in the background flux -- a gesture, spoken word, written word, dance, change of state, or coordinated movement."

  Experimentally, he waved his hand before his face. The movement disturbed the sighing ash for just the barest instant, forming eddies, which almost immediately disbursed. In the eddies, small particles of chiming rose flashed. The faster he moved, the brighter and louder the flashes.

  He turned and walked toward Ulor and Phehlahm. Drev evidently had gone off to get his family situated. The two men nodded to acknowledge his presence, but continued their rhythm, having less than a fingerlength to go through the timber upon which they worked.

  Mar watched them carefully. The men’s steady reciprocating did indeed disturb the ether just as his own movements had. More, their regular motions caused nearly identical chimes of rose.

  The butt end of the board dropped free and the two let the saw stop.

  “Sir?” Ulor asked. “You need something?”

  “No. I found out what I needed. You’re cutting deck joists?”

  “Aye, sir. Nearly half done for the lower deck.”

  “Good.” Mar started to turn when he had a thought. “Wave your hand.”

  “Sir?”

  “Like this.” Mar moved his hand across in front of him at a steady pace, palm out.

  Ulor gave him an odd look, but complied.

  “Faster, now, but at a measured rate,” Mar directed.

  “Like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir?” Phehlahm piped up, a slight hint of worry in his voice. He was young, about Mar’s own age, but stoutly built. He had a bandage wrapped around one calf, but it did not seem to affect his sawing. He also had a slight accent, different from the other marines, which, he had explained, had come from being born on Klore, an island fifty leagues southwest of Mhajhkaei.

  Mar looked over at the other marine, still peering at the ether. “What is it, Phehlahm?”

  “You look kind o’ odd there, sir, with your eyes all blank, when you look at Ulor and now when you’re lookin’ at me. If you don’t mind my askin’, sir, is that some kind o’ magery?”

  “No.” Mar responded automatically. Then, as the man clearly meant no offense, he amended, “Not yet, anyway. I’m working on a spell that will allow anyone to steer the skyship.”

  Ulor perked up. “We could make more skyships, then?”

  “That’s the idea, yes.”

  Ulor nodded. “Some could be warships.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll pilot a skyship, sir,” Phehlahm offered eagerly.

  Mar regarded the young marine. “You don’t believe that magic is evil? A corrupt power granted by Knorthrha?”

  “Well, sir, my Mother’s Mother, she said it came straight up from Mhokh,” Phehlahm offered pleasantly. “But I could see where it might be the province o’ Knorthrha. Is that where you got your magery, sir?”

  Mar chuckled at the man’s sincere look. “No, not from any god. I think it’s something I was born with.”

  Phehlahm shrugged. “Wouldn’t have mattered to me if it had, sir. I’d still like to pilot a skyship.”

  “Alright,” Mar begrudged. “If I can figure out how it can be done, we’ll make you a pilot.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “How about you, Ulor?”

  The fugleman laughed softly. “No, sir. I’m content to be just a passenger, if you don’t mind.”

  A woman screamed.

  All three men turned toward the sound instantly.

  Two figures, shrugging out of concealing cloaks, broke from the refugees, who began to scatter in panic. Both had shaven skulls, with grayish symbols marked on their cheeks and around their ears. One slowed, threw two knives in an eye blink. Two legionnaires went down. One, with a knife in his throat, gabbled and spewed blood. The other fell without making a sound, the knife protruding obscenely from an eye socket. Paired short swords flashing, the duo sprinted toward the skyship.

  Yelling inarticulately, Ulor dove for his sword. Phehlahm made to do likewise, glanced back at Mar, then stood his ground barehanded.

  Mar heard the ether stir, twisted in time to see a large ball, dark humming-orange and fuzzy with magic, land at his feet.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Lord Zhelorthoz nh’ Khadwaigh went slowly through the lists on his desk, checking names.

  “. . . Legate Lhezan nh’ Dhavouz; Captain Khrem, House of Begck; Armsman Bougla, Baker’s son; Fugleman Yhref; Legate G’rhel nh’ Szalho; Superior Armsman Goh. . .”

  So many dead, he thought. Too many were names he recognized, men he had spoken to on a daily basis, a good many had been close friends. His own house legion, the Corsairs, was, thank the Gods, still at full strength – it had remained on station here at the East Redoubt -- but two others that had been scheduled to reinforce him here according to the Plan of Defense had been decimated. The Repulsers of his cousin Bertrahl had gone down with poor brave Prince Kherl under the magery of the Monks. The other, the 7th Support, which had been financed and raised only recently by some insignificant merchant house, had perished in the destruction of the Southern Gate.

  He looked sadly out through the open-cased window of the East Tertiary Gatehouse, down the blind switchbacks and over the Secondary and Primary Walls toward The Greatest City in All the World.

  Mhajhkaei was his city, home to his family and his House of Drendhen since before the Principate, before even the founding of the Empire. Now it seemed certain that Mhajhkaei would fall before the Monks.

  It was a good thing that he had asked Lord Ghorn to sponsor his sons as officers in the Defenders. If anyone could keep them safe and his name alive, Ghorn could. This thought brought him some comfort, but his eyes turned inexorably back to the list of the fallen.

  He swung his head at the sound of the ancient teak door opening. “What is it, Commander Porhst?”

  Porhst, a tall man of good family, closed the door behind him and saluted smartly. He was one of Zhelorthoz’s best commanders, efficient, conscientious, and personally loyal. His legion, the Stalwarts, held the Primary Wall on northern flank of the Corsairs.

  “A message for you, sir, from the Prince-Commander,” Porhst reported, extending a folded scrap of paper in his right hand.

  Zhelorthoz stood to receive the missive, leaning slightly across the desk when Porhst stopped short. As his fingers closed on the note, Porhst’s left hand whipped out, holding a knife that had been hidden behind his leg.

  Lord Zhelorthoz’s last thought was one of shock, outrage, and utter relief.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “What is the maximum interval that the gate can be maintained?” Senior Assault Brother Eu persisted, his voice echoing slightly in the large hold of the Work. He successfully suppressed an urge to display his irritation. He knew well that the brethren of the College of Archivists were talented and brilliant, and therefore indispensable, but also that they were often temperamental and obstructive. It would be highly counterproductive at this critical stage to give offense intentionally.

  One of the Brotherhood’s greatest relics after the Holy Trio, the Emerald Gate waited upon its platform before the assembled mass of his fully armed and armored congregation. The Gate was an intricately carved gold and jewel-inlaid frame taller by half than a man. It confined a huge pane of green-tinted glass clear of ripple or shadow. At the moment, this emerald panel glowed slightly but remained dormant. Eu knew that the dedicated relic seekers of the Brotherhood had discovered the Gate in the buried ruins of ancient Alchea in the highlands along the Eastern Shore. It had taken the savants of the Brotherhood thirty-nine years of unstinting work to delve its key sequence.

  Deacon Trhalsta frowned, wringing his hands unconsciously. Trhalsta was a small man with dim sight who seemed always to be peering at incomprehensible objects, but his Ability was in the high twos and he was reputed to possess a keen understanding of flux bonds. “There is sufficient flux in the reserve to
maintain the opening for as much as half an hour, but if we draw that down completely, it will take more than a month to build up the charge before it can be used again. As First Archivist, I must oppose this abuse of the relic.”

  “Brother Traeleon has approved all necessary measures for this mission,” Eu reiterated.

  “It could damage the Binding, Senior Brother,” Trhalsta insisted pointedly.

  Sensitized by twenty years in the upper ranks of the Brotherhood, Eu recognized the implied threat. Rather than subject himself to possible accusations of blasphemy, he relented. “A quarter of an hour then?”

  The First Archivist’s expression softened. “That should leave a sufficient quantity of flux to prevent complete dissipation.”

  “Skry the exit point,” Eu directed. “We must depart within the hour.”

  Trhalsta nodded quickly, allowing a slight smile. Now that he was assured that no damage would be done the Holy Relic, he seemed eager to please. Waving with both arms agitatedly, he gathered his assistants to begin the difficult process of keying and aligning the Gate.

  Eu rejoined the other members of his colloquium, Junior Assault Brother Pzu’gh and Senior Coordinator Aear. The two commanded the Second and Third cloisters of his congregation. He had known both since his conversion and shared with both a pragmatic but sincere approach to the Restoration. Pzu’gh was a tall M’odra islander like himself, fair with reddish hair under his helm. Aear was a mainland Poogii, from the marshes of the southern Eastern Shore, small and dark with silvered hair. Both, as did Eu himself and most of the congregation, bore the intricate right eye and forehead tattoo of the Salient combatant.

  “We have only fifteen minutes,” Eu conveyed. “We must pass all three cloisters through the Gate in that time. Order each team to transfer as a group and instruct each brother to sprint through the Gate at his appointed time.”

  “What of Brother Zhel?” Aear asked.

  Eu thought a moment. “Send him and his Relic after Brother Pzu’gh’s cloister. My cloister should have the exit site secured at that point. All are ready?”