Key to Magic 02 Magician

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  “He did not fall from the sky, he fell out of the air,” Lord Hhrahld said to no one in particular. Mhiskva did not respond, and it seemed that the Lord Protector’s actual meaning did not register with the marine officer. The ancient corsair went on, his voice dropping down to an awed whisper. “He has great magic.”

  Mar rolled onto his back, resting for a moment while his vision swam in circles. “The Phaelle’n are about to attack the main gate with magical weapons,” he told Mhiskva urgently. A sudden fit of coughing forced him to pause. “The gate will be destroyed. You have to get everyone away from it.”

  Mhiskva signaled a marine, who took off at a run. “Errhls,” he told another quickly, “bring Lord Ghorn from the barbican and tell Surgeon Ehgtaehr that I want him immediately.”

  Mar must have blacked out for a moment. When he came to, a white haired man with a scarred face – the surgeon? -- leaned over him, mumbling worriedly. The sounds of the slugs slashing the hay wagons to pieces echoed from above.

  “The drawbridge, I have to raise it,” Mar told the indistinct faces surrounding him. “Take me there, now!”

  “Do as he commands,” Lord’s Ghorn’s voice ordered.

  The next few moments were a blur. Mar felt himself raised and carried, and jogged up steps, with each movement extracting excruciating pain..

  “We are at the gatehouse,” the Prince Commander told him.

  Somehow, Mar exerted himself, reaching beyond his weakness to find power in a soundless-colorless place. He sought and delved the drawbridge, its ancient timbers reassuringly solid, and then wrenched it from its age-bound seats just as the Monks turned their weapon on the gate.

  And then, Mar knew nothing.

  FIFTY

  With a curse, Mar skidded to a halt in sudden remembrance. He had forgotten to enchant the remaining skyships! Dashing back into the inner bailey, he rapidly spelled the craft by turn, carefully directing them upward to hover alongside the last surviving hay wagon. Without a wasted second, he aligned his ships in a formation that would allow Ulor, hopefully, to quickly get the passengers aboard. That done, he bolted back into the tunnel and finally reached the outer courtyard. Breathing heavily, he slowed for a moment.

  A great burst of magic filled the tunnel. It was a sound-color that he had never before seen. The magic seemed akin to his own slowing of time, but far stronger. A man appeared.

  Mar froze. “You’re me.”

  The future Mar of the Moon Pool shrugged. “I am a version of you from forty years from this present, yes. From your perspective, it remains to be seen whether one of you will become me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Tel and I have often debated that very question, but I cannot honestly say that I have a complete answer. Regardless, nothing I might say on this subject now will improve your understanding and I have resolved therefore to simply be enigmatic.”

  Mar cursed. “Are you a vision?’

  “No, I have made a journey through time to speak to you directly so that there will be less confusion.”

  Mar stared at his older self. “Why have you come now? Why haven’t you appeared to me before?”

  “Because now there are two of you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I will try to be brief. To attempt to prevent a great disaster, you – that is, a future, relative to this moment, version of you from a sequence of events that no longer exists -- have moved backwards in time. This other version has succeeded in changing events. However, in doing so he has created a present in which two copies of you exist. Each has an identical history up to this present instant, but from here their experiences diverge.”

  Mar considered. It seemed possible. “So?”

  “Magic will always seek equilibrium. Having two copies of an individual who are not sufficiently temporally distinct -- such as you and I are, for instance -- results in an imbalance of matter, energy, and flux. The background flux will attempt to remedy this imbalance.”

  “What will happen?”

  “I have no idea. The two of you could simply continue to exist as separate and distinct individuals with only a significant exchange of flux potential. Alternatively, some type of merging could ensue, with the result being a unified being. Or, as Tel believes, the forces released by the rebalancing could have a catastrophic effect, such as the destruction of Mhajhkaei, a large part of the continent, or the entire planet. There are innumerable other possibilities, but all are simply conjectures.”

  “Tel is your wife, Telriy?”

  The older Mar smiled. “Of course.”

  “What can be done?”

  The other explained at length.

  Mar argued, contradicted, shouted, raged, and cursed, but in the end, he agreed.

  The older Mar waved his hand and a portal appeared. “Good luck.”

  Mar took a deep breath and stepped through.

  FIFTY-ONE

  “The assault on the interior fortress has succeeded,” the Chief Skryer declared with no emotion. Then, uncharacteristically, the man shook his head, appearing somewhat confused. “No, that is incorrect. My pardon, Preeminence, there are unusual shadows in the glass.”

  Traeleon allowed a frown to show. “What is the status of the attack, then?”

  The Chief Skryer studied his instrument. “The 13th legion has failed to cross the moat.”

  “Lhevatr, get clarification of the situation.”

  The Martial Director turned and murmured a quiet question to the operator of the far talking disk. The Novitiate Third relayed the question and then listened for some moments, scribbling a long note and passing it to Lhevatr.

  “Brother Aehph reports,” Lhevatr read, “that the drawbridge raised – apparently by magical means -- while the forward elements of the 13th were on it. There were many serious casualties. Before the impulse engine could do sufficient damage to cut through the shielding structure of the bridge to fire upon the gate, the Apostate attacked its position with enchanted vessels. Flying debris slightly damaged the feeding mechanism. The brother operating the engine was also killed.”

  “The Work,” Traeleon intoned automatically.

  “The Duty,” Lhevatr answered.

  “The Restoration,” droned the entire Conclave.

  “Brother Whorlyr has begun firing on the ramparts,” the Martial Director continued as if there had been no interruption, “but to little effect."

  The Archdeacon considered Bhrucherra with disapproving eyes. “Your decision to use the dismounted weapon from the Work appears to have been in error.”

  “If you recall, my lord,” the First Inquisitor responded calmly, “I did indicate that there was some risk.”

  Traeleon locked eyes with his fellow Salient for a tense moment, then turned back to Lhevatr. “Order Brother Aehph to withdraw and begin repairs immediately. We have trebuchets in reserve?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Have them moved into position to reduce the fortress.”

  “As you say, Preeminence.” As the Martial Director turned, the Novitiate handed him another note.

  “Commander-of-Legions Lazssri of the Third Battle Group requests instructions. He has merged with the remnants of Second Battle Group and has surrounded the western strong point. Approximately three thousand prisoners from the surrender of the northern strongpoint are under his control, and a huge number of Mhajhkaeirii are trapped up in the northwest quadrant of the Citadel.” Lhevatr bent his head to read directly from the note, “He craves enlightenment on the disposition of these non-believers.”

  “Brother Lazssri is a Brohivii?”

  “Yes, Preeminence.”

  “How was such an important position assigned to a brother with his particular inclinations?”

  “He is very capable, my lord,” the First Inquisitor explained. “He has achieved numerous victories in smaller campaigns.”

  “In future,” Traeleon directed stiffly, “all high level assignments will be submitted
to me in advance. This shall henceforth be known to be the Duty of all men.” The last stipulation made his pronouncement a rule of doctrine, and a violation of it would be considered blasphemy.

  Vice-deacon Kleghaier leaned forward eagerly. “Preeminence, perhaps it would be useful to order a good number of the Mhajhkaeirii put to public Scrutiny in order to insure the submission of the remainder.”

  “This would be unwise,” Bhrucherra commented. “Such would be as likely to arouse subversive elements. Experience has shown that subject populations – which Mhajhkaei will presently be – must be managed with care to avoid rebellion against the Duty.”

  “The thoughts of the First Inquisitor mirror mine,” Traeleon agreed. “Brother Lazssri is to announce that all civilians have been granted clemency and are issued parole to return to their homes. He should have them escorted from the Citadel as quickly as possible.”

  Brother Kleghaier frowned but quickly adopted a neutral expression.

  “Also instruct Brother Lazssri that he is to watch the western strongpoint carefully, but is not to attack it until he receives a direct command. He is to prepare an offer of terms and convey it to the Mhajhkaeirii commander. If they surrender by morning, they will be pardoned and allowed to labor in the service of the Duty. If they refuse, each and every one of the armsmen that survives the siege will be castrated, blinded, and expelled from the city.”

  Lhevatr bowed his head. Execution would have been kinder. “As you say, Preeminence.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Truhsg settled beside Eishtren and offered a pressed grain cake taken from a sack slung on his shoulder. “This is all I could get, sir.”

  Eishtren opened his eyes and raised an arm that shook slightly to take the ration. “Thank you, Fugleman. There is enough for all of us?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve already distributed rations to the men and Aael and his Auxiliaries.”

  When they had finally marched through the gates of the fortress, most of the refugees had wandered on into the crowds. Aael, his grandson, and the probable orphans had stayed close.

  A Vice-Commander, trying to organize the chaos at the gate, had directed Eishtren and his pitiful command to the North Courtyard, but had tried to wave the children and the amputee along the aisle toward the Central Courtyard with the throngs of other noncombatants.

  “We’re medical Auxiliaries, Vice-Commander,” the retiree had objected genially, surrounded by the closely bunched, staring children. “We’ve been assigned to Quaestor Eishtren and regulations require us to remain with him until reassigned.”

  The officer, tired, harried, and covered with the dust stirred by the thousands that had fled through the fortress gates, had neither smiled nor frowned. “Explain.”

  “We are stretcher bearers and water runners, sir, enlisted for the emergency.”

  The Vice-Commander had looked at Eishtren.

  Eishtren saluted. “Sir, it was necessary to enlist the auxiliaries in order to transport the wounded during the withdrawal.”

  The Vice-Commander had shaken his head and thrown up his hands. “Move your group, Auxiliaries and all, to the North Courtyard, Quaestor. You will be given duty assignments later.”

  “Sir, my men and I can be assigned to a combatant section. We stand ready to serve.”

  The Vice-Commander had looked from the exhausted Eishtren, to the bloodied Kyamhyn leaning against the steady Truhsg, to the stoic Dhem, and finally to the ragged militiamen, Taelmhon, Scahll, and Bear.

  “I would imagine that a reserve will be organized from remnant units in the next day or so. Now, move your group.”

  Eishtren had saluted again and marched away.

  A section of the high outer wall and several towers formed part of the border of the North Courtyard; lower, interior curtain walls and three gates made up the rest. No shelter had been provided in the packed space. Most of half a thousand armsmen -- legionnaires, marines, and militiamen, many of them wounded -- occupied the flagstoned yard. Eishtren had used his rank to claim an out-of-the-way stretch of the outer wall nearest the largest tower. He and his men leaned against the rough stone or reclined nearby. Aael had the children camped in a tight clutch, resting in borrowed cloaks, in the relatively sheltered nook where the wall met the tower.

  Eishtren chewed the dry grain methodically. “Is there any water?”

  Truhsg gave the quaestor a small bottle of wine. “The legate told me that barrels will be brought around in an hour.”

  Eishtren took a tiny sip. The wine was sweet. He gave it back. “Make sure you save the bottle. Fill it with water when the barrels come around. I want you to go back around to the quartermasters after things settle and see if you can secure us gear.”

  “Packs and canteens?”

  “Yes. Field rations, blankets, and such like. And see if you can fill out everyone’s kit. I expect that we will be ordered to replace men on the walls in the next day or two.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the light began to fade, the armsmen, and the Auxiliaries as well, began to lie down to sleep on the bare flagstones.

  Eishtren closed his eyes.

  He grabbed his bow and surged to his feet when Truhsg shook him awake. It was full dark, but torches lit parts of the courtyard. Most of the armsmen were already standing and shuffling toward the large tower.

  “Sir, a marine captain just announced that we’re to be evacuated. The Monks have breached a gate on the Upper Reach.”

  “Have the men stand to their weapons. We will assist in the defense.”

  “There is no defense, sir! The civilians are all gone and the garrison is preparing to withdraw.”

  “Withdraw? How? Where?”

  The fugleman pointed upwards. Lanterns floated above the tower attached to and illuminating what looked to be large boats strung in a line.

  “In the Magician’s skyships, sir.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  Mar groaned and opened his eyes.

  “My lord!” Phehlahm exclaimed. “You live!”

  “Quiet, marine,” Berhl groused. “Go fetch the surgeon.”

  Fighting a paralytic weakness, Mar struggled to sit up as Phehlahm dashed off through the trampled undergrowth. He lay in a canvas hammock hung between the trunks of two white oaks. A small fire burned not far away with a pot simmering above it. Beyond the small blaze numerous other fires surrounded by groups of stirring marines were scattered among the larger trees of an extensive grove. The day appeared fresh, the light slowly filtering through the trees diffuse and golden.

  “Berhl – this is the encampment?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “How did I get here?” Mar asked, rubbing his forehead as a searing pain blazed through it.

  “You were brought with the others from the Old Keep in the skyships. You’ve been in a stupor for the better part of a night and another full day.”

  Mar swung his feet out of the hammock and stood up, swaying slightly from lightheadedness. “Who flew the skyship train?”

  “The Lady Telriy, sir,” Berhl told him. “She doesn’t manage it with your skill and her best speed is much lower than yours, but she does well enough for a new pilot, as I see it. She’s had some trouble with the landings, but we’ve managed to get everyone off without mishap. It appeared to me, sir, that the effort has caused her great distress.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Berhl pointed across a crowded field toward the crossroads. A light ground fog hovered over the field, backlit by a reddened, cloud-shrouded sun that was just beginning to rise over the distant shadow of a barn. The fog did not reach all the way to the ground, but held itself in a thick band as if disdaining the trampled hay and hundreds of sleeping people. At the meeting of the two roads, the skyship train, stretched back in a lazy curve to the east, stood docked at a makeshift four-manheight tower built of rough sawn logs.

  “She’s just brought the train back,” the fugleman informed him matter-of-factly.

  Ignoring his dizz
iness and aches, Mar started anxiously across the field, finding a path that had been worn amongst the sleeping Mhajhkaeirii and their smoldering fires. Berhl, giving indication that he thought Mar might keel over at any moment, stayed close beside the younger man.

  “How many trips did she make?” Mar asked over his shoulder.

  “This would be her sixth, sir. It should be the last.”

  The marine gestured beyond the crossroads. Thousands were camped in the fields and it seemed clear that all the civilian refugees trapped in both fortresses had been evacuated.

  “Trip before this, she brought out the last of the civilians, the wounded, and a large part of the garrison, but there was no room most of a legion. They stayed as a rear guard to hold the North Courtyard and the North Main Tower.”

  “Lord Ghorn and Mhiskva stayed with the legionnaires?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Idiots.”

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing.”

  Mar and Berhl arrived at the foot of the tower as Ulor and two legionnaires, all blackened from soot, carried an injured man in a litter down the steep switch-back ramps. More marines and legionnaires, likewise filthy and many bandaged, limping, or carried, followed. A large group of men, including some civilians, a few militia, and two that Mar took to be surgeons, waited to assist the new arrivals.

  Mar held his peace until Ulor had given over his burden to the surgeons and then caught the man’s eye. “Where’s Telriy?”

  “She’s still aboard Number One, sir,” the marine answered tiredly. “Steering the skyships is a great strain on her, especially in the dark. My wife and Legate Rhel are with her.”

  “She’s alright?”

  “Aye, sir, just exhausted.”

  “Where’s Lord Ghorn?”

  “They didn’t make it, sir,” Ulor replied stiffly.