“What? What do you mean?”
“The Monks had all of the Redoubt by the time we returned but the North Main Tower. The Prince Commander and Mhiskva were holding the stairs with a file from the Defenders and refused to board until everyone else had been loaded. When we were almost done, the Monks began throwing burning pitch at the train with a catapult that they had assembled in the bailey. Number Four caught fire and we had to cut it loose.” Ulor paused and took a deep breath, as if reluctant to speak what he had to say next. “Lord Ghorn ordered us away to keep the rest of the train from being destroyed.”
Mar stood silent for a long time. Then, “Did you see them die?”
“No, sir. We lost sight of them in the dark.”
“How many were left behind?”
“I’m not sure. Lord Ghorn, Captain Mhiskva, Lord Purhlea, Commander Aerlon and maybe four or five others.”
“Not Lord Hhrahld?”
“No, he’s around here somewhere,” Ulor said, grimacing. “I think he’s been stuck by one of his humours. He ran off yelling something about ‘seeking his king’ or some such after he got off the skyship.”
Mar shook his head dismissively. “Where’s the rowboat?”
“Still on Number One.”
“Sir,” Berhl interrupted, “they couldn’t have held out.”
“That’s true,” Ulor agreed sadly. “That’s been four hours ago. Lady Telriy can’t manage but half your speed.”
Mar ignored them, spelling his brigandine to loft himself up to Number One. He heard Berhl curse loudly and then the two marines began crowding their way up the ramps, climbing over and around the men making their way down.
A long charred streak marred the bow of the skyship and as Mar rose above the upper deck, he immediately saw that the awnings were missing, with the blackened support poles hacked away to stubs. The long deck was vacant, save for the three people near the bow.
Landing beside the still stowed rowboat, he found Telriy covered with a light blanket and soundly asleep on a pallet. The girl’s face was worn, smudged with ash, and her hair lay in a snarl, but she did not appear hurt.
A stoutly handsome, flaxen-haired woman of about Ulor’s age sat watchfully beside her. With her hair tied up under a scarf, the woman had dressed for travel, wearing a plain heavy wool skirt and an oiled calfskin jacket, though both were grimed with soot as well. The woman’s eyes widened as she saw Mar settle on the deck, but she otherwise accepted his appearance without comment. She had a thoroughly no-nonsense attitude about her and her expression was uncompromising as she blatantly examined him.
Rhel was also dozing, seated leaning back against the pilot deck, with his head sagging above his crossed arms. The young legate was a patchwork of bandages, but none of his wounds appeared life threatening.
“You’re Ulor’s wife?” Mar asked the woman brusquely.
The woman signed for him to lower his voice and then replied in a quiet tone, “Yes, my lord. I’m Yhejia.” She examined his face and answered his next question before he could ask it. “Your wife is well. She is spent, poor thing, and needs to sleep, so I’d be adverse to you disturbing her.”
“She isn’t my wife.”
Yhejia cocked her head disapprovingly. “You’re a little young to be making on old husband’s lies,” she scolded.
Mar took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. “Never mind. You’re going to stay with her?”
“Yes, my lord. It’s the least I can do.”
Mar nodded. “Good.” He turned away and crossed the deck to the rowboat. If his abruptness offended Yhejia, she gave no sign of it.
Berhl and Ulor appeared from the hatch and rushed to the rowboat as Mar climbed aboard.
“Neither Lord Ghorn nor the Captain would want you to come back for them when there’s no hope,” Berhl insisted, stopping to catch his breath.
“There’s nothing you can do for them, sir,” Ulor urged.
“Cut the rope loose,” Mar told them, checking the buckets of sand cylinders, which someone had had the forethought to store in the rowboat.
“Sir,” Berhl argued, “I don’t think –“
Mar stared hard at the two men. “Shut up and do as you’re told.”
Both reflexively snapped to attention and saluted, chorusing a precise “Aye, sir!”
Ulor, shaking his head, obviously at the hardheadedness of officers, pulled a knife from his belt and sliced the line at the bow of the rowboat. The boat bobbled slightly and then rose as Mar fed flux into the enchantment.
“Sir, you’re the highest-ranking non-wounded officer,” Berhl snapped formally as Mar started to pull away. “What are your orders?”
“Where’s Commander Lhervhes?” Mar asked exasperatedly, halting the rowboat.
“Near dead, sir,” Ulor supplied. “He took an arrow through the throat. Can’t say that he’s going to make it.”
Mar pointed at Berhl, and then Ulor in turn. “You’re a captain. You’re a legate. Do what needs to be done.”
Mar left the two agape as he sent the rowboat driving for the sky.
He dared not attempt to move backward in time again – the first attempt had nearly killed him and he had no idea why or how he had recovered. Even if he could survive another such journey, a span of four or more hours seemed impossible. He would simply have to hope that the indomitable will of Lord Ghorn and the immovable mass of Mhiskva had kept the men alive.
He raced back to Mhajhkaei at a speed that shook the rowboat mercilessly, popping seams and making the wood groan in complaint, and the thunderous wind forced him to hug the bilge. He raised his head only occasionally to find landmarks and reached the edge of the city in what he thought was less than half an hour. As he sought the Western Redoubt, he slowed and gained altitude to give him some protection against the weapons of the Phaelle’n.
Much to his relief, he almost immediately spotted Mhiskva’s huge form among a small group of men on the unroofed upper platform of a tall tower – evidently Ulor’s North Main Tower -- at the upper end of the narrowed diamond of the fortress. He brought the rowboat down vertically, dropping so fast that the bottom of the craft struck the deck of the platform jarringly before bouncing back up to about an armlength.
The Captain and the Prince were the only two Mhajhkaeirii still standing, and were fighting to hold down the solid roof hatch against the efforts of men below to raise it. Both men were planted atop the hatch, jostling every count of five as the attackers rammed upwards against it. There were several bodies scattered in twisted positions across the platform, and while most had the maroon and gray markings of the Brotherhood, some wore the sea blue of Mhajhkaei. Lord Purhlea lay propped against a parapet, grasping a bloody crossbow bolt that pierced his right shoulder. Commander Aerlon knelt near him, awkwardly wrapping a cloth around his mangled sword hand. He also had a long gash across his bare forehead and blood dripped unheeded into his eyes.
Mar swept the rowboat near the two wounded men, and reached down to grab Aerlon’s shoulder. “Come on!”
The Plydyrii raised his head blearily, blinked against the blood, and then grinned. “Help me get him up!” he shouted, pulling Purhlea to his feet.
Mar vaulted down to the platform to grab the Knight-Commander’s other arm. The man gasped in pain as they raised him aboard, but gripped Mar’s arm fiercely and laughed.
“Mhiskva said you would come.”
As soon as he had boosted Aerlon into the center seat alongside Purhlea, Mar shoved the boat over to the roof hatch.
Lord Ghorn nodded calmly. “Glad to see you up and about again, my lord magician.”
Mhiskva, smiling lopsidedly, asked, “Pleasant morning for flying, my lord?”
Mar added his weight on top of the hatch as the Phaelle’n rattled it again. “Can we talk later and just leave?”
“Mhiskva,” Lord Ghorn began, “You get aboard, and I’ll –“
The Captain, standing slightly behind the Prince, swung quickly a
nd smote Lord Ghorn sharply on the back of the helmet with the butt of his axe. The armor rang with a startling flat tone. The Prince-Commander collapsed instantly, but Mhiskva caught him before he fell completely to the floor.
“He would not have gone otherwise, my lord,” the big marine replied to Mar’s aghast expression. “If you will take his feet, I think we can be off before the Monks know we are gone.”
“Do not worry, my lord,” Mhiskva admonished cheerily from the stern as the rowboat climbed away, “I have had much practice rounding up drunken sailors and marines. I know just how hard to strike a man to make him cooperative without addling his brains.”
They had laid the Prince-Commander atop the buckets of sand spheres, with his head on the forward seat alongside Mar and the man’s feet resting on the center seat between Aerlon and Purhlea.
“Should we rouse him?” Lord Purhlea wondered.
“I think it better to let him revive in his own time,” the Captain opined. “I suspect that he will not be pleased when he awakes.”
“He could use the rest anyway,” Aerlon offered. “He has not slept any in the last two days.”
“None of us have,” Lord Purhlea judged.
“It was a hard battle,” Aerlon agreed. “But at least some of us have won free.”
“Better to have died,” the Knight-Commander grated, leaning over the side to watch as Mhajhkaei passed from beneath. When the man raised his head, he fixed his gaze stonily forward, his single eye betraying not one shred of emotion.
Only Mhiskva turned about to look as The Greatest City in All the World, defeated and abandoned, disappeared rapidly astern.
FIFTY-FOUR
1631 After the Founding of the Empire
The little boy woke, but did not open his eyes. If the old woman knew that he was awake, she would make him get up. He wanted to laze for as long as possible in the nest of old rags that was his bed. Winter was coming and the mornings had already cooled. The little boy hated winter. He hated the cold.
His stomach was empty, but he was used to that. Better to be warm and hungry than cold and hungry. There would be no breakfast, anyway. He knew that the first thing the old woman would want to do was rush out into the cold morning to dig for rags in trash piles. The papermakers would buy rags not fouled with oil or spirits, but it took an awful lot of them to earn even the single coin necessary to buy half a loaf of yesterday’s bread. They would not get anything to eat until much later in the day. Feeling a breath of chill air across his toes, he twisted his feet deeper into the scrap of a threadbare blanket.
After a few more minutes, unable to remain still any longer, he rolled his head and peeked at the old woman, wondering if she were trying to catch him dawdling.
She lay on her back not far from him, next to the stack of barrels that shielded them from the street and the eyes of the Guard. Her eyes were open and staring up at nothing. The wrinkled brown flesh of her face had gone gray and she was perfectly still.
He jumped up in sudden fright, scattering his rags, and reached out to touch her cheek. There was no warmth. Her skin was as cold as the morning air.
He knew what dying was. He had had a dog, a skinny starving mongrel, the year before. An older boy had smashed its head into pulp because it had bitten him.
Tears started running down his face. The old woman would have smacked him for crying, as she always had, but she would never do that again. She had never hugged him, never kissed him, but he had loved her all the same.
She had always called him “baby,” but she had said often that she was not his mother and had never let him call her that.
Like the other little children he saw in the street, he did have a name. He had always known what his name was, but he had never tried to tell it to the old woman. She had a quick hand if she thought he was talking back.
Mar turned away, crying but making no sound, and left her where she lay.
FIFTY-FIVE
Mar climbed from the rowboat, reaching to help Aerlon and Mhiskva raise Lord Ghorn into the hands of the legionnaires and marines who anxiously crowded around. Some of Lord Purhlea’s own Stalwarts took charge of the wounded Knight-Commander and bore him away.
“Gently!” Berhl snapped at his fellow Mhajhkaeirii, supporting the prince’s head. Ulor and Phehlahm took Ghorn’s boots and Rhel his shoulders. Others, Borlhoir, Cuhlhin, dozens who Mar recognized but whose names he did not know, reached in hands to bear the weight. The dirt of the crossroads had been trampled into a fine powder and the dust rose as the men laid the Prince-Commander on a blanket. Neither the strain nor the exhaustion which filled many of the armsmen’s faces hid the worry and fear that Lord Ghorn’s still form generated.
“He’s alive,” Mar reassured them wearily, leaning heavily against the rowboat. “He was stunned, but now I think he only sleeps. Let him stay that way. He needs the rest.”
Grins were passed around, and word relayed to those behind as the crowd continued to grow. Many gathered near, mostly armsmen, but also some curious refugees from the tents and camps in the fields and the woodlot.
Mhiskva eased from the stern of the rowboat, favoring an injured shoulder. The others shifted back to allow him passage as he approached Mar. As Mar knew he would, the mountain saluted.
“Have you orders, High-Captain?”
Mar simply did not know what to tell the man. All the Mhajhkaeirii were watching very closely and Aerlon had a distinctly odd look on his face.
Mar shook his head. “I don’t know. What’s normally done?”
“I would suggest, sir, that the order of the camp be checked, that watches and sentries be maintained. Provisions should be secured, and muster taken. Later, a full officer’s council should be assembled –“
“Fine. Do all that. Whatever you think is necessary.”
“Aye, sir.” Mhiskva saluted again but did not depart.
The crowd stirred and then parted, and the bulk of Lord Hhrahld appeared, followed by his surviving corsairs. He advanced rapidly toward Mar, who settled forward onto the balls of his feet cautiously, but the Lord Protector stopped several paces away from the younger man. Mhiskva appeared ready to interpose himself between Mar and the ancient pirate, but remained in his place when Lord Hhrahld made no hostile move.
Lord Hhrahld’s eyes were clear of madness and his look steady as he confronted Mar.
“You are the salvation of my sons,” the old man pronounced, as if acknowledging a debt, his voice resounding with a lucid clarity across the crossroads that quieted a growing murmur. “Before there were emperors, the Gods touched men and raised them up to rule. You are such a man!”
Slowly the Lord-Protector, now the focus of the entire crowd, brought his sword from its sheath, swinging the great blade in a regal flourish so that the sun flashed from its burnished spine. Taking the hilt in both hands, he raised it high above his head and with a swift strike drove half its length into the roadbed.
Mar’s unease began screaming in frantic warning and his heart raced in sudden panic. He knew what was about to happen as clearly as if he had already witnessed it.
Dropping to both knees, Hhrahld extended the heel of his fist and drew it lightly down the glinting edge of his blade, leaving a line of red both upon the razor edge and upon his grimed hand. Slowly he raised his fist and clenched it tighter, so that a large drop of blood formed at the bottom.
“Stop,” Mar insisted, his voice strangling in fear.
Hhrahld did not seem to hear, his sight locked upon the drop. With a strong and rising voice, he began to repeat the ancient and outlawed form, “With steel and blood.”
Mar took an angry step toward the pirate, shaking. “No!” he shouted at the top of his voice.
The other corsairs had fallen to their knees as well and began pulling knives and swords, mimicking their chieftain. Blood was drawn. Their few voices joined together in a rasping bass chorus, “With steel and blood.”
The drop of Hhrahld’s blood fell to make a gr
ay splash in the dust of the road. “Bound into the earth.”
“Bound into the earth!”
Hhrahld bowed his head, the snow of his hair hanging down to his chest. “I pledge my life to thee!”
“We pledge our lives to thee!”
“Wait!” Mar cried.
Unbeknownst to all but him, powerful strands of flux were being woven, not by the men themselves, but by the essential force of these ancient words. He could hear-see them, vibrant blazing tones leaping between the blood, the metal, and the dust, between Hhrahld and the corsairs. These powerful sound-colors lashed out, snaring Mar, binding him inexorably to the pirates. He fought the ties, but they refused to respond to his magical efforts. He could neither deflect them nor shield himself from them. This pledge of loyalty was no mere oath, but a spell of terrible power.
Hhrahld raised his head once more to gaze unblinkingly at the young magician. “My King!”
“Our King!”
A motion made Mar turn. Aerlon had gone to his knees likewise. He turned a bloody palm, his good hand, so that all could see. His words were not spoken loudly, but carried.
“The Brotherhood is a blight upon the world,” he announced haltingly, speaking carefully as if his words came by small measure to his mind. “If they are not stopped, they will spend an entire generation of young men’s blood to return an ancient evil to this modern world.”
The Plydyrii was quiet for a short moment and when he spoke again his voice was stronger, irrefutable. “There are none in this entire world but you, my lord Mar, with the strength to destroy them.”
Aerlon had cut deeply. The water of his life flowed down his arm and into the dirt. His vow came out in a defiant rush.
“With steel and blood, bound into the earth, I pledge my life to thee and name you my king.”
His unease trumpeting its final warning, Mar spun to face Mhiskva. The Captain’s keen eyes had taken in all, and whatever thoughts and arguments might have formed behind those orbs were resolved in a single calm blink. When Mhiskva drew his great axe and knelt, Mar knew he was lost, utterly and completely condemned.
Key to Magic 02 Magician Page 28