Third Power

by Robert Childs

  But that’s all right, Steve thought to himself, knuckling one leather gauntlet in the palm of the other. Hiding isn’t in the game plan.

  For the tenth time that morning, he adjusted the hardened leather armor he wore. It was uncomfortable not because of the leather itself, or the weight added by the steel rings woven into it, for the padded gambeson and trousers he wore beneath kept the leather away from his skin and therefore from rubbing him raw, but rather because it was just so unfamiliar. In fact, the only familiar thing about his dress was the silver rapier belted around his waist. He kept it close by at all times, to serve as both weapon and reminder of home.

  Midmorning had seen the Resistance, now only twenty-five thousand strong, safely to the plain across from Rajasthan. Steve lamented the need to leave ten thousand soldiers behind in the Jisetrian valley, for he wanted to strike the now weakened capitol as hard and as fast as possible, but even General Duva agreed it was necessary both for the defense of their Jisetrian allies and also to maintain the appearance the whole of the Resistance were trapped in that valley.

  “Hey, you,” Sonya said appearing by his side wearing black boots, brown trousers belted at the waist, and a white, loose-fitting tunic. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Steve tried to laugh but it came out as more of a sharp exhalation instead. “You might need your checking account if you want to hear them all.”

  Sonya smiled at that and nodded. “You’re probably right. But look at the bright side: after today how many people back home can put ‘saved the world’ on their resume?”

  Now it was Steve’s turn to smile, though it didn’t last. Like an ocean wave it was there one moment, and then gone in the next. His eyes were riveted on the increasing numbers of the enemy taking shape in front of the imperial city: hoards of Shangee, archers, and foot soldiers. Though they were less than the main force, they were still far more than he liked.

  “Look who’s talking,” he said finally looking to her. “You actually are going to save a whole world. I, however, am just going to get a whole lot of it killed.”

  Sonya’s eyes softened in sympathy, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Steve, come on, you know that isn’t true. Whatever happens here today is something that was going to happen somewhere, sooner or later, with or without you. But now, because of you, these people have a real shot at winning.” She canted her head then and Steve could see some thought was playing out in her mind. Whatever it was, it seemed to bother her. “Though, to be honest,” she continued, “I’m not really sure why taking back Rajasthan is so important.”

  “Because of magic,” he answered her. “Azinon is who he is because of the power he commands. I want to take that from him.”

  Sonya looked confused. “That’s possible?”

  “It is in Azinon’s case. Haldorum taught me a lot in those first few weeks after we arrived here, and one of them is, until I came, there were only two kinds of Powers ever to exist on Mithal: those born with the ability and those who’d been given it. Azinon was given his powers and, if he wants to keep them, he has to perform what Haldorum calls a dark ritual. It’s a kind of ceremony of sacrifice to whatever being gave him the ability to use magic in the first place. It has to be performed regularly, in a specific place, on a specific altar, created specifically for that purpose. And even though, with the right preparation, the place of the ritual can be changed, that altar,” he said with a slight smile, “that altar’s not replaceable. If we can find it, and destroy it, his powers will fade to nothing.”

  Sonya was nodding. “Like a battery that can’t be charged anymore,” she said.

  “Exactly. Without his magic there will be no more Shangee created, no more Jalkora and, most importantly, no more sorcerer. Azinon will be just another man.”

  “I have to admit, Steve, I’m impressed. You plan to hit Azinon’s chamber while he thinks he’s wiping out the Resistance. That’s pretty smart.”

  “Thanks,” he replied, grinning a bit, though it faded when he returned his eyes to what was soon to be the battlefield. “But tell me that after it works. Once inside, we still don’t know where to find the altar in the first place, and we only have until midnight before Azinon can portal back.”

  Sonya stood quiet for a time as she too looked across the plain to the enemy before asking, “Steve, what did you mean when you said there were only two kinds of Powers until you came?”

  “Ah,” Steve said looking down and kicking at a stone with the toe of his black boot, “that. Haldorum is a little worried by the fact there is no precedent for someone like me. I think it would be easier for him to accept my being…unique…if I had turned out to be the Third, since the prophecy actually mentions that person. You know, ‘savior of the world’, and all.”

  “Why is that so important?”

  “Perhaps I can better explain,” Haldorum said coming up between them and placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “I thought I might find you here, Steven. You do know the numbers of the enemy will grow no smaller just because you stare at them?”

  “Tell me about it,” he replied. “In fact, the opposite seems to be true.”

  Haldorum looked off in the distance, at the smaller numbers of the enemy across the plain for only a moment and nodded resolutely. “At least now we outnumber them.”

  The elder Power gave them both a squeeze on the shoulder before stepping around and then turning to face them both. “In answer to your question, Sonya, people like you and I were born with the abilities we have, to manipulate the magic of this world. You did not know of your own abilities on Earth because magic is almost non-existent there, so your abilities had nothing to work with.”

  Sonya gasped as a sudden realization hit her. “So that’s why your powers were getting weaker on Earth. You were cut off from the source that replenished you.”

  “Ding!” Steve exclaimed, teasing. “Move that girl to the head of the class.”

  “All right, wise guy,” Sonya said chucking him on the arm. “Don’t make me learn how to turn you into a frog.”

  Steve laughed and threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Then to Haldorum she said, “You were saying? So you and I use the same magic—just in different ways.”

  “Correct. And given enough time on Earth, my powers would have faded away completely. On the other side of the coin are those like Azinon, those who were given their powers.”

  “Long story short,” Steve said, “that altar serves as the gateway which channels his powers to him. Which means no matter if he was on Earth or Mithal—“

  “His powers would never fade,” Sonya finished.

  Steve nodded. “Right again. He’s always connected to the source of his abilities—but he has to perform that ritual. So that means no altar, no more sorcerer.”

  Sonya pursed her lips as she considered this new information. “Interesting,” she said thoughtfully aloud. “So then what is it that has old Haldorum here wracking his brain with worry about you?”

  “First of all,” Haldorum began somewhat indignant, “I’m not that old. Second, as I mentioned, your powers, mine—even Azinon’s—are all linked to a source, which is what makes Steven something of an enigma.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My powers,” Steve began, searching for the right words, “as far as Haldorum can tell, aren’t linked to anything. They’re just there.”

  “But after what you just told me, Haldorum, how can that be? I mean, what about that?” Sonya asked, indicating the crystal with a finger.

  “Another enigma,” the elder wizard answered. “I know even less about it than I do about Steven’s role in the prophetic scheme of things. The only thing I know for certain is it is not the source of his power. I still do not know why it reacts to the presence of magic, nor why only Steven can seem to wear or remove it. And on top of everything else, the prophecy does not so much as mention either Steven or the
crystal in any of the passages.”

  Sonya shrugged. “Well, I don’t mean to burst your bubble, Haldorum, but that isn’t really saying a whole lot. We already know the prophecy is either flawed or the translation is wrong.” Haldorum looked about to disagree when Sonya cut him off by holding up a finger. “One: bring about an end to the plague. We already know that is something I can do so we’ll chalk that one up to the crazy prophet from a thousand years ago. Two,” she said holding up a second finger, “restore the imperial line to the throne. With the emperor gone, who was the last remaining heir of imperial blood, that is now seemingly impossible. And three: the Third will marry into a royal house of Mithal—but only to one possessing the gift of magic. The last time we checked, the only one who fits both of those criteria is Princess Vessla.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Steve said rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I think you two would make a great couple.”

  Sonya smirked and chucked him again in the arm…harder.

  “What?” Steve said trying to sound offended but unable to wipe his smile.

  “Anyway,” Sonya continued, “by my count the prophecy is only one for three since we arrived.”

  Haldorum gave her a simultaneous shrug and nod. “Granted, translating and interpreting the prophecy is by no means an exact science—“

  “Thank you,” Sonya interjected.

  “However, experience has taught me on more than one occasion that when a valid prophecy appears to be wrong or contradictory it is only because we fail to see the entire picture.”

  “Haldorum! Steven!” Lurin called, appearing out of a group of milling soldiers whose impatience for battle was beginning to show. “We are ready.”

  Steve took a deep, slow breath.

  “Showtime.”

  “Ready!” The barrel-chested Jisetrian sergeant bellowed across the platform. Up here, only the most physically fit of the Jisetra ever found the strength to forego the long procession of stairs in light armor and make the flight to this, the highest of all platforms on the mountain fortress. Here the air was too thin for anything larger than a Jisetra to keep aloft, and it was here five hundred winged soldiers waited with spears held upright against their right shoulders like statues, waiting for the final word.

  As expected, the rocs led the attack. They approached in arrowhead formations of fifty rocs each, their aim: to draw and return fire on the archers as the ground forces advanced on the fortress below.

  “Ready!” the sergeant called again, drawing the word out, underscoring the next command was likely the one to launch. Below him, the advancing roc formations were so numerous they shadowed the valley floor beneath them for a kilometer. And this was only the first wave.

  The sergeant raised his mace high above his head and brought it down in a sharp motion screaming “Dive!”

  Five hundred Jisetra poured over the side of the platform like a waterfall of death. With their wings pulled in tight and pressed close to their bodies, their aerodynamic helms protected their faces from the buffeting wind. They plummeted from on high, reaching greater and greater speeds toward the enemy.

  One roc rider had the wherewithal to look up and shout a warning before a spear ripped through him and his roc like a needle-straight sliver of gray lightning.

  The Jisetrians came down in waves, simply releasing their spears before unfurling their wings and banking hard to clear the way for their brothers still plummeting downward from above them.

  Below, thousands of pairs of Resistance soldiers’ eyes were riveted on the sky. Hundreds of liquid, crimson plumes exploded down from the bodies of the huge birds above as steel tore through them. Those riders not struck dead immediately suffered a worse fate as they screamed in anticipation of death, plummeting with their mounts toward the unyielding earth below. But the greatest effect came in the ensuing chaos erupting amid the arrowhead formations of rocs themselves. Riders veered, climbed and dived in wild attempts to avoid the death raining down on them, some colliding with each other in the confusion. Several hundred surviving riders broke formation and banked left and right, diving toward the valley floor to gain the most speed.

  From the ground, it was a frightening sight. As the rocs dropped altitude at breakneck speeds, thousands of fortress archers loosed a cloud of whistling death so thick it cast a shadow on the valley floor.

  The few remaining magicians in Azinon’s palace arsenal struggled to maintain their mental control over far too many Shangee, and it was showing. The half-lizard hybrids were difficult to control under normal circumstances. Any magician of decent strength was, by doctrine, tasked with no more than one hundred to direct in battle. But now, with only a dozen magicians left to control almost five thousand Shangee, it was all they could do just to keep the ravenous beasts from attacking each other.

  Across the field, the Resistance army was on the march and, for reasons they could not discern, the redcrests appeared content to let the battle come to them. General Duva advanced on horseback, keeping pace with the rest of his forces, frowning about at the enemy’s willingness to give ground so easily. It was obvious the first wave of the attack would be Shangee and, although the monstrosities were little more than undisciplined savages, in the thick of the fight they had always before arranged themselves in ordered formations—at least until the fighting began.

  With a raise of his gauntleted right hand, General Duva signaled to the newly appointed Captain Maxwell Donn, who slowed his horse to come alongside his general.

  “Your orders, sir?”

  “Send twenty mounted archers out ahead of the rest of our forces,” he said thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off the disorderly mob of Shangee. “And ready the heavy cavalry. Here is what I want you to do.”

  As the rest of the Resistance marched forward, twenty archers were chosen and given mounts. Before they were even a hundred yards out, General Duva signaled the halt and watched expectantly to see if his hunch was correct. The archers reined in their horses at the extreme range of their bows and nocked arrows. Taking high aim, the strings of their bows pulled back under calloused fingers and touched their cheeks briefly before letting fly almost in unison. The arrows sailed away with cutting whispers and arced directly into the center of the middle group of Shangee. Piercing screams erupted and fighting broke out almost instantly, spreading outward from the disturbance like a ripple in a pond.

  The strings drew back yet again and once more they let fly. This time one of the Shangee screamed something unintelligible and pointed a clawed finger in their direction. Azinon’s magicians struggled with their tenuous hold over the half-breed monsters even as it melted away like wax in a brick oven, and all five-thousand of the cursed creatures poured forth in a wild, disorganized frenzy.

  “Damn you!” one redcrest on the ramparts bellowed as he struck one of the magicians across the back of the head. “Bring them back! It is not time!”

  Already sweating from his previous efforts at control, the magician’s attempt to re-exert control was akin to the flea trying to exert its dominance over the dog. With an explosive breath of exhaustion, he whined his failure.

  “That is it!” General Duva said, his hand balling into a fist. “Archers! Cavalry!”

  The mounted archers who started the frenzy turned their mounts and spurred them into full gallop. They were halfway back to the Resistance when lines of foot archers, two-thousand strong in four lines of five hundred, appeared in the front ranks. But it was the sight of the heavy cavalry, taking position behind them, that caused the mounted archers to split into two groups left and right to maneuver clear of the impending charge. Likely, when the time came the cavalry would gallop past them, but it appeared they weren’t taking any chances.

  “First rank!” Maxwell Donn called out as the Shangee closed, “Aim!” The sound of hundreds of smooth, wooden shafts sliding along polished longbows whispered on the morning air and then, “Loose!”

  Five hundred arrows whistled through the air, arcing over the f
leeing mounted archers, searching for new homes in the enemy. Seemingly blind to this new assault, the Shangee ran on as arrows rained and cut down their kin, felling a hundred of their kind and wounding several dozen more. Those fallen were not mourned, but trampled under by the rest who did not pause in their bloodlust. They came on with inhuman screams.

  ”Second rank!” Maxwell Donn called. The first line of archers dropped to one knee to nock arrows while the second pulled bowstrings to cheeks. “Loose!”

  Again the Shangee died, and still they closed, the sight of their enemy so near seeming to drive them into a frenzy.

  “Third rank! Loose!”

  “Fourth rank! Loose!”

  The half-lizard beasts were close enough now the Resistance could hear the individual death screams of the fallen.

  “Cavalry!” Maxwell called. At that the archers stood and retreated, slipping easily between the heavy mounted warriors taking their places as the front line. “Ready!” A page sounded his horn and, as one, lances dropped.

  The enemy closed.

  “Waaaiiiit!” Maxwell yelled out.

  Closer.

  “Now, sir?” the page asked nervously bringing the horn nearer his lips.

  “Wait! Damn you!” Maxwell snapped. The Shangee needed to be as far away from the walls of the palace, lined with redcrest archers, and away from possible reinforcement, as possible. General Duva’s plan had bought them an opportunity to reduce the enemy ranks by a third and impatience, or carelessness, would surely ruin it.

  Another ten seconds passed. At this range, the soldiers could almost smell the foul stench of the creatures on the breeze.

  “Now!” Maxwell screamed.

  The page pressed his lips to his horn in record time and then the thunder of eight-hundred warhorses roared across the plain in answer to that pealing sound.

  The plate-armored brothers, Lojur and Rabal, appeared from the shimmering light of the portal with shields and massive swords gripped in plated fists. Twenty similarly armored soldiers followed closely, alternately breaking left or right as they emerged, prepared to deal swiftly with any who may have witnessed their sudden appearance. However, as Haldorum had expected, not only were the palace stables devoid of human life but they were completely empty of a single equine as well.