“There was a great flaring of ethereal force, like nothing revealed in the ancient texts. Even I, with my limited Ability, was able to detect it and its nature was thoroughly unfamiliar to me. More power was released than the ward relic was capable of storing by at least a factor of ten.”
“The Mhajhkaeirii were responsible?”
“Likely, Preeminence, but this is not certain. I will have to consult the skryers to determine a more accurate description of the event.”
Zheltraw rose to his feet suddenly. “Preeminence, we must withdraw your person to the Holy Ships! You are not safe here!”
The Archdeacon waved his underling to silence without turning from Lhevatr.
“Lhevatr, you are to go immediately to the harbor. Send communication to the Monastery. Summon Brother Whorlyr and his entire cloister. They are to travel at once through the Emerald Gate and bring all of their operational restored weaponry.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Dispatch them to capture the Mhajhkaeirii’n pilot and retrieve the flying relic. Failing that, they are to kill the pilot and destroy the relic. Do you understand?”
Zheltraw gasped. Willful destruction of ethereal relics was blasphemy. “Preeminence! Surely you cannot mean –“
The Archdeacon ignored the Brohivii’s outburst.
“Do you understand my orders, Commander?”
“Yes, my lord. It will be done.”
THIRTY-ONE
Before Mar could manage a panicked outcry, his feet dropped from under him, and he fell. Frantic, he relaxed every muscle in his body. Only a scarce heartbeat later he crashed feet first into a sloped tile roof. He allowed his body to fold to absorb some of the force of the impact, but still his breath was driven away and his knees slammed into his chest. The pitch of the roof pulled him down, rolling and bouncing, and he flattened to halt his slide. Bursting tiles and peeling hide, he skidded a dozen armlengths and finally came to a wrenching halt wedged sideways against a chimney. Here he lay unmoving in a scraped and twisted heap, drawing several long shuddering breaths, and wondering at his luck.
And his stupidity.
He had known there were archers. He had been within moments of total victory, and had thrown success and his priceless raft away with one moment of inattention. Disgusted with himself, he wearily rolled onto his back and flexed his arms and legs. To his vast relief, he found everything basically intact, though he had several small cuts that had smeared blood across most of his torso and legs.
An arrow grew quivering from the chimney above him, brick chips splashing his face. Without pause, others screeched off tiles or thudded into lathes revealed by his passage. None struck closer than two armlengths, but a jolt of fear spurred him to action. Spitting a curse on the head of Zsnigh-mhi, the demi-god of tile roofs, sheds, and cisterns, he snatched up a loose tile and scooted down the sloping roof and behind the broad, yellow chimney. A quick peek revealed his assailants to be a pair of archers in maroon and gray straddling the peak of another roof a short distance behind and slightly higher than his own. They drew and loosed in unison almost before he could snatch his head backward. Their arrows ricocheted off the soft brick fingerlengths from his face.
In the space of hardly more than one run-a-way heartbeat, Mar flooded the tile with all the screaming red he could summon, adjusted a pink wiggle and an orange tone, and let fly with a backhanded toss, all without pulling his sweat soaked back from the warm brick. Though he could not see it, he felt the tile as it knifed through the air, flying with magical aid and guidance, and accelerated toward his attackers. It struck at their feet faster than they could react and shattered, exploding with a tremendous release of ethereal energy that shredded everything in its path for ten armlengths in every direction.
Mar flinched as the sound shook him, and covered his head as splinters and debris rained down upon him an instant later. Hoping that the explosion would give the remaining archers reason to pause, he surveyed the inner court visible beyond the roof's edge.
Plainly, the ravages of war had until now bypassed this idyllic family sanctum. Stone benches watched the reflecting pool quietly, unconcerned by the havoc in the city without, and the small orchard bore ripening pears. A few had dropped to the well-tended lawn. The arcades to the left and right, and front spread uncompromising shade over finely upholstered couches and ornate tables. All were vacant. As no one had been drawn by the racket of his impact to challenge his intrusion, it seemed clear that he house was empty, the owners long fled to the Citadel or the countryside. He moved as soon as his survey was done, staying within the shielding shadow of the chimney. He slid upon his buttocks to the roof edge, balanced for a moment upon it, and then kicked his feet out to drop to the marble walk beneath.
His only advantage in this war was his sky raft; afoot he was simply a frightened thief who would die with depressing rapidity on the swords of the Phaelle’n legionnaires. It was imperative that he build another as soon as possible, but that construction required undisturbed time and plentiful sand, and he doubted that he could expect either here and now. He must elude the invaders, first and foremost, and would worry about a counter blow after he had found a scuttle hole.
He ran across the court, plucking a pear in each hand with sudden twin inspiration as he bent to avoid the drooping branches, and swept under the arcade and through the spread double doors into the room beyond. A bedroom, its disheveled garish finery gave the first indication of a hasty departure, and its unshuttered windows flashed him a bright view of a tidy, narrow street.
His mind racing, he eased to a halt in the center of the room and consumed the pear in his right hand with three ravenous bites. He was sorely tempted to eat the other as well, but followed through with his earlier idea. Absently tossing the first core aside, he fixed his intent gaze upon the fruit in his left hand, playing delicate mental fingers upon the chords of the magical fields.
With a loud, mushy POP, the fruit burst, splattering his face and chest with pulp.
A rigid chill crawled heavily up his back at this shocking reminder of the warnings printed in Oyraebos' text. Sourly, he decided that he had had enough of magic for the present, and jumped to the window centered in the exterior wall. The street outside was unblocked and was empty as far as he could see in both directions. Quickly, he flipped the latch and pushed the hinged sashes open. He was preparing to vault the sill when the clash of weapons broke upon his ears from his left, and he jerked backward into the shadows. Pounding feet, running shouts, cries of pain, and the ring of steel upon steel washed down the street in a swelling tide.
He caught himself as he turned to flee back the way he had come, forcing himself to think. Sounds of fighting meant not only the armsmen of the Brotherhood, but surely those of Mhajhkaei as well? If the Mhajhkaeirii had sallied forth from the Citadel, then perhaps his best course was to remain in hiding till the conflict bypassed him. Surely the battle would catch up the archers who had downed his sky raft, and it was possible that the Mhajhkaeirii could repulse the Phaelle’n now that his attacks had weakened them. Regardless of the outcome, if he were caught in the midst of the battle he was certain to be killed.
This bedroom was too exposed to offer sanctuary. Stealthily, he retraced his steps into the courtyard, all the while cocking an attentive ear to the pandemonium developing beyond the house’s walls. The sounds seemed strongest from his left and rear, the north and west, if his sense of direction had not been addled. He briefly considered the roof, but, mindful of the archers, continued with an instinctive negative into the east arcade, searching with a constant back-and-forth swing of his head for any alternative that might present itself. This room proved to be the kitchen, a smallish room with a freestanding hearth, several stoutly framed oak tables, one of which looked as if it had been used recently to cut meat, and an orderly set of polished brass pots and utensils hung about the walls on pegs. Disappointingly, there were no windows. The only doorway led to an even tinier room hung with onions and garlic above shelve
s that held crocks of dried beans, flour, salt, and such. A quick search revealed no bread or cheese to ease his still empty stomach; the family must have fled with any portable victuals. There were no other exits from the pantry.
The clamor without had grown greatly in volume and it appeared as if the clash was only moments from overflowing into this very house. Desperately, Mar spun about the kitchen, his eyes flickering from object to object, trying to force an idea. No new solutions sprang to his mind, and he was at the point of dashing back to the court when his eyes locked upon one of the tables. The pear had failed as a magical vessel, but wood was a greatly more resilient material. He had read something about the suitability of wood in Oyraebos, hadn’t he? Again, his memory of his single study of the text failed him, leaving him unsure. Still, any possibility was better than none.
Not worrying that the noise might draw unwanted company, he grabbed the bulky table with both hands and with a whole-body lurch hauled it squalling and shreeing into the courtyard. He stopped just short of the reflecting pool, well clear of the overhanging arcades.
The table had six legs each as large as his calf. The top was reassuringly solid, constructed of joined half-span thick planks. It measured better than a manheight long by a third that distance wide. No mere arrow would bring this great beast tumbling from the sky; if he could make it fly, he would have a much more battle worthy craft. He heaved it onto its side and then flipped it with a solid thud so that the legs pointed upward. Forcing calm, he knelt and wrapped his fingers around the rough posts. Even with the battle din rising to a crescendo, he hesitated. The bursting pear had made a slight mess, but a bursting table would make an undoubtedly deadly mess. Rising, he took several steps back, reconsidered, and scuttled all the way back into the kitchen.
He had thus far attempted magic only while in physical contact with a vessel. He had no idea whether it was possible to manipulate the ethereal sound-colors at a distance. Or whether he was talented enough in whatever skill was required if that feat could in fact be accomplished. But he knew that only by experiment could he prove the issue. Responding to a vagrant thought, he remained in the doorway to maintain eye contact with the overturned table, though he tensed his body for a sudden scramble out of this opening, and drew a breath to settle himself. Carefully, he reached out with the still-not-quite-familiar peculiar mental effort used to control magic.
He found the table quickly and delved it faster than he would have suspected. Something different was required here. The percussive yellows would not work. . .
The table vibrated and then placidly rose a span above the marble.
He had encountered a feeling slightly varied from his previous experiences as he groped for the table's magical soul, a minor wavering or difficulty created by the distance involved, but had sensed no impairment of his adjustment of the shades and tones. He suspected that there existed some natural resistance to remote magic and thought that he would be limited to a precise range, but the specifics would require further experimentation.
To test his new sky raft, he snatched a heavy stewpot from its hook close beside the door, and hurled it at the table, jumping to cover as he did so. After a barely perceptible interval, there was a sharp metallic bouncing sound, but no earth shattering concussion.
Even the noise of battle seemed to be waning. Suddenly alarmed, Mar raced for his raft.
Too late!
Dusty, blood splattered men spilled into the courtyard from every doorway to the north and west, swords and halberds held high despite the exhaustion imprinted upon their faces. A massive man whose bare head towered above his fellows and whose shoulders would have done justice to a draft horse stepped between Mar and the table, his great strides pulling him ahead of the other men. Blood ran down his face from a long cut across his brow and sweat had plastered his long hair into a shock that flared away from his shoulders. Captain’s badges flapping loosely from one arm, this giant casually cut the air before the young thief with an axe as long as he was tall, whipping it back and forth as if it were no more than a nettle.
"HOLD! YIELD OR DIE!" the captain thundered as his men trotted near.
Mar, for once, was easily convinced. He stopped immediately and carefully raised his hands. Burly men in brigandines and battle-scarred chain mail closed in warily from either side and brutally wrenched his hands behind his back. In short order his wrists were securely bound. Others continued on, running doggedly, obviously searching, into the remainder of the house.
"Mhiskva, look!" cried one of the men guarding Mar. The man pointed excitedly. The giant turned to follow the unsteady digit. As his gaze fell upon the table, hovering still as Mar had left it, he tensed in shock and whirled to face the young man once more.
"You! The sorcerer!" the thusly named Mhiskva exclaimed.
Mar's captors staggered back as if stunned, leaving him alone, and the giant approached with purposeful, determined strides. He stopped within an armlength of the young man and brought his great axe around in a sweeping arc.
Even as his heart fluttered, Mar eyed the giant unwaveringly, knowing he had little chance of dodging a blow of the huge weapon but determined to make an attempt. If luck struck, he would sprint for the closest exit.
The massive Mhajhkaeirii turned his wrist in a deft flourish, the stained and glinting metal blurring from incredible speed. The haft of the axe crashed down on the flagstones with a sharp crack as the Mhajhkaeirii fell to one knee.
“KNEEL YOU SONS! KNEEL BEFORE THE SALVATION OF THE CITY!” Mhiskva roared in triumph.
Then, before Mar’s completely astonished eyes, the wildly cheering armsmen, one and all, knelt to pay him homage.
THIRTY-TWO
“My lord Sorcerer--” Mhiskva began.
The descending wail of a hurtling catapult stone overrode the captain. With a great rending blast of sound, the shot plunged in and a building on the right side of the avenue violently expelled bits of itself in every direction.
Mar dove behind an overturned oxcart as another head-sized cylinder of stone, companion to the first, flattened the last standing wall of a second building on the far side of the street. Brick bounded outward in a dark brown wave, skipping and spiraling across the cobbles. This shallow breaker coursed around and over other debris – burnt timbers, sections of wall with plaster still attached, a crushed barrel – leaving sharp featured drifts behind the larger obstacles, before subsiding with a skitter of sand and fragments no more than an armlength from his refuge.
Since leaving the abandoned house, they had been under threat from the bombardment, which apparently originated from the gray ships. The attacks seemed random, with the paired stones slamming down at odd intervals, sometimes near, sometimes streets away. Only this section of the city seemed under fire and Mar had begun to consider the increasing likelihood that he himself was the target of the attacks.
Mhiskva had remained standing and was outwardly unperturbed by the near miss, though his men had likewise taken cover. They began to rise, dusting their clothes and cursing – those that had the strength to do so. With exaggerated courtesy and just the slightest hint of disapproval, the captain extended a hand to draw Mar to his feet.
“As I was saying, my lord Sorcerer –“
“Don’t call me that,” Mar snapped. “I’m not a sorcerer, I’m a –“
Thief? No, not any longer. What had Waleck said?
“I’m a … magician.”
“Ah, indeed, then, my lord Magician—“ Mhiskva frowned in thought for a moment then continued,“-- these magery driven catapults of the Monks and their godsforsaken sail-less ships are beyond the strength and understanding of normal men. Why, as you can see –“
Another double impact, this one a block or so to their rear, shook the ground.
“-- they can throw a stone over several leagues! Our fleet was caught unawares in the harbor, attacked while the Phaelle’n ships were still below the horizon. Metal bound barrels of burning pitch rained down all acr
oss the moorings. The fire was hotter than any I have ever witnessed. Before we had any sense of what was happening, half the ships were already sunk.”
“Yes, I saw the bay.”
Mar glanced at the captain through the side of his eyes. Mhiskva’s looming presence struck him as oddly reassuring and unaccountably familiar. It was as if Mar had previously known the hulking Mhajhkaeirii.
Mhiskva’s keen eyes caught the look. “Yes, my lord Magician?”
“Nothing.”
“We should proceed, my lord.”
Mar nodded, thinking, and continued along the street.
“I believe that I can sink the Phaelle’n ships,” he offered after several moments. He actually doubted that he could even get close enough to the magical vessels to mount an attack, but any ruse to return him to the safety of the air was worth trying.
“I am sure that Lord Ghorn will be pleased to hear this,” Mhiskva replied noncommittally.
“We should strike now, before they have a chance to prepare a defense.”
The captain smiled patiently. “The Prince-Commander has ordered me to bring you before him, as I have told you, my lord Magician. This is what will be done.”
Mhiskva spoke in an even, congenial tone, but Mar had the distinct feeling that it would be easier to move a mountain than to shift the huge captain from his course.
“Then let’s use my sky raft to fly to your Lord Ghorn,” Mar proposed, turning to wave back at the table, which trailed behind him like a faithful hound.
Mhiskva had sent fifty of his men forward to scout their route back to the Citadel. Another forty trailed several blocks as a rear guard. The rest, including some wounded born on improvised litters, were arrayed in a loose square about Mar, Mhiskva and the table. The Mhajhkaeirii’s reactions to the raft ranged from awe to outright distaste, and none would approach any closer to it than several paces. Mar had indulged himself for the first five or six blocks, making the table lunge to one side or the other at unexpected moments. Some of the unfortunate Mhajhkaeirii had almost done themselves injury while springing out of its path.
Key to Magic 01 Orphan Page 28