Citadels of the Lost (47 page)

And the drakoneti could be seen still rushing toward them, although they appeared to be having some difficulty navigating the still shifting terrain underfoot. Weaving between the risen towers, flying with mighty beats of his wings, Pharis drove through the sky directly toward them.

The chimerian lay senseless on the ground on the far side of the Font, his form disturbingly nondescript. Ishander had his arms wrapped around one of the pillars, holding on to it firmly with his eyes closed.

“Quickly, lad,” Jugar shouted. “We've got to get the key!”

“I thought we
had
the key!” Drakis said angrily. “You were the one who put the key in the Font!”

“I put the shard in the Font,” Jugar yelled. “It's that tool I used to do it with that's the key. It's still holding the shard. If your friend Pharis gets a grip on that, he can remove the shard and close the Font. And I'm guessing at the speed he's coming, we don't have much time!”

The Font of the Citadel flowed, drawing upon the magic from within the world for the first time in centuries.

But the Aether magic that had protected all of the cities of the human empire awoke to its touch. Stones must be put back, walls reassembled, towers rebuilt, roads smoothed, and statues gathered back to their intended forms. A few such repairs and reinforcements—even in times of battle—would not have demanded much of the Font that supplied them, for such sustaining power would have been localized to the point of conflict.

But as the magic awoke, it called on the Font from everywhere at once. All across the ancient kingdoms of humanity—Khorypistan, Tyrania, Armethia, Pythar; in the Kesh Morain and a thousand other ruins across a continent; from the boundaries of the Siren Coast on the Charos Ocean to the Bay of Ostan off the Lyrac Shores—the magic that had failed to preserve the great cities and towns of humanity awoke and called upon the Font of the Citadel of Light to provide whatever Aether was needed to rebuild the ruins as much as possible.

And the Font answered by drawing as much Aether as was demanded to rebuild an entire empire at once.

S
JEI SMILED, baring his sharp, pointed teeth.

The shifts of the figures in the Battlebox promised a complete victory. Three Cohorts were pressing an attack against the enemy units who had been falling back in their positions for the last hour. Now they were neatly boxed in on three sides with their backs to the sea. Casualties among the front line Impress Warriors had been heavy, but they had consistently been pushing the rebel lines back—establishing gate symbols as they moved. The Army of Drakis—as he understood they had fashioned themselves—had learned at last not to press their advantage after the gate symbols had been inscribed but it had cost them ground and, for that matter Sjei thought ruefully, the ability to win. Unable to press any advantage they had merely been able to protract the battle but not, he knew, to change the inevitable outcome.

“Well, Sjei! It seems that the Emperor shall be given another victory this day.” It was the cloying voice of Wejon Rei near his ear. The man had been a problem from the beginning, and now that victory was all but assured his support of the northern campaign would, no doubt, be remembered as one of eternal support. “I am gratified that our Battlebox should be so useful in the support of this campaign. Indeed, it is our own forward sequence of gates that brings the blessed Aether to support this noble campaign.”

“We all strive to fulfill the Imperial Will,” Sjei nodded without commitment. Wejon had arranged the audience for Shebin with the Emperor—one that had brought her to pass dangerously close to the circle of Ch'drei and her Iblisi obsession with truth—not that the Emperor cared one way or the other about the truth except as a tool for his own wants. Wejon was becoming a “loose stone underfoot” as the elf saying went—something small that can cause you to fall. Sjei would have to find a way to rid himself of this loose stone but his voice betrayed no such intention as he spoke. “Each contributes what he can and in his own way to his greater glory.”

Wejon bowed slightly. “Indeed, as is the duty of every citizen to . . .”

The Aether globes lighting the room suddenly dimmed, flickering twice before brightening again.

Everyone in the Battlebox room froze in surprise.

Aether globes never dimmed.

Sjei started at the sharp sound, his attention drawn at once toward the source of the sound.

An explosion of red glass flew through the room. Sjei instinctively raised his left arm to protect his face and eyes.

A succession of concussive sounds followed quickly. White glass now shot through the room. Cries of pain and surprise echoed between the columns supporting the ceiling.

Again the Aether globes dimmed, flickered and then died for one long, breathless instant before brightening again.

Then there was silence.

Sjei lowered his hand hesitantly.

The sand in the box before them was flat, no longer representing a model of the distant battlefield. The figures remained on the sand but they lay on their sides in their last positions and no longer moved.

Sjei looked up at the brass bar overhead.

The red glass beads were completely missing, blown to dust it seemed. Their only remnant was a slight rosy cast over the sands at one end of the box. Of the thirty-seven white beads that had been on the bar only moments before there now remained, by Sjei's count, twenty-eight and of those only nineteen remained on the right side of the bar.

Sjei reached down, grasping Wejon's tunic and hauling the Fifth High Priest of the Myrdin-dai to his feet. “How far are nineteen folds?”

“What . . . what has happened?”

Sjei had no time for dithering. He shook the elf to get his attention. “How far north is fold nineteen?”

Wejon came to himself, trying to break Sjei's grip on his clothing without success. “How
dare
you put your hand to the Fifth High Priest of . . .”

Sjei wheeled Wejon around, pointing up toward the remaining beads on the brass rod. “Where is that? Where is fold nineteen?”

Wejon's eyes were suddenly fixed on the brass rod. His mouth was slack with astonishment.

“How far?” Sjei insisted.

Wejon swallowed. “It's . . . that fold is somewhere near the Chaenandrian border . . . the southern end of the Northmarch folds, I think.”

“The southern end?” Ch'dak Vaijan, the Minister of Law, had joined them in staring at the remaining beads. “That's over four hundred leagues south of the battle!”

“Almost our own border,” Arikasi, the Minister of Occupation, sputtered in astonishment.

“No,” Sjei said, his lips curling back from his sharp teeth. “That's as far as the gateway folds fell but whatever happened reached us here in the Imperial City.”

“Impossible!” Wejon declared.

“They're your folds, Wejon!” Sjei snapped, wheeling on the Fifth High Priest. “We all saw the globes dim. Get them operational, Myrdin-dai, and right now! We've got to find out what is happening in the north!”

Sjei released Wejon with a firm shove then turned back toward the useless Battlebox.

“It could be weeks before we know what's happened!”

“Fall back!” Belag roared.

The forward lines of the Legions were surging against his own lines. The ground beneath the manticore's feet was churned into a mixture of dirt and blood, and though his warriors were holding the front line, a break in the right flank had allowed three Octia to charge behind their lines. They had been quickly dealt with but not before several gate symbols had been established and propagated behind his lines. It was only a matter of moments, Belag knew from long experience, before folds would open over those symbols and warriors would pour out of them against the rear of his battle line.

“We've nowhere to fall back to,” shouted Gradek in response, his own sword clashing against a manticore Impress Warrior of the Imperial Legion.

Belag looked behind them. It was true. Their own lines had been pressed back almost to the encampment—the battle was on the verge of including the children and elders they were sworn to protect. He glanced up on the western ridge. He could see a dark line at the crest—the entire goblin army—watching and waiting. They were positioned on the right flank but Belag knew that they would do nothing. His troops were on their own.

“Braun!” Belag shouted. “Confuse those folds! Keep them from opening! Keep them from . . .”

Braun stared back at Belag in amazement. A fool's grin split his face. “Belag! Wonderful news!”

“What is it, Braun?” Belag asked. The manticore was suddenly aware of a change in the air. The sounds of battle had diminished.

Braun rushed over to the Grahn Aur, holding open his hands. “Look! I can't use the magic!”

Belag shook his head. Braun did not always make sense to him on first hearing. “How is that
good
?”

“Because,” Braun answered with a vicious grin, “neither can the Empire!”

Belag's head snapped at once to gaze over the battle lines. His own troops had obeyed his command as best they could, falling back from the line of battle but the Legions had not pressed their attack. The front lines stood facing them uncertainly, their eyes wide. Cries of anguish erupted from behind the battle line in numerous places. All down the line, in Octian after Octian, Impress Warriors were suddenly reacting strangely. Many fell to the ground screaming. Others fell to their knees. Many of the manticores lay facedown on the ground, their knees pulled up under them and their hands stretched out in front of them.

“Think of it,” Braun said with fire in his eyes. “No Proxis to give commands or make gate symbols. No folds. No control.”

As Belag watched in amazement, the Legions of the Northern Fist dissolved before him. The well-ordered lines melted into a confused mob. The sound of sword against sword erupted among the ranks of the Imperial army as Devotion spells failed. The madness struck the Imperial ranks. The Legions were tearing themselves apart. The greater part of the elven army turned away from the battle line in a sudden panic, running to the south away from the Army of the Prophet.

“Where are they going?” Belag asked in wonder.

“Nowhere,” Braun answered with a malevolent smile.

Belag understood.

“Gradek!” he shouted.

“Here, Grahn Aur!”

“Bring all the manticore warriors to the line at once!” Belag drew his own sword and stepped forward. “We wear the armor of our ancestors. For the Honor and Pride of Chaenandria . . . today we charge!”