Warrior (The Key to Magic) (6 page)

"When did this take place?"

"Two days ago."

"Who was left in charge?"

"Commander-of-Legions Shrenko."

"I do not know him."

"He's been on Plydyre for just five days.  The only thing that we could find out about him is that he came from the monastery on Khikhos."

"Sounds familiar, but I cannot place it."

"The island is only half a league across at its widest.  It's southeast of Chrontyn Point, about sixty-five leagues.  As far as we have been able to find out, the monks there are mostly scholars and academics, not armsmen."

"But Shrenko is a Salient?"

"Yes.  He has the tattoos."

"How old is he?"

"Only one member of our group has seen him.  She said he looks about seventy."

"Another pensioner?"

Nalhe nodded vigorously.  "That's what we think."

Over the last fortnight, word had begun to reach Aerlon that many of the senior veteran Phaelle'n commanders were being transferred off the island.  Their replacements were either young men with recent promotions or much older ones recalled from retirement.  It had also been learned that a number of these replacements were not actually trained in the military arts.

"So Zhijj has only three thousand men to defend it and a geriatric commander."

"Exactly!  Chrontyn wanted me to tell you in person that our group is ready to support any action that you might take."

Aerlon was spared the need to make an instant reply by the return of Wilhm, this time empty-handed.

"I have a message," the young giant told Aerlon.

"Please recite it."

Wilhm could memorize in precise detail anything spoken or written.  He had also demonstrated an uncanny ability to mimic any speaker, and when he spoke, the voice that came from his mouth was that of Lord Hhrahld.

"Coirneal Aerlon, greetings and salutations.  Having received your request for a report, please allow me to inform you that we have in custody six hundred and eighty-one prisoners of all ranks.  Once all of the officers and fuglemen had been apprehended, a good number of the rank and file simply saw the light of reason and presented themselves for surrender.  However, I must report with some shame that the remainder of the legion has eluded our efforts and fled into the night, nearly all abandoning their weapons and armor.  While a portion of the prisoners have injuries, none of these, as per your instructions, are life-threatening.  I eagerly await your wishes on the disposition of the prisoners.  Hhrahld, Prince-Protector of Mhajhkaei."

Aerlon turned straightaway to Captain Lyral.  "Change of plan.  Move your troop at quickmarch down into the camp and take charge of the prisoners.  Have 2nd Troop assist and send an order in my name to Mehhglendt.  He is to establish a defensive line across the Zhijj road in a formation that will allow the Volunteer Brigade to advance without delay."

Swinging back to Nalhe, he told him, "Tell Chalor that I want your group to take no overt action.  I will need information on Phaelle'n movements while I advance toward Zhijj and any attempts at mischief on your part would disrupt your ability to gather and dispatch it to me."

"Magician-Pilot Thorbhist," Aerlon continued, "as soon as you deliver Nalhe, I want you to contact Coirneal Relvhm's squadron.  The skyships will be off the western reef of Niamp Isle.  Inform him that I request immediate reinforcement for an assault on Zhijj."

Although two-thirds of his transport vessels were tows, Relvhm's Skyship Corps of five thousand mainly Khalarii legionnaires was the first fully air mobile unit in the Imperial Army.  If the monks came out from Zhijj to meet Aerlon's advance in open field battle -- which is exactly what the Plydyrii officer expected them to do given their more than two to one numerical advantage over his own irregular force -- the Skyship Corps could easily land behind them.  Two of Relvhm's skyships also boasted a battery of polybolos.  The Phaelle'n commander would have the choice of attempting a perilous fighting withdrawal through Aerlon's battle line, a humiliating surrender, or the purposeless destruction of his command.

Of course, all of Aerlon's calculations presupposed that the Shrikes would not return.  If they did, those three no-win choices would be reversed.

But risk was a part of war and if he did not strike now, it might be months or even years before he again had the chance to lift the curse of Phaelle'n rule from any of the people of Plydyre

Throughout the winter, his forces had harried the monks as often as they could, burning supplies, overwhelming small garrisons, ambushing civil administrators, and seizing supply trains.  While he had never expected his efforts to raise an open revolt, he had been severely frustrated by the fact that so few of his fellow Plydyrii had sought to join his cause.

"The monks are sorcerers," he had been told time and again.  "No normal man can fight a sorcerer."

If he succeeded and freed Zhijj, if only for a short time, then all of Plydyre would have proof that sorcerers could indeed be defeated by normal men, albeit with the Gods sent aid of righteous magic.

SIX

17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 324th Day of Glorious Work

Year One of the New Age of Magic

(Fourteenthday, Waning, 2nd Springmoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)

Palace of the High Princedom of the Bronze Archipelago

Port
of Bhaestryndt, Plydyre

In his first decade in the fraternity, Brother Schmrid'lh had aided the Work as a far talking disk operator.  Such was the importance of the message that he had decided to pass on the plea from Zhijj in person. 

With a warm sun slanting through the lattice to paint the hexagon patterned blue tiles of the floor and the rich russet paneling of the interior wall with an eye confusing grid of yellow, dusty light and cold, clear shadow, Schmrid'lh scurried along the screened balcony toward the room in which the far talking disk operators were stationed.

Brother Or'm, his deputy, walking just to his left said, "The world, it seems, feels no obligation to reflect the dire nature of our situation."

Brother Or'm was a poet in his spare time and a melancholy one at that. A Preceptor, Or'm, similar to Schmrid'lh, had been reassigned from inconsequential subordinate duties to replace a Salient officer transferred to unspecified duty on the continent.  Or'm had expressed his reaction to the promotion in a metaphorical  -- or perhaps allegorical, Schmrid'lh was not sure which term actually applied -- poem that he had entitled
Flotsam left Adrift in the Gathering Storm
.

"How is that, brother?" Schmrid'lh asked.

The other waved a hand to stir the dust motes adrift in the shafts of sunshine.  "It should at least be overcast."

One of the four Salients guarding the entrance stepped in to pull open the thick door as they arrived.  That guards must be posted to protect Holy Relics even here in the heart of the Brotherhoods primary bastion on Plydyre was another worrying sign of the decline in the fraternity's power.

Like many of the rooms of the richly furnished palace, murals in a highly realistic style framed with sculpted plaster greenery covered the walls.  The majority of these murals were innocuous scenes of idyllic noble pursuits, but the ones in this room portrayed a number of nude maidens frolicking provocatively in ocean waves.  While it may have once contained a sumptuous bed and couches suitable for illicit rendezvous, now there were only a large table, a few utilitarian chairs, the operators, Brothers Kha'ct and Thalmaenoghal, and their Relics.

"The connections have been made to Mhevyr, Sub-Deacon," Brother Kha'ct, the senior operator, informed Schmrid'lh as he rose.

Taking Kha'ct's vacated chair at the table, Schmrid'lh made the sign of the Tripartite.  "Your diligence is an honor to the Duty, brother."

The other bowed.  "We all seek the Restoration, brother."

Schmrid'lh placed his palms to either side of the turquoise oval Holy Relic and slipped easily into the meditative state that would allow his moderate Ability, a not insignificant one and one-quarter, to interact with the spells of the device.   Though it had been years, he found no difficulty in establishing a rapport with the magic and toggled the spell -- which gave him a mental image of a flaming icicle -- that would allow him to transmit his voice.

"Sub-Deacon Schmrid'lh, Chief Coordinator of Plydyre, based at Bhaestryndt, speaking.  Request personal communication with Director of Forces Whorlyr. This matter has Prime One emergency priority."

After a few seconds, the reply whispered from the disk. 
"Message received.  Stand by."

It was a full twenty minutes before Schmrid'lh felt the Relic activate again.

"Brother Whorlyr now present.  Convey message."

"Salient Brother Shrenko, commanding the legions at Zhijj, has reported that an attack on the city by a large force is underway.  I repeat -- an attack on the city is underway.  Enemy force is composed of Plydyrii rebels supported by minions of the Apostate.  He requests that a covey of Shrikes be sent in immediate support."

"Message received.   Stand by."

This time, Schmrid'lh only had to wait a moment.

"Director of Forces grants permission for you to dispatch the Shrikes at your disposal."

Schmrid'lh sighed heavily.  The two combat coveys normally stationed on Plydyre had all been withdrawn without explanation after the Apostate's latest attack.  Only four flying craft remained on the island.  One had suffered a total spell failure and had crash-landed in a lake outside of Bhaestryndt.  Though the brethren of the College of Archivists had succeeded in raising the pieces of the Holy Relic and transporting them back to the city, they did not believe that it could ever again be made to fly.  The other three, all with various deficiencies and defects in their magical systems, had been relegated to cargo and passenger transport because they had been rated unfit for combat.  The flight of one was so erratic that it had been restricted to trips of only a few leagues.

Choosing his words with care, lest he unwisely express the anger that he felt at the sheer idiocy of the reply that he had received, he spoke again into the disk. 

"None of the Holy Relics that remain here can be made combat ready in time.  I request the dispatch of others to support Brother Shrenko."

This time, the reply was immediate. 
"Director of Forces indicates that all Shrikes are currently assigned to vital missions.  None can be made available.  No further message."

"Message received.  No further message."  Schmrid'lh sat unmoving for a brooding moment and then stood up.

Or'm, with quite the hangman's expression, asked, "Shall I order our airworthy Shrikes to Zhijj?"

"No."  Schmrid'lh had to keep the two airworthy Holy Relics close so that they could be used to evacuate Bhaestryndt -- not if but when the time came. 

"The Work often requires sacrifice."  He turned to Brother Kha'ct.  "Contact Zhijj.  Tell them that no assistance will be forthcoming."

SEVEN

143rd Year of the Reign of the City

(Fourteenthday, Waning, 2nd Springmoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)

West of Zhijj, Plydyre

Under a strident mid-afternoon sun and a flag of truce flapping from a trimmed green sapling driven into the ground, Aerlon, with Mehhglendt just to his right, stood in the center of a plowed field, facing Commander-of-Legions Shrenko and his second in command across a distance of two paces.  Beyond the monks, Aerlon could readily see the grounded shields of the entire front of the defensive square that the three sallying Phaelle'n legions had formed when Relvhm's Skyship Corps had swooped from the sky to cut them off from the city.  Just fifty yards separated the three thousand Phaelle'n and the encircling Imperial forces. Overhead, Relvhm's flagships, the
Pju
and the
Khas'thga
, each named for one of the warrior godlets, made slow orbits, both standing by to unleash the magical fury of sand spheres on the trapped Phaelle'n.

The first thing that Aerlon had noticed about his counterpart was the complexity of the Salient tattoos that surrounded the man's eyes and spread to cover his shaven head.  Though Aerlon could not decipher them, he knew that many of the additions to the basic design signified combat victories.

Shrenko was clearly not some library crawling academic, but a field tested officer.  It was said -- and Aerlon's experience had given him no reason to doubt -- that the fanatical Black Monks would die to the last man rather than admit defeat. 

But this one was also wizened, wrinkled, and worn.  Hobbled by aged joints, he walked with a cane and the much younger but also heavily tattooed Commander-of-Cloisters that accompanied him hovered close as if at any moment he might need to steady Shrenko.

Determined to conform precisely to established military convention, Aerlon kept his expression neutral as he came to attention and made the Imperial salute.  Shrenko, much to his surprise, straightaway returned it.  Such military courtesies were not commonly used by the monks and as Aerlon could detect no contempt in the monk's stance, the gesture appeared to be a sincere expression of respect.

"Greetings, I am Coirneal Aerlon Rhe, commander of Imperial forces on Plydyre.  My aide is Maidsear Mehhglendt."

Shrenko examined first Aerlon and then Mehhglendt with half-lidded eyes, paying obvious attention to the Imperial blazon on Aerlon's armor and the scraps of orange and silver cloth that the fisherman had tied into bows on his own right shoulder.  Orange and silver were the colors of an ancient princely house of southern Plydyre that had been overthrown by that of the current puppet prince.  No scion or cadet of the ancient house survived, but Mehhglendt had told Aerlon that if you were going to topple one prince, you would need to have another to put in his place, even if you had to invent one.