Warrior (The Key to Magic) (8 page)

"My lord king, a courier has just arrived from Plydyre," the woman announced without preamble.  "Coirneal Aerlon has captured Zhijj and is moving toward Plyd with Coirneal Relvhm in support.  He says that the forces of the Brotherhood are falling back in disarray.  He awaits your pleasure."

Grinning in sudden savage glee, Mar rose up into the air.  "Subaltern, you and the rest will have to make your own way back to the Palace.  I'm flying back!" 

NINE

143rd Year of the Reign of the City

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

Near Mhajhkaei

Before he climbed down from the wagon, Ghorn shook the farmer's hand. "Thank you again for the ride, Czlemheng."

"You are much welcome, Brendnt.  Though I was only following the strictures of the goddess, I did welcome the company." 

Czlemheng, a middle-aged man with the weathered complexion of someone who had spent the majority of his life working in the fields, was a devout follower of Thiallia, Goddess of Compassion, and had readily stopped to offer the trudging Ghorn a ride.  Ghorn had traveled with the farmer on his grain burdened wagon for twenty-five leagues, helped him tend to the mules in the evenings, and listened to his copious stories about his seventeen grandchildren.  As far as Ghorn could see, Czlemheng's kindness and generosity were not simply a result of slavish compliance with religious doctrine, but were genuine foundations of his character.

"When I am able," Ghorn told the farmer from the ground, "I will send presents to your grandchildren."

"Oh, no worry about that.  You owe me nothing for the ride.  I pray that the Forty-Nine grant you an easy journey to this distant island that you spoke of.  Now, I'm off.  I must make the factor's warehouse before dusk or they won't want to unload the corn until tomorrow."   With a final wave, Czlemheng cracked the reins and the eight mules lumbered off the pavement of the coastal highway and onto the packed clay of the side road.

Ghorn turned east and continued walking, moving easily into the ground covering stride that had carried him day after day for nearly four hundred leagues.   It was still almost a third of a league to the Ice River and then another ten after that to Mhajhkaei, but the nearness of The Greatest City in All the World leant extra vigor to his legs.

Here along the western bank of river, the highway followed a low, stony ridge that ran more or less parallel with the shoreline a league and a half to the south, giving it broad, sweeping curves that would not have concerned a wagoner but caused him considerable grumbling.   Impatient, he left the pavement as required to chart a more or less straight course toward his goal, the remains of the Grand Bridge at the Bottleneck Narrows, and determinedly cut across fruit groves, woodlots, and turnip fields to shorten his path.

His imminent homecoming did not ease the burning purpose that drove him.  Mhajhkaei was only another waypoint on his journey.  He still had the many long days of a sea voyage ahead of him.  Over the last few days as the city neared, he had felt the temptation to tarry in his liberated home and to reveal himself to friends and foes alike, but the old man had made it clear that any deviation from the events that he had foretold would irrevocably and negatively alter what must come to pass.

Nearer the river, Ghorn had to hold exclusively to the highway in order to make use of the bridges, some the original imperial stonework and many wooden replacements, over the numerous fingers of the massive river's estuary.  In the main, the elevated ridge remained intact, acting as a causeway, but the river had often carved its way through in past millennia and as he got closer to the main channel, these gaps grew wider and the bridges that crossed them grew longer. 

Here, also, he began to encounter more traffic. 

No wagons, of course, for those all had to use the ferries or unload, like farmer Czlemheng, at warehouses on this bank.  In the golden days of the Empire, the highway had crossed the wide main channel of the Ice unbroken, but the Great Flood had carried away the two center spans of the Grand Bridge forty years before Ghorn had been born.  Now, only foot traffic and hand carts could cross using a cable bridge that swung between the orphaned standing sections.

Most of the pedestrians were men, peddlers, itinerant tradesmen, or dust worn travelers such as Ghorn with no obvious profession, though an occasional couple escorting children or multi-generational family group walked from a side road to join the flow.  These last were likely going to join family on the heavier populated eastern bank for the remembrance festivals that were common in the smaller towns at this time of year.

Most of the land to the west of the river was held by large agricultural estates owned by various merchant houses.  Those and the commercially oriented towns on the western bank that served them offered plentiful opportunities for employment, thus attracting many from the opposite side of the river.  East of the waterway were fens and marshes where only a few fisher folk lived, but many bustling villages lay on the higher ground closer to the city.  The Empire had retired its legions in that area and to this day the small plots of land were dearly held by the same families.

The highway rose as it neared the head of the Grand Bridge and the vista of the broad and slow waters of the Ice came fully into view.  Ghorn had seen the great river on untold occasions from hundreds of perspectives, but this time the sight of the mighty course lifted his spirit in a way that a long journey finally ended only could.

There were a number of surprises awaiting him, however. 

Having learned something of the current state of affairs in Mhajhkaei from Czlemheng and a number others that he had encountered along his trek, he knew that the monks had abandoned the city under threat of siege, but it had not occurred to him that Mhiskva, in a scant few months, could have so rebuilt Mhajhkaeirii'n forces that armsmen would be available to establish a guard post here in the environs, ten leagues from the walls. 

Moreover, the post itself appeared permanent, with a newly built red brick building on the bridge ramp whose massively thick, sloping walls were clearly designed to fend off attack from
above
.    At least a score legionnaires in matched armor and crisp livery sporting the royal colors were in sight, two quads monitoring the traffic across the bridge, another quad keeping
aerial
watch atop the post building, and the remaining armsmen drilling under the tutelage of a fugleman.  A number of equally well-outfitted marines were on duty on two thirty-armlength flying launches moored to wooden platforms that cantilevered from the two sides of the bridge.  The two launches mounted machines that must be Berhl's perfected polybolos.  Another identical war machine sheltered in a brick revetment adjacent to the fortified building.

Ghorn made sure that his clinical inspection of the bridge defense did not draw attention as he joined the queue that moved more or less unhindered between the monitoring quads, but even so, a tall, helmeted ceannaire approached him and waved him out of the line.

"Sorry, sir, I don't recognize you as part of our regulars, so you'll have to answer a few questions before we can let you cross."

Ghorn shrugged in a casual fashion, though inwardly he had a concern.  His plan for concealment required that he remain just another face in the crowd.  Outwardly remaining meekly compliant, however, he followed the legionnaire a few paces away from the queue, noting that the chosen spot placed both of them only a sharp glance away from the other guards.

Ghorn's clothing -- homespun garments and old boots earned by helping a widow repair the dry stone wall enclosing a sheep pasture -- was nondescript enough that he had not considered that he would have any difficulty crossing the bridge.  He thought it unlikely that any of these armsmen, none of whom he had previously met, would recognize him in his current mean state -- long hair, full beard streaked with white, and much leaner frame -- but there was always the chance that the unlikely would occur.  His anonymity was vital to his mission.

Happily, the legionnaire's demeanor suggested nothing out of the ordinary.  "I'm Ceannaire Qdyre.  We've standing orders to screen for Phaelle'n saboteurs. I'll need your name, origin, and destination."

"I am Brendnt.  Most recently I hale from W'aeldhinmyeor. I am going to Mhajhkaei."

"Where's W'aeldhinmyeor?"

"It's a small village about forty leagues west of here."

"What's your business in the city?"

"I'm going to seek a berth on a merchant vessel."

"You're a sailor?"

"I was some time ago.  I thought that I would try my hand at it again."

Qdyre looked Ghorn up and down in an estimating fashion.  "You're thirty or so?"

"Thirty-eight." He was actually forty-one and had shaved the years to avoid even the most unlikely association with the Prince-Commander of Mhajhkaei.

"You look fit enough, but you might be a bit on the older side to try to hire on as a rower or a deck hand.  That's hard, back-breaking work.  From the look of your wrists, I'd say that you've been an armsmen as well?"

"I did put in a few years with the sword, yes."

"Ever had rank?"

"A time or two."

"Have you thought about service to the Empire?  Right now there's a big demand for experienced ceannaires and fuglemen."

"I have taken the Vow of Eternal Peace to the Goddess Thiallia." 

This pledge was a complete fabrication, or, at least, it was as far as Ghorn knew.  Fortunately, the incomprehensible spectrum of the myriad variations of religious practice meant that very few people had more than a vague conception of the tenants of any deity other than their own.  This was especially true of the minor, mostly obscure Thiallia.

"So, I guess that means you've sworn off fighting?"

"Yes."

"Well, I respect that.  Not saying that I understand it, but to each his own.  You've traveled from the west, you said?"

"Yes.  Mostly along the highway."

"See any Phaelle'n?  There're still reports of stragglers."

"The Black Monks? No, not as such."

"How's that?"

"I saw no armsmen and no one with the tattoos, but not all the monks have the tattoos."

"That's a keen observation.  A lot of common folks don't know that."

"I sailed the Archipelago a good bit when I was young."

"Is that right?  Know anything about the Near Islands?"

"Some," Ghorn hedged.  The Near Islands were just twenty-five leagues off the coast of Mhevyr.

"Would you be willing to talk with an officer of the Scout Corps?"

"What's the Scout Corps?"

"It's a new division of the Imperial Army.  They find out things, mostly by going and looking, but sometimes by just asking.  Right now they've circulated a request to talk to people who know anything about the northern part of the Archipelago."

"I suppose I could, as long as it did not take very long.  I still have a good distance to go and I would like to make it beyond the fens so that I don't have to sleep on the ground tonight.  Where is your scout officer?"

"Well, that's the thing.  You'd have to talk with one of them in the city, but here's the trick.  In half an hour, one of the packet boats is heading in to pick up supplies and to hand in reports.  I can make arrangements for you to go in with it.  It'd save you a lot of walking and your information might help with the war effort."

Though eager to accept, Ghorn crossed his arms to project uncertainty and glanced over at the nearest launch.  A display of familiarity with the flying craft and a too quick acceptance of the ceannaire's offer might arouse suspicion. 

"The flying boat?  Is it safe?"

"As safe as walking unless one of the Phaelle'n skyships come along.  Then it's not so good.  Subaltern Pyn is taking this run though, and he can maneuver better than most."

"Oh.  Well, is there much chance of that?  An attack by the monks?"

"Not much.  The king has their skyships busy around Plydyre, or so the barracks talk says.  Anyway, none have been seen around Mhajhkaei in over two months."

Ghorn smiled.  "In that case, I'd be glad of the ride."

Qdyre nodded. "Come along then."

As they crossed to the launch, Ghorn said, "I will be sure to mention your name in the city."

"No need of that."  The ceannaire turned out his right palm to show a Blood Oath scar.  "I'm sworn to the king and I'm just following my duty."

Qdyre trotted up the boarding ramp and saluted a subaltern chatting with two marines.

"Subaltern Pyn, I've another fellow that has agreed to talk to the Scouts.  Could you take him on into the city when you go?"

The marine officer, a young man with a plump, freckled face and light hair, smiled pleasantly at Ghorn.  "Won't be a problem.  We've plenty of room going in, but if you're coming back with us, we won't be able to allow you much baggage."

Though not thick, the officer's accent was clearly Plydyrii.  Several times on his journey, Ghorn had overhead people commenting on the newly cosmopolitan nature of the Imperial armies.

Ghorn smiled in return.  "No, I will not need to return."

"He's off to make a sailor," Qdyre supplied.

"The Imperial Marines are recruiting," Pyn mentioned with considerable enthusiasm.  "A skyship is a much better berth than a galley.  I sailed on a fishing scow out of Zhijj for two years and I promise you that you won't regret taking to the air."

Ghorn smiled again and repeated the pretext that he had given to Qdyre.  The fact that both Qdyre and Pyn had urged service to the Empire could only mean that both expected the war against the Brotherhood of Phaelle to heat up soon.

Pyn was not as easily put off, however.   "You could still sign on with a trading skyship.  That would be just the right place for a man with your convictions.  In my opinion, wet sailing will be all but gone in a few years.  Seaborne ships just won't be able to compete.  There's a big cargo skyship that just lifted off the blocks at Mhajhkaei and it has started taking on crew.  Her captain is an acquaintance of my father's and if you like I can have a word with him."