High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (78 page)

“Rally everyone you can,” I ordered Terleman, who was trying to get everyone organized already.  I don’t know how many of the Kasari could swim—”

He looked at me strangely.  “All Kasari can swim.  It is required by their rites.  I just saw Captain Arborn a moment ago, organizing a field hospital.  But none of the near-drowned are Kasari.  They all swim.  Didn’t you know?”

“It’s one of a great many things I don’t know,” I admitted.  “Like how long it’s going to take for the dragon to get through the uninhabited crust of this city and make it to its populated center.”

“Three hours and forty minutes,” came the shaken, unsteady voice of Sir Festaran, who led a contingent of Bovali out of Azar’s barge.  “Assuming he doesn’t get distracted.”

“That’s not a lot of time,” I sighed.  “But it might be enough.  Particularly if we can distract him.  Get everyone formed up.  Warmagi need to figure out a way to stop that thing.  Everyone else needs to protect from –”

There was a loud explosion on the other side of the tower, near the northwest corner of the island.  A pall of flame the size of a dragon burst into the sky, leaking a smear of evil-looking smoke against the returning mists.  The entire lake had a kind of yellow haze over it.  I figured it as magical residue of the freezing process, or perhaps the desperate prayers of drowning gurvani.  The rainbows that usually formed above the city had yet to return, due to the haze.  But now there were other smokes and gasses joining it. 

“Goblins,” I finished.  “The army surrounded the island when the ice melted.  That lot got to shore – I’m sure plenty of others did, too, in other places. Including some of his priests.  Perhaps thousands.  In addition to the ones who had already infiltrated.  Get everyone in a defensive posture,” I ordered.  “Make sure you secure this harbor, in case we need a place to fall back to.  Send patrols down each of these . . . streets?”

“They kind of look like streets,” agreed Terleman, after studying them.  They only vaguely looked like streets.  Streets don’t have trees growing in the middle of them.

“Secure the area for a good distance in each direction.  Including the entrances to that tower.  If all else fails, we can retreat to there and make a stand while I figure out what to do.”

“And what are you going to do?” he asked, seriously, studying my face.  The dragon bellowed again, this time sending out a festive plume of flame to emphasize just how unhappy he was.

“I’m going to go find Aerotas,” I decided.  “He’s in charge around here, not me.”

I took my apprentices and Lorcas, just to watch my back, and persuaded my new Alka Alon friends to lead me to where their master oversaw the battle.  The city had been through a lot, and even in the few short steps it took to get inside I could see ample evidence of how it had been so poorly used.  The naturalistic facades were pockmarked by siege stones and rent by magic and dragonfire.  Anthatiel would never be fair again, and that alone was enough to make me angry about what I had to do.  This beautiful hidden city had stood unblemished under rainbows for a thousand years or more, and in the space of a few days Shereul’s minions had ruined it.

Lord Aeratas was surveying the damage below from the window, transformed into a human-sized form of great height and strength.  He bore himself regally in this form.  His long dark hair was tinged with gray at the temples, plaited into a thick braid woven with silver wire.  He sported a tiny beard across his chin, and his eyebrows were dark and pronouncedly arched.  His nose was long, thin, and jutted proudly from his face.   His eyes were a gray that matched the lake outside: dark, cold, penetrating.

Aeratas was garbed for war.  He wore a silvered breastplate that appeared to be comprised of tiny metal leaves, and he wore bright silver vambraces on his forearms and grieves on his shins.  On the railing in front of him was a simple silvered helmet shaped to appear as beaten from a single piece of metal.  A slender staff near his own height was close at hand.  A leaf-shaped blade hung from a belt at his waist.  This was an Alkan lord of great dignity and strength, profound power and wisdom.

But he was also haggard, I could see.  Though I had never laid eyes on this form before, the weariness he demonstrated in his every movement and gesture was apparent.  He had not slept – or whatever it is Alka Alon do – nor, I guessed, eaten for days while his city was assaulted.

Lady Fallawen was nearby.  She wore her own armor and bore a slender sword at her hip, but her anxiety and worry was written on her face.  Her eyes swelled when she saw me and my men, and she pulled her father’s attention away from the disintegration of his home for a moment.

“Ah, Master Minalan,” Aeratas said, stoically.  “I bid you welcome to my city, again.  And I wish to express my gratitude and thanks for your timely arrival.”

“You are my ally,” I said, simply.  “It was my duty to do so.  And also my desire.  We have struck a great blow at Shereul today.  In one battle we have destroyed an army.”

“Except for the dragon,” Lady Fallawen said, shuddering as the beast in the distance howled again. 

“Except for the dragon,” I admitted. “Two dragons, actually.  But the one on the island will be here to attack the tower in a matter of hours.  Bereft of its handlers, it will lash out strongly against the city, I fear.”

“That seems to be his goal,” Fallawen agreed, as the beast roared in the distance. 

“And still there are gurvani below,” I pointed out.  “Many thousands, perhaps. They are committing their own crimes against Anthatiel.  It will not be easy to uproot them.  I might fight against them, or the dragon, but I doubt we have the strength and resources to do both.  And certainly not two dragons. “

“My own power is waned,” he admitted, looking at his hands.  “I expended reserves I did not recall having, when I faced the dragon.”  Every time the beast howled he winced, I noted.  “My people are strong, but we have lost many.  Many more than I expected.  I had not anticipated that the gurvani forces had been . . . changed so dramatically.  Even with these strong but ungainly forms we were hard pressed.”

“Do you think you have enough strength to slay a dragon?” I asked, skeptically.

He stiffened a little.  “Magelord, had I that power I would have expended it gladly in yesterday’s contest.  As it was, many of my people died in retrieving me from the field.  I have recovered somewhat since, but only somewhat.  Another such contest before I am ready would doom me.  And likely many of my folk.”

“If you don’t have the power to stop that thing,” I said, patiently, “and I don’t, then we have little choice in the matter.”

He stared me dead in the eye.  “Are you suggesting I abandon my home?”

“There isn’t going to be much of it left, shortly.  It’s a hard thing to face.  I’ve had to do it myself,” I reminded him.  “It is never easy, but it is better to live to fight another day.  The majority of your people have already gone.  Without the siege in place, the rest can make it off the island and to some refuge.”

“And then what?” he snarled.  “Become a wandering people?  Vagabonds?  Or live on the charity and pity of our kindred?”

“You will build your strength, craft new weapons, and plan your retribution . . . and eventually reclaim your city,” I counseled.  “But only after the Mindens are cleansed of Shereul’s stain.  We have a war to fight,” I pointed out.  “The strength of Anthatiel is in her folk, not her towers.  You have saved most of them, now preserve the balance.  Take what you can and flee, else you will perish against the beast.  Or you might get lucky,” I conceded.  “It’s been known to happen.  You might get lucky and defeat one dragon.  But can you defeat two?  And would there be anything left to rule after such a contest?”

His eyes bore into mine.  I wanted to look away, and find some way to tell him that there was another option, another choice that saw his realm restored without a abandonment or a fight to the last man.  But there wasn’t.  I stared right back. 

“There are more reasons than vanity or pride for us to carefully consider before taking this course.  Leaving Anthatiel to the enemy is no mean defeat.  There are powers, here, a thousand years’ worth of collected treasures and unique items.  Not things that can be lightly abandoned.  Or easily moved.”

“This is no time to be concerned with your shell collection and your golden comb set,” Lorcas demanded.  “My lord, there are dragons at your door.  A swift retreat and a pause for reflection on the vagaries of life is recommended by the sages.”

“Humani sages,” he replied, coldly.  “You think I fear to lose mere mortal wealth, mage?  Or my title and position?  Anthatiel was built here for a reason, and not merely its aesthetics.  When my people came here there was an attraction that even purest beauty could not match.  For upon this island, within the rock, is a lode of hapaxalite.”

I stared back at him.  “What?”

“Hapaxalite,” he repeated.  “Surely you have heard of it?”

“Irionite, yes.  A few score other magical minerals, yes.  I have no idea what hapaxalite is.  Or what it does.”

“You are aware of the magosphere?” he asked, condescendingly.  That was the field that surrounded everything on Callidore, and allowed magic to manifest.  The magosphere was where we “borrowed” energy from when we made a magelight, or cast a cantrip, or did any kind of magic.  It was also where you sent magical energy when you did a spell of decrease.  It was like an endless ocean of potential power, the framework on which all magic – human, Alka Alon, gurvani – depended.  Our minds shaped the spells, and drew forth arcane energy to fuel them, but the energy we sipped with our minds (or drank by the hogshead with irionite) came from the ocean of the magosphere.

“Then you are perhaps aware of its origins,” he lectured.  “Deep within Callidore’s oceans are mighty coral reefs, upon which the Sea Folk depend.  They have always been here, within the realm of darkness.  At one point, long, long before either of our folk came to Callidore, the Sea Folk alone ruled here.  And before them, the coral they grew to depend on flourished for untold millennia.”

“I . . . appreciate the technical discussion,” I said, doubtfully.  “But what does—?”

“While some rock is torn from the bosom of Callidore and cooled,” he continued through clenched teeth, “other rocks accrue slowly over time, in layers.  Heat and pressure transform these sands and silts into rock.”

“Sedimentary rocks,” I nodded.  “Like sandstone.”

“Hapaxalite is a type of limestone made up of the sires of the great reefs,” Fallawen supplied.  “It is exceedingly rare.  It is found in only the most remote locations, and rarely in any quantity.”

“The lode beneath the foundations of this tower is nearly a ton of it,” Aeratas said, proudly.  “One of the largest ever found.  The city was built over it.”

“So why is it so special?” I demanded, before my apprentices could beat me to it.”

“It is the Ghost Rock,” Rondal, of all people, said slowly.  “I read about this . . . something in Old High Perwyneese . . .”

“ ‘Ghost Rock’?” I asked in disbelief. 

“That’s right!” Tyndal said, slapping his forehead.  “ ‘Astrada’s Legends Of The Tree Lords.  Lousy title, but . . . he mentions the Ghost Rock.  Something high up in the northern Kulines, a formation that the local tribes revere with the same devotion as a god or spirit,” he said.  “The seam was high in a cave in the mountain and was said to attract the spirits of the dead and perform wonders.”  He sounded like he was reciting in front of the entire class, not meeting with one of the most powerful Alka Alon on the council. 

“Hapaxalite can absorb patterns of energy permanently,” explained the lord patiently.  “It absorbs and retains the ennegrams like sand absorbs water.  Once they are captured by the Hapaxalite, they are recorded there . .
. forever
.  If you are knowledgeable of the proper songs, one can commune with the Hapaxalite.  It has other properties as well, both here and in the Otherworld.  The Sea Folk revere it as holy.  My people commune with it to learn secrets of lore or imprint themselves upon it.  It is a glorious collection of knowledge from the past.  And once you have taken that journey, your own enneagram remains in the stone.”

It dawned on me why Aeratas was so hesitant to abandon his city, now.  “If Shereul and his priests capture the Ghost Rock, they will have access to all of the information of the great Alkan lords of the past!”

“More,” Fallawen said, sadly.  “We were not the first to visit this vale.  The Ghost Rock has been here since . . . since . . .”

“It’s a rock,” Lorcus agreed, “It probably didn’t fall out of anyone’s pocket.”

“There is great power in the information of the Ghost Rock.  And great potential for evil.  To leave it here, unguarded, and allow Shereul’s minions to plumb its depths for yet more horrors to visit upon us would be a violation of my duties to my kindred.”

“Nor can we lightly destroy it,” Fallawen said, sadly.  “Too much would be lost.  Yet that power must not go to the gurvani.”

“I’m starting to understand that.”  Suddenly the Dead God’s fixation with Anthatiel made sense.  With the city, the Scar Lands, and the Ghost Rock hidden below it, he could unleash untold horrors upon the kingdom.  And the Alka Alon.  Taking Anthatiel was not mere vengeance or spite.  It had purpose.  Shereul was playing a long game, and while his army was mostly dead, now, he had already partially won just by eliminating the city as a power in the war.  If he could capture the Ghost Rock, then losing his grand army would be a small price to pay.  “That doesn’t really change anything.  You can stay here and guard the Hapaxalite until you get eaten by a dragon, or you can leave.  I suggest you leave.  Soon,” I emphasized, as the dragon bellowed again outside.