True Magics (54 page)

The burning stayed, but grew no hotter. The vibration grew no stronger. The magic stopped growing in strength. Thomas opened his eyes.

In the middle of them was a cyclone of magic.

The light that spilled from it threatened to blind Thomas, even as he realized that he was probably the only one that could see it. It was whirling so fast that Thomas was sure that touching it would send him flying. He couldn’t see past it to the magicians on the other side of the circle.

“Now what?” cried Robert, fear in his voice. “It’s burning!”

“Now,” said Thomas, looking up to the sky, “we clear the streets.”

He had done weather magic before, in Frostmire; a small snowstorm that covered their escape from an ambush. Just as it had then, Thomas felt his consciousness expand, becoming one with the air around him. He felt the currents of it, tasted the water that it held. He could see every eddy and whorl of wind as it slipped through the streets of Hawksmouth. Thomas let his consciousness expand even more, until he could see the entirety of the city. He saw every building, every street. He could see the mobs attacking barricades across the outer city. He could see the troops the king had led out, carving a path to the end of the block where hundreds of Church cavalry and infantry waited just out of sight. He could see the frenzied mob outside the Academy walls pounding at the gate, nearly ready to burst through. Everywhere there was fighting, and bodies lay in the streets. The cathedral had been turned into a fortress, and the Church had a thousand more troops waiting there.

It will be a bloodbath,
Thomas realized.
No matter who wins, there’s going to be too many dead.

“Sir Walter!” called Thomas, fighting to say the words as his focus expanded even further. “Tell the king to pull back. Tell him it’s an ambush. Tell him to wait and to follow the storm.”

“What do you mean?” said Sir Walter. “What storm? There’s hardly even a wind.”

“There will be,” said Eileen, and Thomas could practically hear the smile in her voice. “Thomas is calling one.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Sir Walter turned and ran for the ladder, and Thomas was away in the clouds again, calling the winds to him.

The first to come was a small breeze. It zipped around corners and gusted into faces, catching people by surprise. Thomas followed it, directed it, and found that he could control where and when it blew. He increased the power of it, and called other breezes.

The defenders inside one barricade near the docks were nearly overwhelmed. Their royal flag was still standing, but a mob backed by trained infantry was about to overrun them. Thomas sent the wind there, making it howl through the ranks of the attackers. He made it whirl around the barricades a dozen times, driving the mob back. Then he turned his attention to the Academy.

The students were lined up behind the creaking gate. Many of them Thomas recognized from the Broken Quill. What remained of his own company stood in the front rank, rapiers ready. They were tired and bloody and not one face had any hope left in it.

Outside the gates, the mob sang and yelled for joy.

Thomas sent the wind first, strong enough to drive the mob backwards and blind them while he turned his attention to the bay. He made the wind speed up, pulling freezing salt water into the sky above Hawksmouth; more and more of it until it grew dark with towering grey-green clouds. Thomas felt the different temperatures of the air, felt how it became much, much colder as the clouds went higher. He also quickly learned that, if he sent the water high enough, fast enough, it made hail.

Rain first,
Thomas decided, and brought a deluge down on Hawksmouth.

The first drops spattered around them. Thomas redirected it, keeping it from the tower. His consciousness flew on the wind and he found Henry’s knights, battling Church cavalry in the streets. Thomas brought the rain down hard on the Church lines, the strength of it enough to bow the heads of the knights and horses alike. He brought the wind up again, lashing them backwards and taking shingles off roofs nearby. The Church cavalry struggled to hold their line. The blasts that blew around them grew to hurricane strength, racing up and down the streets and pushing the pelting rain hard enough to sting the flesh of the men fighting.

Henry’s knights managed to pull back, and as soon as they were free, Thomas reached for hail. The water from the ocean had gone up hard and fast, and the windstorm that lashed the city had sent it high into the sky again and again.

When he released the hail on the Church’s cavalry, it came in stones the size of Thomas’s fist.

Horses panicked and their riders fought to control them as hailstone after hailstone crashed down. The foot soldiers fared no better, and were soon holding their shields above their heads to protect themselves. The wind roared higher, driving the Church troops back.

And at the other end of the block, The White Wolves stood in the calm and dry, watching the Church troops retreat. Henry shouted an order and the Wolves advanced forward at a slow walk, following Thomas’s storm. The Church knights tried to form a line, but the wind drove them back, the rain blinded them, and the hailstones battered their bodies and their animals. With no other choice, they retreated.

Thomas found the king’s forces and gave the men they were fighting the same treatment. The king stood, dry and amazed, as the Church troops and their followers were beaten bloody by the hail, knocked down by the wind, and near-drowned by the rain.

He saw Sir Walter reach the king and tell him what was happening. The king passed orders and his troops rallied together. His knights harried whatever Church cavalry tried to weather the storm. His infantry followed after the Church soldiers, inflicting damage whenever they could. And from above, fist-sized hail and freezing rain and howling winds battered the Church’s forces.

Then Thomas turned the force of the rain against the men and women at the Academy gates.

In a quarter of an hour the people around the Academy had dispersed. In a half-hour, the streets of the city were empty of everyone but soldiers as the force of the storm drove people under cover. Thomas let the rain wash the streets, carrying puddles of blood into the drains and sewers and the harbour.

The Church’s soldiers tried to regroup. Thomas made the winds blow harder, the hail come down larger, forcing them back farther and farther, rendering the cavalry useless as their panicked horses tried to bolt away from the hail that slammed down on them.

Thomas was impressed that they still managed an orderly retreat.

Slowly, surely, he drove them back toward the cathedral, until all the Church’s troops were crushed together in the square. He kept the wind blowing hard and the rain pouring on the city, washing the streets free of blood and keeping the mob under cover.

The king reached the square, his horse coming to stand side by side with Henry’s. Both men looked exhausted and grim. The king shouted, “Surrender and lay down your arms!”

The Church’s men stayed where they were.

Thomas brought the full force of the storm down on them. More horses panicked as hail smashed down, rain blinded them and wind threatened to knock them over.

“If you don’t surrender,” yelled the king, “we’ll bring down lightning next!”

Oh, you shouldn’t bluff like that.
Thomas reached up into the clouds and found the lightning waiting.
Lucky, your Majesty. Very lucky.

Thomas unleashed the lightning, sending bolt after bolt down onto the cathedral’s spires.

It was enough. Soldiers threw down their weapons and shields, and dropped to their knees. Others dashed into the cathedral. Horses went mad and bucked and fought, stomping the soldiers around them.

Thomas cast his thoughts into the clouds. The hail stopped but the storm was not going to give up easily. He spread it out, letting it douse the surrounding countryside as it lost its strength. Rain even fell on the roof they were standing on, quickly soaking them all to the skin. Thomas made sure the storm would blow itself out and let the weather go. All his senses snapped back into his body and he was standing on the roof again.

The magicians around Thomas looked stunned, but no one seemed ready to collapse. All seven gaped at him with a mixture of wonder and shock. The tall man looked horrified as well, and Robert was grinning ear to ear. “That was… amazing.”

“I could feel bits of the storm,” said the fat man. “I could feel myself as part of the storm.”

“We could
feel
what you did with it,” said the tall one. “It was… frightening.”

“It didn’t touch us at all,” said one of the matrons. “I thought surely it would, but…”

Thomas walked to the battlement and looked out. The sun was breaking through, reflecting off a thousand wet walls and puddles, making the city shine.

“Did… did we kill anyone?” asked the boy.

“We stopped the fighting,” said Thomas, knowing it wasn’t an answer.

30

It was after dark and Thomas was still awake when Henry, George and the rest of the White Wolves rode up. The other magicians had talked until the exhaustion had set in. Then they’d all gone to the bunks on the third floor. Thomas fully expected to pass out, but even when the trembling took him he couldn’t sleep. He and Eileen ate instead, raiding the tower larder for bread and smoked meat and tea. Then they sat outside the door on the steps, wrapped tight in their cloaks, too tired to speak, leaning against one another for comfort. Eileen dozed once or twice, but started awake at each sound.

The streets were quiet and dark and still slick with water. The wind from the ocean smelled fresh and cold, as if the rain had washed away the smell of the harbour as well. The sky above had cleared and Thomas could see the stars.

When they heard the sound of horses’ hooves on cobblestones, they both jumped to their feet, swords in hand. The Wolves came into sight Eileen ran out to them. George practically jumped off his horse to meet her. Eileen hugged her brother so hard that George complained his armour was going to bend. He didn’t let her go, though.

Henry didn’t dismount. “The Archbishop is holed up inside the Cathedral. The king wants you to get him out.”

Of course he does.

The streets were deserted and dark. The bodies had been cleared away, and the rain had done its job, rinsing the streets of blood.
At least I did that much.

The kings troops surrounded Cathedral Square. All the buildings were occupied with soldiers, and his knights blocked all the streets leading in. The king himself was on the courthouse stairs where the students had been only days before. Sir Walter stood beside him. Thomas dismounted and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

“Thomas,” said the king. “You saved the city.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“And my army. And possibly the kingdom as well. Thank you.”

Thomas bowed again.

“The Archbishop barricaded himself inside the cathedral with three hundred men while the others were surrendering,” said the king, pointing. Thomas looked. There were bodies on the steps of the cathedral, and blood had trickled down the stairs to make pools on the cobbles. All the cathedral’s windows had broken panes, and the door had fresh scars from whatever the king’s men had used as a battering ram.

“As long as the Archbishop is in there, he’s a rallying point,” said Sir Walter. “Everyone who believes the Church is more important than the king will be ready to fight for him. And the Mother help us if other countries get wind of it. We need to end this tonight.”

“If you kill Archbishop Culverton, you’ll make him a martyr,” said Henry, who was still sitting on his horse. “And if you burn down the largest church in the country, how bad do you think the riots will be then?”

“I am open to suggestions,” said the king. He walked down the stairs to Thomas. “Can you break down the door?”

“Not by myself,” said Thomas.

“Get the others,” said the king to Sir Walter.

“Have you tried talking to them?” Thomas asked. “Can’t you convince them to come out?”

“We’ve tried,” said Sir Walter. “They aren’t speaking to us.”

Thomas’s mind flashed back to the Archbishop’s visit, and he nearly smiled.
I know this isn’t what he meant, but…
“Maybe he’ll speak to me?”

“You?” Sir Walter looked horrified. “They’ll kill you out of hand.”

“The Archbishop said I could go to him at any time,” said Thomas. “He said he would guarantee me safe entry and exit.”

“That was before the war!”

“Absolutely not,” said the king. “We need you to break open the doors.”

“No, you don’t,” said Thomas. “The others can do it. Just give them the spell books.”

The king frowned and chewed his lip.

“Please,” said Thomas. “I might be able to end this.”

“And if not?” asked Sir Walter. “If he kills you as you walk towards the door?”

Thomas didn’t have an answer to that.

The king stared out at the cathedral for an inordinately long time. The cold damp air started to creep under Thomas’s cloak and armour, and sent a shiver up his back.