Kyralia 01 - [Black Magician 03] - The High Lord

  Get up, she told herself. Get up and find Akkarin!

  She rolled and scrambled to her feet. In the corner of her eye she saw Dorrien crouching nearby. Akkarin stood several strides away.

  Between her and Akkarin stood Parika.

  Sonea felt her stomach sink and twist with fear. Akkarin was not strong enough to fight an Ichani. Not even with her help, and Dorrien would make little difference.

  The air flashed as Akkarin attacked the Ichani. Parika retaliated with powerful strikes.

  “Sonea.”

  She glanced at Dorrien as he moved to her side.

  “This is an Ichani?”

  “Yes. His name is Parika. Do you believe me now?”

  He did not reply. She grabbed his wrist.

  —Akkarin is not strong enough to fight him. We have to help.

  —Very well. But I will not kill unless I am sure he is what you say he is.

  They struck together, battering the Ichani’s shield. The Ichani paused, then looked over his shoulder. His lips curled into a disdainful sneer as his gaze settled on Dorrien. Then his eyes shifted to Sonea. His sneer changed to a malicious smile. He turned his back on Akkarin, and started toward her.

  Sonea backed away. She attacked with strike after strike, but they did not stop him advancing. Flashes came from Dorrien but his efforts appeared to have no effect either. Akkarin continued pounding Parika’s shield, but the Ichani ignored him.

  Dorrien began to move away from her, and Sonea realized he was hoping to draw Parika’s attention aside. The Ichani paid him no attention. As his strikes grew more powerful, she allowed him to drive her down the road.

  Think, she told herself. There must be a way out of this. Remember Lord Yikmo’s lessons.

  She attacked Parika’s shield from all directions, and found it whole and impenetrable. She considered all kinds of false strikes and tricks she’d used in classes, but most relied on the adversary trying to save power by weakening his shield. All she could do was try to trick him into using up his strength.

  Then Dorrien stepped between her and the Ichani. Parika’s expression darkened. He stopped and sent several blasts of power at the Healer. Dorrien staggered backward, his shield wavering. Sonea hurried forward and extended her shield over his. As she did, she felt her own powers beginning to dwindle. Dorrien caught her arm.

  —He is so strong!

  —Yes, and I can’t do this much longer.

  —We have to get away. He grabbed her arm and pulled her down the road.

  —But Akkarin—

  —Is doing well enough. We can’t do anything more.

  —He isn’t strong enough.

  —Then we’re all doomed.

  Another blast shook her. She let Dorrien pull her into a run. The next strike propelled them on. She reached for more power and knew it was the last of her strength.

  As the next strike shattered her shield, she gasped. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Parika striding toward her. Akkarin was hurrying after them. She began to run.

  Then a force hit her side. She felt the air rush from her lungs and felt the ground smash into her shoulder. For a moment, she could only lie still on her back, stunned by the twin blows. Then she forced herself up onto her elbows.

  Dorrien lay several paces away, still and pale. Alarmed, she tried to stand up, but another blow sent her sprawling again. She felt the sting of a shield slide over her and her heart froze with terror. A hand grabbed her arm and pulled her to her knees. Parika stared down at her, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. She stared back in horror and disbelief.

  It can’t end this way!

  The Ichani’s shield vibrated as it was struck over and over. She glimpsed Akkarin standing only strides away, his expression terrible. The Ichani shifted his grasp from her arm to her wrist, then reached into his coat.

  As she saw the curved knife he drew out, her mind went blank with fear. She struggled uselessly. Then the pain of the blade slicing open her skin brought a memory of another cut that she had made.

  “Heal yourself,” Akkarin instructed. “Always heal yourself without delay. Even half-healed cuts are a break in your barrier.”

  She had no power left, but while she was alive, there was always a little energy left. And Healing such a small cut only took…there!

  Parika went still. He stared at her arm. The blade slowly descended and touched her skin again. She focused her will and felt the pain fade. The Ichani’s eyes widened. He cut her again, deeper, and made a disbelieving noise as the wound sealed before his eyes.

  They do not know how to Heal. She felt a moment’s triumph, but it faded quickly. She couldn’t keep Healing herself forever. She would eventually grow too exhausted even for that.

  But perhaps there was another way to turn this skill to her advantage?

  Of course there is.

  He was holding on to her wrist. Skin against skin. That made him almost as vulnerable to her Healing powers as she was to black magic. Closing her eyes, she sent her mind outward, into his arm. She almost lost her concentration as she felt the sting of another cut. Pausing only to Heal herself, she dove deeper into his body. To his shoulder. Into his chest. She felt the pain of another cut…

  There, she thought in triumph. His heart. With the last of her strength, she took hold and twisted.

  The Ichani gave a half scream, half gasp, and let her go. She fell backward and scrambled away as he fell to his knees, clutching at his chest.

  He remained frozen. Poised on the brink of death. She watched, fascinated, as his face slowly turned blue.

  “Get away from him!”

  Sonea jumped at Akkarin’s shout. He dove forward and scooped up the Ichani’s knife from where the man had dropped it. With a sweep of his arm, he slashed at the back of the man’s neck, then pressed his hand to the wound.

  Realizing what he was doing, Sonea relaxed. Akkarin might as well take Parika’s remaining power. The Ichani was going to die anyway, and he might even have quite a bit of strength left…

  Then the significance of Akkarin’s words came to her. If Parika died with magic still stored within his body, that power would consume his body and probably blast everything around it. She scrambled to her feet and backed away.

  Akkarin straightened then. He dropped the knife and let Parika slump to the ground. A few steps later he was gathering her close, his arms squeezing the air out of her lungs.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered hoarsely. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “You should have run as soon as he appeared.”

  She felt bruised and exhausted, but as Healing magic flowed from Akkarin she felt strength return. “I told you. I won’t leave you. If we die, we die together.”

  He drew back a little and looked down at her, amused. “That’s very flattering, but what about Dorrien?”

  “Dorrien!”

  He muttered a curse and turned to regard Dorrien, lying several paces away. They hurried to the Healer’s side. Dorrien’s eyes were open and glazed with pain.

  Akkarin placed a hand on the Healer’s head.

  “You’re badly wounded,” he said. “Stay still.”

  Dorrien’s eyes shifted to Akkarin. “Save your strength,” he whispered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Akkarin replied.

  “But—”

  “Close your eyes and help me,” Akkarin said sternly. “You know this discipline better than I.”

  “But—”

  “You are more useful to me alive than dead, Dorrien,” Akkarin said dryly, with a hint of command. “You can replace the strength I use to heal you later, if you wish to.”

  Dorrien’s eyes widened with understanding.

  “Oh.” He paused, then looked at Sonea. “What happened to the Sachakan?”

  Sonea felt her face warm. Using Healing power to kill seemed like the worst abuse of the discipline.

  “He’s dead. I’ll tell you later.”

  Dorrien closed his eyes. Watching cl
osely, Sonea saw color slowly come back to his face.

  “Let me guess,” Akkarin said quietly. “You stopped his heart.”

  She looked up to find him watching her. He nodded at Dorrien. “He is doing all the Healing now. I’m just supplying the strength.” He looked toward the Sachakan. “Am I right?”

  Sonea glanced at Dorrien, then nodded.

  “You said Parika would not enter Kyralia.”

  Akkarin frowned. “Perhaps he wanted revenge for the deaths of his slaves. Strong slaves are rare, and Ichani do get angry if one is killed or taken from them. It’s like losing a prize horse. I don’t know why he’d bother, though. It’s been hours since we arrived, and he must have known it would be difficult to find us once we left the road.”

  Dorrien stirred and opened his eyes. “That will do,” he said. “I feel like I’ve been smashed into small pieces, then put together again, but I’ll live.”

  He gingerly pushed himself up onto his elbows. His gaze slid to the dead Ichani. A shudder ran through him, then he looked at Akkarin.

  “I believe you. What do you want me to do now?”

  “Get away from the Pass.” Akkarin helped Dorrien to his feet. “And send a warning to the Guild. Do you have any—”

  —Lorlen!

  —Makin?

  —Strangers are attacking the fort!

  Sonea stared at Akkarin. He gazed back at her. An image of a road flashed through Sonea’s mind, seen from above. She recognized it as the road on the Sachakan side of the Fort. Several men and women, dressed in similar clothes to Parika’s, stood in a line. The air blazed with their strikes.

  “Too late for warnings,” Dorrien muttered. “They’re here already.”

  28

  The Invasion Begins

  As Cery looked around at the crowds, he felt a small pang of jealousy. The two Thieves whose territory included the Market, Sevli and Limek, were very rich men, and today it was not hard to see why. Bright sunlight glinted off an endless stream of coins passed from customers to stallholders, and a small part of that income taken in exchange for services would quickly add up to a fortune.

  A server approached the table and set down two mugs. Savara sipped at hers, closed her eyes and sighed.

  “You do have good raka here,” she said. “Almost as good as ours.”

  Cery smiled. “I ought to get some in from Sachaka, then.”

  An eyebrow lifted in warning. “That would be expensive. Not many merchants risk travelling across the wastes.”

  “No? Why is that?”

  She gestured around them. “We have nothing like this. No markets. Each Ashaki owns many hundred slaves—”

  “Ashaki?”

  “Powerful free men. Slaves provide almost everything they need. They tend the fields, make cloth, cook, clean, entertain, almost anything the Ashaki needs. If a slave has a special talent, like making beautiful pottery, or the Ashaki owns a mine or produces more of a crop than he can use, he will trade with other Ashaki.”

  “So why do merchants bother going there?”

  “If they do manage to attract a buyer, they can make a considerable profit. Selling luxuries, mostly.”

  Cery considered the cloth in the next stall. It had appeared in markets the year before, after one of the crafters had invented a way to make the surface glossy. “Sounds like there’d be no profit in Sachakans coming up with a better way to make something.”

  “No, but a slave might, if he has ambition or if he wants to be rewarded. He might try to attract attention by creating something beautiful and unusual.”

  “So only pretty things get better.”

  She shook her head. “Ways of processing or making ordinary products do improve, if the change is simple. A slave might work out a quicker way of harvesting raka if his master wanted it done faster and would beat him if he failed.”

  Cery frowned. “I like our way better. Why beat someone, when greed or having to feed a family will get a man to work smarter and faster?”

  Savara laughed quietly. “That’s an interesting view, coming from a man in your position.” Then she sobered. “I like your way better, too. Aren’t you going to drink your raka?”

  Cery shook his head.

  “Are you afraid someone will recognize you and slip in some poison?”

  He shrugged.

  “It’s gone cold now, anyway.” She stood up. “Let’s move on.”

  They walked down to the end of the row of stalls, where she stopped at a table covered in jars and bottles.

  “What is this for?”

  The vessel she had picked up held two preserved sevli, floating in a green liquid.

  “A key to the doors of delight,” the stall owner replied. “One sip and you will have the strength of a fighter.” His voice lowered. “Two, and you will experience pleasure that lasts a day and a night. Three, and the dreams you will have shall—”

  “Turn into nightmares, which don’t stop for days,” Cery finished. He took the jar from her hands and put it back on the counter. “You couldn’t pay me to…Savara?”

  She was staring into the distance, her face pale.

  “It’s started,” she said, so quietly he barely heard her. “The Ichani are attacking the Fort.”

  He felt a chill run down his spine. Taking her arm, he pulled her away from the stall and anyone who might overhear them.

  “You can see this?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The Guild magicians there are sending out mental images.” She paused, and her eyes focused beyond the market. “The first gate just fell. Can we go somewhere quiet so I can watch uninterrupted? Somewhere close by?”

  Cery looked for Gol and found his second standing nearby, eating a pachi. He signalled rapidly in the Thieves’ sign language. Gol nodded and started in the direction of the Marina.

  “I have the perfect place,” Cery told Savara. “I think you’ll like it. Ever been on a boat?”

  “You have a boat?” She smiled. “But of course you do.”

  An image of eight richly dressed men and women, seen from above, flashed into Dannyl’s mind. Each was striking at a point somewhere below Lord Makin, the magician sending the image.

  The scene shifted beyond the attackers to a crowd of men and women standing several paces behind them. They were dressed in plain, worn clothes, and some held ropes tied to the collars of small limek-like animals.

  Are these people the slaves Akkarin spoke of? Dannyl wondered.

  The scene blurred, then the attackers were in view again. They had stopped striking the Fort, and were approaching it cautiously.

  —The Captain says the first gate has been destroyed. The Sachakans are moving into the Fort. We’re heading down to meet them.

  In the pause that followed Makin’s call, the images stopped and Dannyl became aware of his surroundings again. He glanced around the room. For the last hour he had been entertained by an argument between Lord Peakin, Head of Alchemic Studies, and Lord Davin, the magician who had proposed rebuilding the Lookout. The pair were now staring at each other in dismay, their argument forgotten.

  —We are in position, Makin reported. They are attacking the inner door now.

  The image that followed was of a darkened corridor blocked by a wall of stone. The corridor vibrated with the sound of two impacts. Makin and the warriors beside him held a shield ready.

  Then the wall exploded inward. The shield was pelted with rubble, then covered by a cloud of dust. Through the haze came strikes, then another explosion battered the corridor.

  —We have attacked the Sachakans from below a false floor, Makin explained.

  Confusing images followed. Flashes of light brightened the dust beyond the shield, but revealed nothing. Then a shadow appeared in the cloud and the attack on the Warriors’ shield resumed. Two magicians staggered backward, clearly exhausted.

  —Back away. To the door.

  The Warriors retreated hastily through a set of metal doors. Makin propelled the doors shut and
used magic to draw huge bolts out of the walls to lock them in position.

  —Report, Makin ordered.

  A jumbled mix of images and messages followed.

  —Most of us are dead…I can see five…no six bodies and…

  —They’re inside the Fort! An image of a door hanging from one hinge flashed into Dannyl’s mind, then he saw a Sachakan striding down a corridor toward him.

  —Run!

  —Come back! I’m trapped!

  Hands reached through the dust. In one was a curved blade. A sense of overwhelming panic followed…then nothing.

  Names of the Warriors were called, as friends and family in the Guild ignored the ban on mental communication. A confusion of mental voices followed.

  —Please be silent! Balkan called above the panic. I cannot help them if I cannot hear them. Makin?

  An image of the metal doors cut through the other magicians’ communications. They were glowing red, filling the corridor with heat. Slowly the center melted away.

  —Back, Makin ordered. Behind the wall. Let them waste their strength.

  The Warriors hurried past a wall half blocking the corridor. They gathered beyond it. The stone slab slowly began to move. It slid across to slot into a gap in the wall. There was a heavy thump as a mechanism within the side walls fell into place.

  The magicians waited.

  —If they get through this, Makin sent, we hit them with everything we have left.

  Mental calls from other magicians punctuated the tense silence of the corridor. Dannyl winced as, one by one, the three remaining magicians in the Fort were killed.

  Then, without warning, the stone wall erupted. The Warriors had let their shield drop to save their strength. Makin’s communication wavered as something struck his temple, but strengthened again when he spared himself a little Healing power. He joined with those who had thrown up a shield, then glanced around to see that two of the Warriors lay on the floor.

  The attack on their shield was no weaker than before. The Warriors staggered backward as each succumbed to exhaustion. Makin felt an awful disbelief as his own strength failed. The shield shattered, and two more magicians fell to strikes.