Lyndon Hardy - Secret Of The Sixth Magic

As he bounded over the terrain, Jemidon saw the royal flank farthest from the sea crumple and dissolve. A group of bondsmen swung with blades rather than with scythe and flail, trading the thrusts of the men-at-arms blow for blow. Because of their superior number, they had forced the corner back.

Jemidon frowned at what he saw. Most of the rebels' swords appeared to be made of wood. Only about one in ten was true steel. But all the weapons, metal or not, were clanging off the soldiers' shields as if they were of the finest temper. As Jemidon watched, one slipped underneath a slowly dropping guard and crashed against links of mail, popping ringlets and spewing blood.

"I would call the law something like 'same shape, same function,' " Jemidon shouted over his shoulder. "No doubt Melizar's replacement for thaumaturgy provides his minions with more than harvest tools." He glanced at another spot where the freetoilers had broken through and saw women and children behind the fighters, lofting blobs of a purple tar onto the backs of the men-at-arms. Everywhere it touched, the metal glowed red. Drops of molten iron sputtered to the ground. Burning sizzles mixed with howls of pain.

"Something to do with alchemy," Jemidon said as he signaled for a halt some twenty yards behind the struggling fighters. "Perhaps 'the base drives away the good.' No matter. I count no more than a score of each. Thaumaturges and alchemists, try examples of your craft. Work more of your magics than they. The others assist as best you can."

While the masters exercised their skills, Jemidon emptied the coins from the changer into his palm. Quickly he sorted through the collection and reinserted them in the slit in top. He held his breath as he fingered his old worn brandel last and saw it slip away. Working the five levers one by one, he emptied the sorted coins back into his hand.

Jemidon felt the familiar tension of the parting rope and imagined the creak of the fibers as they strained to breaking. For a moment, the line groaned and twisted, but then suddenly it was slack.

Jemidon frowned as he reloaded the changer. There was resistance. As Ponzar had said, metamagicians could struggle over the state of the coupling. Jemidon cast a hasty glance in the direction of the hilltop. It was too far to see more than the Skyskirr's outline, but he felt his presence nonetheless.

Jemidon grasped the changer tightly. He tried to visualize the rope again growing taut. Mentally, he tugged on the line, straining against a force he could not quite comprehend. He placed his feet wide apart and arched his back, swinging both fists to the side. Then he tried to bring himself erect, imagining the rope tied to his collar and tugging him from behind. His muscles tensed and then trembled from the effort. With eyes closed, oblivious to the noise and swirl of battle, he brought his arms forward and then his head. In his mind he saw the rope spring tight and, with a snap, burst in twain.

"Look at that!" a thaumaturge exclaimed. "The incantation works, the one that has failed ever since the craft went away. I feel the prick in my own arm, just as I have stabbed the doll."

"And sweetbalm," an alchemist said. "Only a trace, but the healer of wounds, nonetheless."

Jemidon turned to watch a wooden sword splinter on a downsweep. Farther away, a glob of tar solidified in midflight and bounced harmlessly from a shield. A great cry of confusion went up from the pressing rebels. The men-at-arms answered with a cheer. With tired arms, they held back the attack, for an instant stopping the onrushing momentum.

Jemidon smiled. "Perhaps we should try for the other two crafts as well," he said. "A simple ritual like the Neophyte's Cadence; and for sorcery we can use the Song of the Shifting Sands, just as Canthor did. Send someone back to the dunes and-"

Jemidon stopped and clutched the changer. He felt the hint of a tug and then a growing strain. He jammed his fingers under the levers, cradling the device close to his chest. A dull pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes and sank to his knees, curling into a ball. Walls of force around his mind seemed to ripple and tear apart into sinuous tendons. Like stubby fingers in massive gloves, they probed his thoughts, sending numbing jabs into deep recesses of his awareness. He felt his hands twitch on the changer and then, with an involuntary spasm, his left hand fell away, trembling with fatigue. In his mind he saw the coarse fingers surrounding him, fumbling with his own, prying them loose and pushing them aside.

Almost in helpless fascination, his other hand hurled free. A shower of coins tumbled into his lap. Simultaneousty, he felt the laws decouple and accelerate away. With a rush, they sped to the next vertex in the lattice, back to where wooden swords and obnoxious tars held power, but they did not stop there. Like a peg counting score in a card game, the fabric of existence plowed onward, taking the laws several more steps away.

"Catapults," Jemidon heard someone suddenly yell. "They are using the siegecraft. Hurling missiles on friend and foe alike."

Jemidon shook himself out of a daze to see stones streaking across the sky. In a heavy shower of gravel, colorful pebbles and rocks cascaded down upon the line of fighting. Like hailstones hitting a slanted roof, they bounced from upraised shields and skittered across the ground. A few careened in Jemidon's direction and he saw the pale green of epidote crystals, not individual rocks, but conglomerates of smaller pebbles loosely held together by a sticky glue.

Jemidon felt the laws recouple. Instantly he realized what would happen next. "To cover," he yelled, "and stay away from the rock!" He glanced about quickly and dove for a small hummock that he hoped would be free and clear of the deadly rain. And as he did, in a series of loud pops all down the battle line, the grenades exploded into jagged shrapnel and high-velocity shot. Small missiles propelled apart from one another whistled through the air, tearing through flesh and ricocheting from metal that stood in its way. Men and maces, shields and swords, shirts of mail and leather vests, all danced along the ground, battered back and forth by the blows that struck from all sides. In an instant, the discipline of the lighting line vanished into a pool of wounded and dying men.

For a moment, the rebels in the rearmost rows were silent when they saw the carnage in front. But they quickly realized that now only a few remained to oppose them, isolated men who staggered dazedly among the bodies of their fallen comrades. With a triumphant yell, the rebels clambered over the bodies and headed for the wizards who still directed their imps with harassments from above.

Jemidon staggered to his feet. The battlefield was dissolving into a rout. Some of the wizards bravely stood their ground, concentrating on the demons they commanded, while others kicked over their fires and bolted back toward the sea. A flurry of pages exploded from the royal pavilion. Knocking shoulders, they jostled the king and the high prince on jeweled litters, tugging against one another which way to go.

Jemidon looked up the hill. Melizar was still framed in the arch of fire. But he saw others as well. Coming out of the red background beneath the demon's span were more Skyskirr with heads bowed and moving slowly toward the metal boxes.

"To the metamagician. He still is the key," Jemidon shouted, "Charge through the confusion of the rush. There is nothing left but to confront him as best we can."

Jemidon ran forward and picked up a shield from the ground. He ducked to the side to avoid the downswipe of a rebel racing past. Scrambling on hands and knees, he retrieved a sword. Just in time, he parried a blow that sent steel grating down his blade to the hilt. "Masters, rally to me," he yelled. "Men-at-arms, ready your weapons and coalesce the craftsmen into a group. Isolated, they are certain to fall."