Lyndon Hardy - Secret Of The Sixth Magic

Some of the masters hesitated. The rebels running through their midst cut two to the ground, despite widespread arms and empty palms. Most turned to run, but a few came forward, dodging blows and scrambling to Jemidon's side. The men-at-arms formed into a disciplined line, curving around Jemidon and the others. With swords drawn and shields locked, they began to run up the hill.

Up ahead, the onrushing rebels dissolved into an undisciplined mob. Like angry bees, they swarmed onto the isolated remnants of the royal forces, hacking away at those who still stood and charging after the ones who ran for the sea. A few saw Jemidon's sprinting squad and tried to reform; but for most, their eyes were on the struggle around the royal pavilion and the glint of plundered jewels and gold. A few blows were struck in token resistance, and then the rebels backed off to attack more promising targets with smaller risks. Like a great ship sailing out of harbor, Jemidon's wedge parted through the confusion of the battle and headed up the hill.

As they grew closer, Jemidon could see Melizar's own guard become alert. About twenty men in mail, all heavily armored, formed into a line to contest the advance. Behind them were two of Melizar's manipulants, staggering in drunken circles from the heat among the metal boxes, but still managing to stir pots of tar. A third chipped away at a boulder of orange-red realgar, dropping the shards into globular molds.

At the hillcrest, Jemidon saw Melizar accept the decoupling keys from other Skyskirr as they passed through the portal. With his tinkly laugh, the pilot directed them to the boxes and watched them crawl slowly inside the massive structures twice the height of a man.

Jemidon ran his wedge into the waiting warriors. With a stash of axe and blade, his squad began hacking at limbs and crashing into upraised shields. The two men on either side of Jemidon went down, and then another on his left. As Melizar's guards surged through the opening, Jemidon bolted into the gap with a pirouette, feeling the numbing jolt of blows against the shield as he squirted past. He ducked by the slow-moving manipulants and sprinted for the ring of flame. Flinging aside the sword and shield, he grasped the changer at his waist. With grim determination, he steeled himself for the confrontation. A magician and two alchemists managed to slip around the flanks and scrambled to his side.

Melizar slowly turned, while Jemidon tensed in readiness. The metamagician gestured lo his manipulants and they stopped stirring the tar. One picked up a small pipe from the ground and whistled a short tune. Immediately, the air swirled into violent funnels. Jemidon heard strangled cries and turned to see each master spinning in a vortex, his feet off the ground and arms flung wide. Jemidon tentatively reached back to grab at one of the limbs as it spun past, but an outstretched palm slapped his own with a sting.

A bubble of panic began to form in Jemidon's stomach. He clutched at the changer and ground his teeth. Without someone to work the arts, he was powerless. Regardless of where he might shift the laws, it would do no good unless there was someone to exercise them when he was finished. He had done it again-rushed off to the confrontation without any semblance of a plan.

"So it is you." Melizar stepped back from where the djinn crackled and burned. "My misgivings were properly placed. You are far more than a bungler, one who merely adds grains of sand to the joints of my grand design. Far more than the likes of a Drandor, who gave even his skull to my other manipulants when I found him again." The Skyskirr laughed and waved his hands back toward the portal and then down to the plain. "Far more, and yet not enough. You were able to decouple the laws when my attention was distracted to my own 'hedron. But it was nothing to wrench control back from your grasp. And now it is almost finished."

Melizar pointed back at the portal. A cool breeze tainted with wisps of brown filtered through the opening. A high-frequency shriek bubbled from around the djinn's limbs. Jemidon saw the muscles twitch and tremble. Beads of dark sweat dripped onto the ground.

"A new use for the demons," Melizar said. "One that tries the strength of even the djinn. On his left side are the laws of your domain; on the right are those of mine. The shriek is their discord as they meet at the boundary in his scaly hide. But through the portal comes the refreshing breeze that allows my manipulants to shed the torpor of hibernation.

"Through it, I have received the other pilots, one by one. They tried in concert to move the laws from where I had locked them; but my sojourn here, where, except for you, there are no others, has made me strong. A mere step in the portal was enough to resist all they could try. And now, as I have commanded, they surrender their keys so their lithons might not be crashed together or stripped bare by the buffeting storms. I have conquered them all. And without the means to decouple, they are powerless. I can crush their bones and mix their marrow with common dust. They have no means to shield away the disgrace. All except for Utothoz. His lithon, curiously, does not respond. But even now my manipulant is directing the window there. I will keep it open until he can step onto the rock. It cannot take long to search, and then I will have the last of the pilots' keys."

Through the opening, Jemidon saw Ponzar's lithon grow in size in a sea of brown. Tendrils of hazy vapor snaked through the portal. He began to gag on the smell that was growing stronger even in his own clean air. Behind him, down the slope, Jemidon saw the rebels in the row of tents, pulling away the silken panels and shouting with each discovery of hidden wealth. Here and there were pockets of resistance still, a few wizards about the archmage and a company of reserves standing their ground in the surf. But the outcome was clearly decided. The battle could last only a little more time.

The whirling behind Jemidon intensified. He saw the three masters flung on a puff of wind into the nearest of the open cubes, bouncing off the walls. Then suddenly strong gusts swept him from his own feet. He felt his changer rip from his belt with the slash of an airborne knife. With no way to control his motion, he jerked across the terrain, bobbing like a butterfly, but heading unerringly for the box. With a mighty billow from the rear, he slammed into one side, head pointed toward the ground.

He saw that the cube was mounted on a small platform with legs of unequal length that provided a level base on the slope. He grabbed at the bottom edge of the cube, trying to resist the blast of air pushing him toward the opening on top, but the wind increased to a roaring gale. Churning dust mingled with the stink of the Skyskirr vapors, blinding his sight. He was stretched into a painfully thin line, feet directly overhead. The muscles in his back and shoulders knotted from the strain. He tightened his grip as best he could; but, like bark pulled from a tree, his fingers slid from the smooth surface of the cube.

In a rush, he was hurled high in the air over the top of the container. Then the gale slowed almost as abruptly as it had begun. He plunged back earthward into the gaping opening now directly beneath him.

Jemidon saw the three masters scramble out of his way as he crashed into their midst, but he paid them little heed. He jumped and grabbed the upper edge of the box, frantically swinging his leg in a wide arc, attempting to find some purchase so that he could climb back out. But the top was too high. He could not hook his foot over the edge. In final desperation, he chinned himself and looked out on Melizar's smiling face.

"The cube is an excellent idea from the practitioners of your arts," the metamagician said. "Of course, your magic no longer works. My manipulants have had to build one based on the law I have moved into its place. And the device is not quite the same. The walls are as thin and light as bread, rather than built of thick metal that cannot be moved. Each contraction is less, a few arm lengths at most and not a halving. But it is as strong and sure as the original. In the end, the result will be the same. Think of it while I go for the first feast of my victory, the marrow of the one whom your kind label as king."