A Magic of Dawn (81 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Dawn
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Then he was
there,
on the ground and standing not far from Varina. He heard her gasp and call his name—“Nico?”—but there was so much energy here that he could barely hear for the buzzing of it. The Second World seemed to gape open in the sky above him, a cold fire, the frigid power of the Ilmodo pouring down. He could feel them all pulling at the energy above him: the war-téni, the heretics, the spellcasters of the Tehuantin, even those across the A’Sele in the city. He could feel the power stored in the spell-sticks of the Tehuantin, in the minds of the Numetodo.
All of them channeled the Ilmodo from the Second World where Cénzi still lived.
Nico felt vast. He could stretch out his fingers and touch the threads of all of their connections to the Ilmodo; he could pull on them, take them for himself . . .
So he did.
It wasn’t a conscious movement. He acted as if someone else had control of his body, without volition. He heard himself saying words he couldn’t comprehend, felt his hands moving in patterns he had never used before.
Cénzi?
But if it was Cénzi, there was no answer.
He shouted the final words, made the final gesture. He snatched the cords of power that tied the Westlanders to the Second World, but he left that of the téni and even the Numetodo alone. He stood on the battlefield with his arms wide, and the Second World took him as it never had before.
He had never felt so full of the power of the Ilmodo. It filled him, burning and too dangerous to handle for more than a breath. He took it all in, breathed in the gift of Cénzi, and exhaled it again, shouting.
What do I do with this?
he asked Cénzi, and he heard the answer:
Do what you should do . . .
The wave of energy pulsed out from him, radiating westward and north along the line of battle. Where it touched, the Tehuantin were thrown back, flung wildly backward into their own ranks. They toppled like game pieces swept aside by an angry hand.
The warrior riders about to slay Varina and her companions were taken in the storm, both steeds and riders hurled away. “Go!” Nico told them. “This is Cénzi’s Gift!” His voice was that of Cénzi; it roared, a thunder that could be heard all along the lines. “Go!”
And it was over. The threads of power snapped; the Second World shut with a deep thunder. A terrible exhaustion filled him, so overpowering that he couldn’t stand. His legs gave way, and he collapsed into cold darkness.
 
“Let them come across,” Tototl said. “Once they’re in the boulevard, they’ll be easy targets and we’ll hit them from all sides at once.”
The tactic had worked initially. The Easterners used their spells as the sun rose; Niente told the nahualli to let them waste their energy even though they could have easily countered them all with the spells in their spell-staffs. The warriors drew back, abandoning the catapult. Niente waited on his horse next to Tototl, just down the first major cross street of the great boulevard. Their archers sent volleys into the sky; an ancient nahualli Easterner riding in a carriage showed his strength and sent the arrows flying harmlessly away. The Tecuhtli of the Easterners—the woman clad in steel—escorted her warriors across.
They heard the rush of warriors who were hidden near the river and in the courtyard of where the monster’s skull was set, but Tototl raised his hand as the warriors behind them pressed forward, eager to join the battle. “Wait,” he said. “Not yet.”
Through the gaps between the buildings, Niente glimpsed the Easterners pressing farther up the street, the woman, strangely, leading them into the courtyard from which the warriors had come. He wondered at that for a moment, then the answer came: the terrible shrill chatter of the black sand weapons, sounding eerily like the eagle claws used in the sacrifice of captives. They heard the screams that followed, and saw the warriors falling like maize being harvested. The warriors grumbled now behind Tototl, wanting revenge for the fallen, and still he held them back. The Easterner Tecuhtli called out, and their warriors poured back into the boulevard, pushing back the remnants of the warriors in the boulevard.
“Now!” Tototl cried, and they surged out into the fray. Tototl charged directly toward the woman, snatching the riding spear from its holder on his saddle, his sword still sheathed. Niente tried to follow him. The Easterner spellcaster in the carriage, clad in green and gold and older than Niente, was chanting, his hands moving in familiar patterns. Niente could feel the power gathering around him, and so Niente raised his spell-staff, shouting a release word. The X’in Ka shot from the staff, a sun-blast that enveloped the spellcaster in blue flame. The man screamed, the blast covering carriage and rider.
So slow. The Easterner way of magic was so slow.
Niente saw Tototl’s spear skewer the Easterner Tecuhtli like a haunch of meat. The High Warrior leaped down from his horse with the spear still grasped in his hands, wrenching the helpless woman down from her horse to the cobblestones. Tototl shouted in triumph. Niente heard the impact as the woman’s body hit the ground.
He could feel their spellcasters readying spells, could hear the woman commanding the terrible eagle claws shouting orders to her people, a long brown braid swaying from underneath her helm. Niente raised his spell-staff ready to take down the braided woman—to his mind, she was the most dangerous of their enemies.
He shouted the release word, but in that same moment, a terrible force pulled at him, at all the nahualli. The frigid air of the X’in Ka swirled over them, above them, and it swept away his spell—and he knew: he had seen this, though he had not believed it possible.
The misted man, the hidden one—he had made his decision. He had acted.
The Long Path was open.
Niente gasped. This was a raw force he had never felt before.
An invisible vortex sat over them, like the hungry mouth of a fierce tornado, and it sucked at the energy locked in Niente’s staff, in
all
of their spell-staffs, ripping away the power stored there and leaving their staffs as empty as if they’d cast all the spells they’d so laboriously placed within them the previous night. It was not only the nahualli that felt it: he could see everyone pause and look about, glancing upward, searching for something they could not see. Tototl had ripped the spear from the body of the Tecuhtli; he stood over her, the spear poised to strike again, and he, too, hesitated.
Then the vortex was gone, vanished, and Niente was holding only an empty length of wood. He could see the other nahualli staring or dropping their staffs in alarm. “Niente!” Tototl shouted from the cobble, his spear still raised. Niente showed him his staff.
“I have nothing,” he said in amazement. “The magic has been taken from all the nahualli. Tototl, I saw this . . . I told you . . .”
“You’re still alive,” Tototl grunted. “We stay. We fight!”
He lifted the spear again. Niente saw the strangest sight then: an old man with a silver nose, rushing toward Tototl. He brandished not a sword but a cane as he shouted at the High Warior, and yet . . .
Niente felt the threat of that stick. Tototl saw the man also, but he did nothing, only smiled. Niente shouted as the man thrust the tip of his cane toward Tototl, and he leaped between them, trying to knock away the cane with his staff, but he wasn’t strong enough. The cane touched Niente’s own body.
The impact was like the fist of Axat. He thought he saw Her face above him, nodding as he fell. Niente saw a carved bird flying away in front of Her.
A last gift . . .
 
Sergei saw the warrior’s vicious spear thrust pierce Allesandra’s armor. He saw her mouth open in silent surprise and shock, saw the warrior use the spear’s shaft to pull Allesandra down from her horse. He stood over her, yanking the spear from the Kraljica’s body with blood spattering as he prepared to thrust down again at her prone figure. He shouted something toward an ancient Westlander spellcaster standing near him.
Sergei had stopped himself. Something felt strange: a furious cold wind swirled in the Avi, and the fury of the spells all around seemed to have stopped.
Sergei shook himself. He limped toward Allesandra, cane in one hand, his rapier in the other. Another Westlander sprang from his left side, and he thrust underneath the man’s cut, the thin blade of the rapier finding a gap between the bamboo slats of his armor and sliding into his abdomen. The Westlander doubled over, falling, the motion taking the sword from Sergei’s grasp. He left it there; he had no strength to hold it. “No!” he shouted at the warrior standing over Allesandra. He brandished his cane at the man, who looked at him and seemed to nearly laugh.
Sergei prayed that he remembered the word that Varina had taught him, that he would pronounce it correctly, that the spell she said she’d placed within the cane would actually work. “Scaoil!” he cried, and he plunged the brass ferrule of his cane toward the warrior.
But as he did so, the ancient spellcaster moved with surprising speed for his evident age, interposing himself between Sergei and the warrior, waving his spell-staff. The cane struck the spellcaster instead. In the instant the cane touched him, the ferrule seemed to explode. A loud, percussive sound nearly deafened Sergei. The blast sent splinters of his cane flying, it sent the old spellcaster flying backward in a spray of blood and gore, dying if not already dead. A red carved bird flew up from the spellcaster’s ripped pouch and landed again on the old man’s chest. He grasped the bird, seemed to whisper to it, then his head fell to one side.
The red-painted warrior dropped his spear from his hand as he stared at the body of the spellcaster, lying in the Avi near the wounded Allesandra.
Time stopped then for Sergei. The warrior stood, the cool rictus of battle fury still on his face. Sergei thought that the man would reach to his side and draw his sword, that he would cut Sergei down in the next instant. There were no gardai who would save him, no sparkwheelers close enough.
He wondered what death would feel like.
But the warrior stared at the spellcaster’s body and he shook his head. He shouted something that Sergei did not understand: a prayer, a curse, a query. He stepped back and away from Sergei: one step, another, then another. Then he turned completely, and he roared a command that echoed in the street. The warriors in the Avi began to give ground, slowly at first, then more quickly. Sergei saw Brie and Talbot pursuing them with the sparkwheelers, but he called to them. “Wait! The Kraljica . . .”
He bent down to her. “Sergei,” she said. “It hurts . . .”
“I know,” he told her. A few gardai had gathered around—bloody and battered and appearing dazed. They stared at the Kraljica, at the shattered body of the spellcaster.
“Help me,” Sergei told them. “Help me get her back to the palais . . .”
 
Jan, with the chevarittai and a few of the war-téni, fought a rear action to protect their retreat, engaging the mounted warriors and keeping the Westlander foot troops away from the the stragglers. In his role in command of the Firenzcian army, Jan had rarely needed to coordinate a full-scale retreat, but he’d been on the other side of one many times, and he knew a retreat was often the most dangerous time for the troops as the advancing force could pick off the stragglers, sending arrows and spells to decimate and even obliterate the rearmost companies. Too often, the advancing army could often overtake their demoralized and exhausted foe and inflict terrible casualties.
Retreat might allow the commander to fight another day, but it also might lead to a total and ignominious defeat. They were not even falling back to fortifications, but to an open and unprotected city.
The Westlander spellcasters hurled spells at them that their war-téni had little time and little energy to deflect. Their archers barbed the very sky with arrows. Their mounted troops—thankfully few—dashed toward the back of the running gardai, picking them off. The front ranks of their army pushed forward at a full charge. Jan could glimpse, through the smoke and confusion of the battlefield, the banners of the Tehuantin commander: a winged serpent flying on rippling, bright green cloth. Most of the spells seemed to come from the group around that banner.
Jan was exhausted and in terrible pain. His fingers longed to release the weight of heavy Firenzcian steel, the hilt of his sword already slippery with blood. He swayed in his saddle, nearly falling from the horse as spell-lightning hissed and boomed directly in front of him, causing his warhorse to rear. He settled the animal.

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