mainly by magic. Ostensibly in charge of this raid, or counterraid, against Ioulaum's troops, Candlemas tiptoed toward a clutch of young, gaily clad officers. They hadn't a clue who was in charge, but stood around boasting of their triumphs to come.
Finally Candlemas picked out the most elderly, grizzled, and scarred sergeant in the ranks. He introduced himself, stumbling over 'Colonel' Candlemas, and told the sergeant to take complete command. The old man sighed in gratitude. He had had enough of idiot officers changing their minds by the minute.
Candlemas watched the preparations and got his first good look at the empire's finest troops. He was shocked. He'd imagined what he'd seen three centuries before: tall, square-jawed men and women scarred by training and battle, cool and steely-eyed, capable of slaying men or monsters. The Netherese Empire hadn't been built on dreams, after all, but by plying effective tools such as hard trained, capably led, and well rewarded soldiers.
But here were either gangly, underfed youths who'd fled farms and alleys, or else fat, slovenly 'veterans' who'd found a soft life in the barracks.
The officers were mostly bored nobles' sons seeking adventure and an eye-catching uniform. The only hope for the empire were the sergeants, but while most had combat experience, the empire's last thrusts had occurred decades ago. Worse, soldiers and officers were cocky, confident of success, eager to fight, happy to be doing something instead of gambling and arguing in their barracks. Candlemas watched the sergeants shake their heads and mutter portents of doom.
But eventually the troops were marched aboard, the landing ramps drawn up. The small navy crew called orders, and the ships drifted, ghostlike, from the docks without a bump or tremor.
In less than half a minute, disaster struck.
Candlemas never knew what hit them-some kind of heat ray, probably-but the sheet metal sail overhead suddenly blistered and curled. A horizontal spar burned through, and the sail snapped and ripped the other spar off its mount. The ship plunged.
Candlemas gagged, prayed, screamed, and cursed Karsus in tones that would have shocked a mule skinner. No one heard him, for they all screamed too.
Safeguards, he thought. There had to be built-in safeguards to rescue them. He'd been sitting at the stern, now the highest point, for the ship fell nose first so steeply that soldiers were wrenched from their seats. Swords and spears pinwheeled among the ranks, cutting flesh and chipping wood. Helmets clattered, shields bonged, and a battle pennant unfurled to flap desolately over the chaotic mess. Candlemas tried to guess whether or not to shift out, now that he was free of the enclave's wards, or stay put. To shift was dangerous because he was traveling so fast. He'd be moving just as fast at the other end and likely collide with a tree or the ground. He felt so seasick he couldn't think straight.
Then magic shields kicked in like a giant pillow to cradle the craft, so it hit the ground gently, relatively speaking. One second they were falling, bodies free as birds, the next they were wrenched to a halt so hard Candlemas's molars bit through his tongue. A grinding smash came next, and a tree branch punched through the hull like a treant's fist. Men and women suffered broken limbs, shattered jaws, and multiple cuts when they fell into the nest of unsheathed weapons. Men were groaning, cursing, swearing, crying, when the shouts of the sergeants cut through the noise. A grizzled veteran kicked out the door chocks and the landing ramp fell away. Soldiers crawled or ran to get out of the wooden death trap.
Almost crying from the pain of his punctured tongue, Candlemas hobbled down the ramp. Outside were trees with broken branches and shed leaves, for they'd crashed in the forest. The pudgy mage saw sergeants kicking, hoisting, and slapping the stumbling soldiers into line, ordering the hale ones to stop whimpering and bandage their comrades. The puking, crying officers they simply ignored. Spitting blood, Candlemas looked to see whom he could help.
Screams. A charred smell of scorched flesh filled the air, an autumnal whiff of burning leaves. There was nothing to see, but soldiers died where they clustered. Barely visible heat ripples tickled the air as men and women felt their clothes, then their skin and hair, ignite. Painted K's on their breastplates curled and smoked, then each person became a ball of writhing flame, then a melting pool of blackened fat.
The heat ray, the mage knew. Firing from Ioulaum on high. Someone up there didn't know this war was only supposed to be a game.
The broken wooden hull beside him smoked and burst into flame. Men and officers died like flies under a burning glass. Candlemas stuck out a hand, latched onto a screaming soldier's shoulder, flicked his hand in the air along with a chant, and shifted.
Now he and the boy stood at the edge of the forest with grain fields running away from their feet toward a central road. High in the sky, at opposite ends of the valley, floated the sister cities. A quarter of a mile up in the woods, flames marked the destruction of the troop landing. In a rye field another ship landed successfully, and soldiers ran helter-skelter for cover behind rock walls, ignoring the shouts of their sergeants. The crew manning the troop ship waved frantically to lift before the heat ray found them.
Leaving the soldier to join his comrades, Candlemas aimed, shifted himself alongside the ship just before the landing ramp was hauled up. 'Wait! Wait for me!' A brawny arm caught him by the tunic, hoisted him aboard to drop on bis face in the bottom of the empty ship.
All the way back, he kept his fingers crossed lest the heat ray strike them, all the while praying to Amaunator, Keeper of the Sun. If he got back safe, he promised, he'd drop a year's wages into the temple coffers, and never fly again.
Wulgreth gave a shout and hurled at Sunbright the first thing that came to hand. In this case, Knucklebones.
One hand entwined in her short dark hair, he caught her by the neck, grunted, and flung her. She gave a shriek of fright, terrified her neck would snap, then flew through the air like a rag doll.
But she slowed in midair, hung suspended, then gradually drifted to earth near the sundered campfire.
Sunbright helped her rise. His brawny hand caught her small, calloused one, and she felt a queer thrill run through her breast that had nothing to do with magic.
'How did you-what was-'
'Feather fall,' Sunbright answered. 'I thought of goose down and applied its magic to you, and the spell took. I don't know how I did it.'
Standing, leaning on his arm, Knucklebones noticed something odd. This was the real man, returned alive and well, but his face, eyes, skin, and fingernails all glowed with a bright green tinge. It reminded her of the first blush of leaves in the emperor's park. He looked like a paper lantern lit from the inside, bright as any campfire.
'What's this glow?'
'Nature magic,' he said simply. 'I'm infused with it. I don't think the effect will last, but it should keep us alive. Watch out!'
Wulgreth's tribe, exhausted by their debauchery and night of torture, had crawled from their huts and grabbed up crude stone and iron weapons. They ran to the edge of the fire circle, then stopped and stared. One man pointed a seven-fingered hand at Sunbright and grunted. Children hid behind their parent's legs.
The man they'd tortured to death had returned as an avenging angel.
Only the magic-user was not awed. Wulgreth let out a bellow, snatched Knucklebones's black knife from his belt, and charged.
Several things happened at once, too fast for the thief to follow.
The black knife disappeared from Wulgreth's hand and appeared in Knucklebones's. Blinked there, obviously, by the will of Sunbright. At the same time, the barbarian drew his sword, and Harvester of Blood had never shone more brilliantly. Light flashed from the blade like a sunrise. Suddenly empty-handed, Wulgreth snatched up a log as thick as a man's leg from the fire pit, but that limb too was spelled. As Wulgreth swung it overhand to crush Sunbright's skull, the barbarian stroked his hand in the air, aiming for the log. Wulgreth lost his grip as the log aged a hundred years in seconds, snapped, crumbled to punk, and rained down as splinters and dust.
Waving empty hands, Wulgreth charged with brute strength and blind fury. Brushing Knucklebones gently aside, Sunbright reached over his head, then skipped back.
Immediately there came a snap and creak, then a groan as dirt and roots ripped and popped as if caught in a hurricane. A long shape loomed over Knucklebones's head, then a crash jarred her to her knees. Dust and cinders
