The bells rang loudly, filling the tower with a sound so loud that Piers Webster could easily feel it, from his face to his fingertips. Fortunately, his hearing had faded decades earlier, sparing him the pains that bell tower apprentices often experienced. A large object had entered London’s skies, something that was large enough enough to trip the outermost ring ward that circumscribed the city—as large as a whole flock of wyverns in close formation.
It was moving slowly enough to hit the second ring ward, which—being reactive—required a moment to trigger, but whatever magic it carried was powerful enough to shatter the second ring, breaching the physical barrier that had formed in the skies with ease. No natural creature could have so much magic at their command—that barrier had been tested by a two-hundred-year-old dragon once, and had held easily. And yet the third countermeasure, the anti-magic wave triggered by the destruction of the second ward—the powerful wave that had burst through the air from the tallest tower had not brought any foreign flying device to ground.
Nothing either Mongolian or lunar, then, Piers thought to himself as he seated himself on a silver stool with a circular top, surrounded by seven hanging crystal balls. A Martian craft, perhaps, of strange and unfamiliar design? The observation of a great network of canals had fueled considerable speculation as to the scale and nature of civilization on the red planet, though no expedition had been attempted to the too-distant world since Yves’s Folly. Perhaps it could even be Yves himself returning?
After stroking each of the seven crystals with his fingers, Piers kicked the step ring on the base of the stool, sending himself into a rapid spin as dark night skies began to swirl into view, his gaze switching from orb to orb with uncanny rapidity to follow the search pattern. Whatever the unidentified flying object was, he would lay eyes on it soon enough—or at least its shadowy shape against the stars above and the magelights of the city below.
If the greater bells were silent and he was not spinning, he might have noticed the ringing of the lesser bell announcing the passage of a small unregistered magical flying device of less than one ton into London airspace. Even if he had noticed, though, Piers would have put it back out of mind; such was rarely an important matter, unlike the presence of a large unidentified flying object capable of breaching the city’s wards by main force.
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“Have a care, woman!” Master Warin felt thankful for the extra traction provided by the fresh-cut grass wrapped around the aft end of the broom as the archmage diviner held on for dear life. “I nearly fell off.”
“That tower came up out of nowhere,” Rosamund said. The hedge witch’s voice was defensive.
“It’s an illuminated clock tower,” Warin said through his teeth. “We’re much too low. Wait—I just felt a scrying pass over us. Climb.”
“What, so we can fall farther if the broom gives out?” Rosamund shook her head. “It’s not safe to go very high.”
“We’re over cobblestones, woman, any fall that lands is a bad one. The higher we are, the more time we have to recover from any daft maneuver.” Warin gritted his teeth.
A dim streak of light shot out from a tower, and then there was a burst of flame, a fireball several times the size of Rosamund’s house momentarily illuminating a gleaming tail as it whipped out of sight above the fireball.
“Also—we have found Aurelius. I thought he would go wake the Pendragon, but…” Warin gestured down at the city as he fished a pair of glasses out of his sleeve, peering into the dark night. “The lower heights above London are not very safe right now. So, climb. You can go up into the clouds a little, I will be able to see just fine through the fog now that I have my glasses on.”
“I won’t be able to see a thing,” Rosamund shot back.
A dark shadow momentarily blocked their view of the tower and surrounding buildings, and an orange glow illuminated the golden outline of a dragon. Its tail looked longer than the tower was high, and its wings shadowed into darkness. Then the shadow finished passing over the tower. Gleaming streams of molten bronze dripped down the stone sides of the tower as the roof blazed merrily.
“It looks like a candle,” the bearded archmage muttered under his breath. His fingers danced subtly as his mutters left behind mundane language and shifted into an arcane register.
Rosamund silently agreed with the sentiment as she pulled the head of the broom upward, seeking the dark damp safety of the clouds above. It was terrifying to fly at speed without being able to see anything, and unpleasant to be damp—but she would rather be damp than crispy, and the dragon had chosen to fly at a low altitude.
“Ah. Turn left ninety degrees,” Warin said, brows furrowing with worry.
“Ninety whats?” Rosamund said, turning over her shoulder to look at the wizard.
“Turn left hard!” The archmage’s voice raised with urgency.
Rosamund pulled hard on the broom, turning to the left sharply enough that she had to lean into it. A moment later, there was a blinding flash of light, thunder sounding immediately, the entire world blotted out. For a moment, Rosamund couldn’t hear anything except for the ringing in her ears, then the diviner’s voice became audible again, rising and falling in the characteristic manner of a lecture.
“—except that in a way, Wallingford was on the right track, in that we know that the druids were—”
“Old man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rosamund said sharply. “Which way do we go from here to not get fried by the next one of those lightning bolts?”
“Ah. Best that we turn right sixty degrees.” A pause. “Not that much, just back a little left from what you just did.”
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Sir Morgan paused as he pulled the flying glove over his left hand, blinking against the brilliance of the bolt of lightning that had descended from the sky to strike the cathedral spire of a barracks hall. Two quick heartbeats later, the loud crack of thunder reached his ears as flames and smoke began to rise.
True, the Order of the Luminous Rose was an imperial order, and by charter obligated to assist regular imperial troops in defense of the realm. True, he had full confidence in his ability to subdue a wyvern—the Order’s training in aerial combat included practice against phantasmal versions of both the terrestrial wyverns and lunar quetzals. He’d even gone wyvern-riding in Scotland once. And true, he knew at least one man in his order who had taken down a proper dragon, and believed himself to be a better invoker than Sir Miles.
But that particular verdigris-scaled creature had a wingspan of fifty feet, perhaps half again the wingspan of a lunar quetzal and really only a little more than the biggest bull wyverns. This was something else entirely, a primordial beast with wings larger than ship’s sails, its tail alone the size of a mature sea serpent.
The size of the beast alone would have given him pause, and yet now things seemed even more dangerous. Someone had either disabled London’s protective weather-wards or was attacking London with weather-magic with a level of potency expected only from an archmage. The multiple domains of expertise that had to be involved spoke of likely involvement of two or three archmages in the attack—either a coup d’etat or a preemptive strike meant to forestall one. In either case, discretion was the better part of valor.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
So, Sir Morgan lifted up into the air on his own power, turning his back on the Thames to fly south by southeast, away from the distant gleaming wings and the rising fires. There was no reason he could not have spent the previous night at his cousin’s estate in Kent, he decided. Georgina would provide an alibi readily enough on his behalf should any questions arise regarding shirking his obligations. And, under such uncertain circumstances, it surely fell on his obligations as a guest to ensure the safety of his cousin’s estate—dragons were sighted in Kent often enough, and if some event had stirred them into unusual activity, Georgina surely would have need of his assistance, giving him every reason to stay there once news of events in London arrived.
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“Master Webster?”
The sound of a voice speaking felt like a terrible shock to Piers Webster after decades of deafness. He couldn’t see anything, though—everything seemed blurry. Then there was a squeaking noise as a cloth rubbed across his field of view, leaving faint smears in its wake. Piers tried to blink, but no eyelids moved.
The familiar fanged face of Thora Gwenhild stared down at him. “I was quite surprised when your gem lit up—who was it? One of the bell tower apprentices looking to move up?”
Piers tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Thora shook her head. “Silly me, asking you questions already. As long as you were wearing both rings and the choker when you died, you should be able to remember what happened, though you might feel foggy for a little bit.”
Piers focused intently, trying to recall his most recent memories. He could remember seeing flashes of shadowed gold in his crystal ball array. The unidentified flying object had been approaching the watchtower directly, faster than a galloping horse. Then there had been a moment of heat and light, followed by complete darkness, then blurry dim light and Thora’s voice. It was a nice voice; he’d never actually heard it before.
“Oh dear,” Thora said, looking away from him. “That’s three more at once. Something terribly exciting must be going on in London. But I only have two bodies built, Master Webster, and begging pardon, while I am fond of you as a friend, you’re not my most important client. You may have to wait a little while on the shelf. I know it’s not supposed to work that way, but I wasn’t expecting to have multiple clients pass away all at once.”
Piers wanted to scream that since he’d died first and he’d been her very first paying client, surely he should be first in line—but it was no use. She couldn’t hear him as she put his gem back in the little wooden cubbyhole. Piers watched in silent frustration as she took out and polished a brilliant yellow faceted stone and then walked away.
Well, he thought to himself, trying to find something to feel good about. If I have to wait for her to put together a new body, at least it’ll be one she built specifically for me—surely, she’ll want to make up for her tardiness with the highest possible quality product.
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Tobias de Lancaster, second in line for the throne of Lancaster, found his meal disturbed by the ringing of tower bells—too many to ignore, signaling an alarum of the imperial variety. He knew the imperial signal book, and it was not often that an unidentified flying object was deemed a threat to London’s skies. After sending the street urchin back to the kitchens, he climbed up six flights of stairs to the roof to see for himself, hearing the lesser bells of a fire service visiting one of the nearby manufactories.
Fires and an unidentified flying object—tonight is a lively night, Tobias thought to himself as he stepped onto the roof, glancing around. Apparently, the bottleworks had been the one to pay the highest premium to the fire service, as it was being attended to while the furniture manufactory burned merrily. Then he saw that the Ministry tower itself was aflame, and his heart leapt into his throat. Is London under attack? He looked up and turned in place; one third of the way through his turn, he froze, watching as fire descended from a shadow edged in gold.
His first thought was that the oversized creature had to be some kind of phantasm. His second thought was that—phantasm or not, his uncle Robert needed to know that Ivar’s inattention had led to some kind of internal conflict. No other explanation was possible; London’s aerial defenses were more than a match for any foreign foe. Robert would have a likely guess of the cabals on each side—Tobias kept abreast of different factions within the capital city’s bureaucrats as best as he could, but the duke was older and his knowledge was deeper.
Tobias reached into his pouch, pulling out a packet of salt and a short copper wire, then candles. Lighting the candles was difficult; it was a damp and windy night, thunder rumbling as clouds threatened a storm. He was not worried about being drenched by any storm—London’s weather-wards would have been left undisturbed by any cabal of conspirators, as they would surely have no effect on the course of conflict between them.
“Uncle Robert—London is burning. There is something in the sky, perhaps a dragon or a high-quality phantasm of one.” The candle flared and went out. Tobias glared at the smoking nub, rummaging in his pouch for another candle. He felt confident the full message had gone through, but perhaps he should try someone else, in case Robert was sleeping deeply or otherwise distracted enough not to hear. The truly elderly had irregular sleep patterns. Rowan, perhaps—his nephew was recently enough turned that he would surely be wide awake at midnight, and in spite of his high status as fourth in line for the throne of Lancaster, had very little to do. Guilbert’s children each had at least twice the ambition of Sapphira’s only child and kept abominably busy.
The outer candles had not gone out, and it was the work of a few moments to light a fresh inner candle, tucking the copper wire back underneath his tongue. “Rowan—someone set one, no, two of the Ministry towers on fire in London. This is an emergency.”
Tobias spat out the wire. He did not want to bother his mother or Sapphira—women were not really meant for politics, in his opinion—and Guilbert was likely asleep at such an hour. His family obligations were fulfilled, and his loyalty to the Empire could be paid to whichever side emerged victorious in the present struggle.
As Tobias began the work of activating the tower wards, he heard wingbeats. If that is a phantasm, it is quite nicely done, he thought to himself as he looked upward. For one moment, he thought he saw the sun cradled inside a massive mouth, bracketed by teeth the size of swords. In the next moment, he thought he felt the sun. The sensation was overwhelming but brief.
Many miles away, Rowan snarled as he grappled a thrashing peasant, blaming his uncle for waking the creature up with a sending. He did not know that he had just become third in line for the throne of Lancaster.
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From the damp, dark, and uncomfortable safety of the cloud, Warin watched could see through the clouds to the spreading chaos below. Emperor Ivar’s tower, squat and unassuming compared to more recently constructed Ministry buildings and mage’s towers surrounding it, was dark and still, a dim blob of black surrounded by burning buildings.
The London chapter house of the Order of the Luminous Rose was also dark and still, in spite of the fact that between ten and twenty fully belted and robed members of the order were usually present. By contrast, the great cathedral that served as London’s principal barracks was lit up brilliantly with magelights—yet its occupants seemed paralyzed with indecision, imperial officers holding their regiments of obsidian-clad skeletons while they waited for unambiguous orders.
Halfway across the city from the dragon, a brilliant flare of violet light drew Warin’s eye. Archmage Kell was hovering in place next to the half-melted remains of Archmage Radus’s tower.
Makes sense—if Kell believed the dragon was controlled by an insider, who could it be but the Minister of Fauna? Warin shook his head as, two blocks away from the tower, the Ministry of Fauna launched a counterattack against the chapter house of the Order of the Red Tooth.
“And for the ordinary members of the Ministry, it makes sense to strike back at Kell’s allies,” Warin mused aloud.
“What?” Rosamund turned to look at her passenger.
“Sorry, just thinking aloud,” Warin said. “Perhaps—yes, I think I have seen enough. This is the end of the empire.” The whole city seemed awake and on the move—some trying to flee, some taking advantage of the confusion.
“Did the dragon get Ivar the Fleshless?” Rosamund’s control of the broom faltered.
“Watch where you’re flying, woman!” Warin grabbed at the grassy end of the broom to steady himself.
“I can’t see a thing,” the hedge witch snapped back as she brought the broom under control and their flight path back to a level straight line. “Not in the middle of a cloud at night!”
“Sorry,” the archmage said, slightly abashed. He pushed his enchanted spectacles along his nose as he looked back down at the city below, peering through the opaque darkness with unnatural vision. Ivar’s tower looked intact—a little melty around the edges, maybe, but otherwise fine. “You asked if Ivar is dead yet again—I think it does not matter. Now, I think we should fly higher to get above the clouds. It’ll be chilly, but I’d like you to be able to see where you’re going.”
“Then why not fly down below the—” A thunderclap interrupted Rosamund. “Right. Up it is. Do you have any gloves? It’s quite chilly up this high, and the damp makes it worse.”
“I’ll see what I can do about that,” Warin said, rummaging in his sleeves.