Another Voice: Daybreak

It was, of course, chaos as King James left the underside harbor. The news that his last son and heir had been poisoned, and by some unknown Reconquista coward of an assassin, had the entire stronghold in an uproar.

Indeed, accusations were already being flung before a headcount of the kitchen staff revealed that three of the servants were missing, servants that the head chef swore had been at work on the feast before they disappeared. The traitors had been revealed, now far too late to halt them.

James' blood had run cold at the discovery. If his son had not returned unexpectedly that evening, and given them an opportunity to destroy the scion who might continue the Tudor line even if his father fell to their perfidy . . .

But even as Newcastle began to fall to despair, the Fool reappeared, singing the song he had rebuilt from the hasty and difficult translation that Louise's retainer had performed.

It proved enough to rouse everyone's morale. His son had always been beloved of Albion, for his high spirits and enthusiasm for life, but after earning the title of Valiant and becoming the Heir, the people of Albion – those not consumed by base treachery – had seen him as a hero, almost a saint from bygone days. And now, with their prince laid low, the thought of vengeance in his name proved irresistible.

So Newcastle buzzed with preparations, a song of bloody vengeance in their hearts and on their lips, as King James sought his bed that night. He would need every scrap of vitality he could muster come the dawn. No matter that it would take a sleeping draught to achieve unconsciousness.

After tomorrow, he wouldn't need any potions ever again.

Daybreak arrived all too soon, but lookouts reported that Reconquista's fleet was gathering, even as the morning fog thickened. There was hardly time to eat, but there was breakfast, for Geoffrey had apparently not bothered with sleep, the urgency of his preparations driving him so. The food was mild and bland, suited to a morning when anything else would have been lead in the stomach, and then it was time to ascend the central tower of Newcastle.

The Fool fell in with King James and his guards as they approached the tower. The jester was not wearing his usual clothing, but instead a brown tunic. It fit surprisingly well, aside from a few suspicious bulges.

"Do you intend to make a last stand with me, my Fool?" the king asked. "Surely you could avoid Reconquista's attention."

"But that would be wise!" the Fool retorted. "And as it would be foolishness to serenade Cromwell and his curs, where else may a Fool be found?"

"Conspiring with Geoffrey, no doubt," King James retorted. It hadn't been difficult to discern what Geoffrey was planning, and the Fool's facility with tumbling and acrobatics made him an obvious candidate to stay close to the king until the end.

The morning fog was very thick as they all ascended to the top of the tower. Far more thick than was natural, even for a land as cloud-shrouded as the White Isle. Thick enough to hide the approach of a fleet.

It was tempting to let the fog continue, to encourage the Reconquista fleet to think they had crept in close to a castle thrown into disarray by the assassination of Prince Wales. To try for the moment when their ships and the mages upon them would be focused purely on the attack, and unprepared to defend.

It was very tempting indeed, and King James might well have chosen that path . . . but then someone on one of the battlements began singing the vengeful lament that Louise's odd commoner retainer had provided. And the song spread quickly, proving that the defenders of Newcastle had listened well when the Fool had sung it to them last night.

No, the enemy would not be tricked into thinking them panicked: Everyone who could sling spells or man the cannons was in place, and from the top of the central tower King James could hear the continuous shouts denouncing the possibility of surrender or mercy.

The other reason to let the fog continue was to avoid expending the vis to disperse it. He was the ordained Lord of Air, and after decades of experience he hardly needed to wear the Ring of Air to assert his authority over his element, but the Ring would have made his task an easier one if it had not been necessary to send it with his son to safety.

The wand he carried now had no name, but was keyed to the very tower upon which he now stood, and would be adequate to the task. Nonetheless it would tire him faster than the ancient wands Lopthor and Leid, but they were in the Chest of State with the other Relics.

As was the rod Leiptr. His plans to defend Newcastle had always begun with using the rod to bring down all the fury of the sky upon the attackers, but it too was now sent away with Prince Wales.

No, the only source of strength he had kept was the strength of the White Isle itself, the potent aetheric flows of which came together underneath the very tower he stood upon. A tower that had been constructed long before the rest of Newcastle, and built to channel those same wild flows to the will of one with the birthright to command them. But without the Ring of Air, he would tire sooner, and so it was tempting to preserve his vis.

Still, the song that his men sung to reinforce their morale made it impossible to take Reconquista by surprise. And so King James cast Purging Vortex, channeling the power of Albion itself to magnify the spell far beyond what any one mage could accomplish.

The fog fell out of the air in a great splash of water out to nearly a league's distance.

The enemy fleet stood revealed, their flagship Lexington in the lead, their ships drifting into disarray as they lost the wind that had allowed cloud and fleet to slowly close in. Their helmsmen would correct for the loss of wind soon enough, but the dispersal of the clouds was its own signal.

The cannons of Newcastle remained silent, but wands rose across the castle nearly in unison as the mages set about trying to crash Reconquista's flagship.

For a moment, the Lexington wavered in the air, and King James found himself wondering, as he caught his breath, if they could pull it off.

Then several smaller ships came racing in, interposing themselves between their flagship and Newcastle, and the struggle to crash the Lexington ended. For the moment.

"They are brave, I must confess," he said to his Fool. "Or perhaps they don't realize what they've opened themselves to."

"Heretic and forsaken, they name you," the Fool replied, eyes gleaming. "If they are fools, and have not considered the consequences, then let them tumble at your pleasure, as proper to any Fool in your court."

King James snorted. Calamitous Eye had been developed by the Tudor dynasty for the last Crusade, and had proven so capable against airships that the Pope had forbidden its use against fellow followers of Brimir. (And half-a-dozen Tudor princes had been slaughtered by the elves, before the then-King of Albion had tired of sending his relatives off to die.)

But Cromwell and his followers, having called most urgently for the death of the Tudor dynasty, had decried all fellowship with the present Lord of Air.

And with all the wind of Albion at his call, King James could cast beyond the range of cannon. There was no need to fly under a ship, as other spells might require.

And so he pointed his wand at one of the leading ships, shielding the Lexington, and chanted the words of Calamitous Eye. A brief tornado whirled around the unlucky hull, and moments later it dropped like a rock as its windstone helm lost its grasp over the air around it.

The fleet seemed to freeze, and King James took advantage of their dismay to drop another ship out of the air.

Then he stood there, gasping for breath, as three ships broke formation to race for Newcastle, clearly hoping to reach conventional spellcasting range before they, too, fell to their deaths.

Equally clearly, they had not known that Newcastle had gunpowder once more, and they did not learn until the hitherto-silent guns of Newcastle spoke as one.

"Five ships defeated, and we've yet to suffer a single loss," the Fool noted. "Could it be that we were all fools, in our despair?"

"I would that it were so," King James replied. "But no, they shall be more cautious henceforth. We shall not carry the day unless they lose heart and flee."

"Then, if I have ever made your heart gladden, oh my king, grant me that I may sing defiance to them, and we shall see how Cromwell likes the lullabies of a Fool."

Calamitous Eye was exhausting, but to simply amplify a voice? Trivial. And so the song of the Fool, bitter and mocking, lashed out at the enemy fleet, jeering their cowardice and sneering at their worthiness (or lack thereof) to accompany Prince Wales to his place in paradise.

And it seemed worth the effort to extend the spell over the entirety of Newcastle, allowing his loyal subjects to join as an amplified chorus, condemning the traitors to their ignominious deaths.

The formations of the fleet seemed hesitant . . . but then King James cast Calamitous Eye a third time. The fleet withdrew. And then withdrew even further, when a fourth casting demonstrated that he had more range than they'd realized.

And what did it matter, that he fell to his knees afterward, fighting for breath?

"My king!" the Fool cried, leaping to his side and pulling out a potion. A flood of false strength flooded his limbs as he downed it, but it was enough to let him get back to to his feet.

"The tally is seven, now," the Fool noted, standing close enough to offer support if the potion proved inadequate. "Shall they lose heart, perchance? It would seem the work of fools to remain."

King James shook his head. "No. If their admiral knows his business, he shall send them in large numbers, too many for us to dispatch simultaneously. And then we shall begin suffering losses." He smiled sadly. "And now they will certainly punish you, if you're taken alive. I would that it were not so, my Fool."

"Shall they take any of us alive, fools that we are? And what better death, than to chance it all on a fool's hope?"

The king laughed. "If Wales was a fool among princes, then you are a prince among fools, and no less valiant than he! Have you a weapon, at least, under that tunic?"

The Fool merely smiled in response.

It took some time before the Reconquista admiral got his fleet back under control. Long enough for King James' thoughts to turn back to Louise's odd retainer.

He'd been odd in more than one way, of course, but he'd been strange in a way that no one else could have known about. He itched in the king's subtle perception of the Throne of Air, a sense long-honed through exercising his powers as the Lord of Air.

No one else would have noticed: Neither his sister-in-law Queen Marianne nor King Joseph of Gallia had been Lords of Water and Earth, respectively, long enough to have developed that sensitivity. And of course the Ring of Fire was still lost, and thus the new Pope had not yet had a means of developing a sense of his Throne, making it doubly impossible for the Lord of Fire to have done so.

That itch had been the deciding factor on whether to trust the young man. He'd been frantic to save King James' son – his only son, now! – and he'd brought precisely the tools needed to outmaneuver the poison that had nearly killed Wales.

And if the tales of Retribution were the more common, and famous, the Left Hand of Brimir did govern life as well as death, punishing the wicked in order to preserve the worthy.

It was absurd to think that this Jason was the archangel, of course. But if Cromwell had performed some blasphemous working that had cut Albion off from the Holy Void, preventing the Heavenly Host from descending upon Reconquista, the armies of the heavens might have needed to take a more subtle approach. Such as arranging for a commoner from a far-off land to be there at just the right moment, with just the right tool, to preserve the Lords of Air from the machinations of traitors, hypocrites, and blasphemers.

And the song he'd given the Fool was certainly one of retribution.

Is that what your people do, to avenge fallen nobility? Bloody deaths arranged before a tomb like so many roses?

If it was a portent, sent from Brimir's Left Hand, then it meant that the Tudor line, so recently ascended to the Throne of Air, had not been forsaken. And that was a portent he could die content with, and expect to rest easily.

Reconquista had lost seven ships learning that it was madness to approach Newcastle piecemeal. To win they needed to get in close, so that the weight of their superior numbers could overwhelm the defenders, but they would take many casualties to do so.

It took time for their Admiral to organize his squadrons, but the sun was still low in the sky, still climbing, when they began their assault once more. And this time, though they lost several ships to cannon and King James' spells, many more survived to close the range, wearing away at the defenders with the weight of numbers as spells of assault were exchanged.

Nonetheless, Newcastle's early successes might have made the difference, and indeed a faint hope flickered in the hearts of many that morning-

But that hope vanished when the Reconquista Admiral called forth the reserve fleet that had lain siege to the underside. The defenders exacted a terrible price, determined as they were to take as many of the usurpers with them as they could, but the towers and battlements slowly fell silent, the king grew ever more tired, and the attackers grew ever bolder in their assaults.

Finally, there was no more resistance, and after a probing run by some of the reserve fleet the Lexington itself made its approach.

It gave King James just long enough to catch his breath, and he bared his teeth in a parody of a grin. Tired I may be, but none have ever countered the Calamitous Eye. The Church banned its use for good reason. Can you force yourselves to stay in the air if I seek to drag you down?

Commanding the aetheric flows of the White Isle took focus and determination, and he was so very exhausted. Another evocation of that wild power might well kill him, if he lost control. But they had inflicted more casualties than he'd dared to hope, so that it would be that much easier for his son to retake Albion, and he'd not planned to survive the battle.

Therefore, the king once more called called upon the very essence of Albion to lend his casting irresistible strength. For a moment, he swayed, nearly collapsing, but then he found his center and stood firm, if only for one last time. He raised his wand, pointed, chanted-

And then an armored figure at the prow of the approaching Lexington raised a sword in his right hand. The spell vanished, sucked away, and King James cut off the flows of aetheric power before they could overwhelm him. Was this Cromwell, then, revealing his allegedly miraculous powers?

The armored figure looked down upon him for a long moment. Then it retreated from the prow, and soon a smaller vessel launched from the Lexington.

It was a royal longboat, one of several that King James had owned, all now fallen into the hands of the rebels. They were rare, requiring the same windstone helm that a larger airship would use, and so it was generally considered a waste, when the same helm could support a full-sized ship. But they could also be very convenient, and the most powerful nobles of Albion would often commission them, as visible proof that they could afford the expense.

This one carried four people. The armored figure, a man in clerical dress, and two men armed with sword-wands.

They were either very confident, or fatally arrogant. To attempt Calamitous Eye a final time would surely kill him, but against a longboat King James didn't need to use so potent a shipbreaker. So he cast, not even evoking the aetheric flows of the White Isle . . . but then the armored figure brandished the sword again, and the spell was drained away once more.

The two mage-knights leapt from the longboat as it closed, forcing king and jester to step back as the guards on the tower met the attack. The duel between them was short and fierce, for the royal guards had seen their king's spells fail, and closed with the attackers with the ferocity of desperation. In the end only one stood as the armored figure and the cleric stepped off of the longboat onto the tower . . . but he was one of the royal guards, and not a Reconquista mage-knight.

He moved again to attack, but before he could strike the armored figure raised his left gauntlet, and the guard was flung off the tower.

"King James," the cleric said, "we were most interested to hear of your son's death. Before we send you to join-"

A shot rang out from behind James. The robed man gasped as dark red started to spread across his chest, and he crumpled without another word. The king then turned to see the Fool at his side, brandishing a pair of pistols, one smoking. The Fool spat, and discharged the second pistol at the armored figure.

The ball hit the breastplate and dented it, but did not penetrate. In retaliation, the armored figure lunged forward, his sword skewering the Fool.

King James whipped his wand forward. Both times the armored figure had brandished the sword when his spells had been nullified. If he could cast before-

But his foe gestured again with his left gauntlet, and the Fool was shoved off the tower, a look of helpless rage on the jester's face as he fell. Thus free, the sword proved more than capable of intercepting the third spell that King James cast at the figure.

"Paw! Bloody again! Don't forget to clean me this time." The sword – the sword? – spat several times. "So is that the fifth Cromwell down, or the sixth? Who will play him next week?"

"Silence, blade!" the figure said in a strong, female voice. The figure pushed back its faceplate to reveal what was indeed a woman's face. "King James Tudor of Albion. Why are you not using the Relics? What have you done with them?"

The king smiled and cast Calamitous Eye one final time. This time he did not even attempt to control the aetheric flows as he evoked them. Magic ravaged his body as the tower upon which they stood shattered, and he tensed for the short drop and-

An armored hand caught him by the throat before he could fall. He was too weak to choke, the life was already fleeing him, but a distant part of him noted that they were somehow still in the air, and not falling at all.

"No. I need your body intact, old man." The woman sheathed her sword and pulled out some sort of pendant. She placed in it against his forehead, and-

A/N:

Magic Items: Lopthor – wand, considered a Relic of Air.

Leid – wand, considered a Relic of Air.

Left gauntlet – well, there's probably some magic there, since it's telekinetically pushing stuff around. For that matter, how's this mysterious woman floating like that? It's already established in this fic that flight isn't particularly trivial as a magic effect.

Talking blade – now, where have we seen him before?

New Spells: Calamitous Eye – Royal magic of the Thone of Air, invented about a century ago as a ranged shipbreaker spell. Forbidden by the Church to employ against followers of Brimir.