The Death of a Nation

Didn't know where to stop this, so I just cut it off at the end of a paragraph.

It was hot. Too hot. Humidity choked the streets and even the markets worked at a lethargic pace as the vendors and buyers both struggled to move in the sizzling air. Cisterns were rapidly drying, and the stones of the city were burning to the touch. Dogs, cats and horses stood or lay panting, licking at their own foam-flecked lips. The fine gentlemen sweltered in their regalia, lowering themselves to opening their jackets, and their delicate wives and consorts fanned themselves in the shade. The citizenry cooled themselves in their cellars or under the trees of the public parks. Those in the taverns stuck to sipping ale or water, forsaking the uncomfortable warmth of the spirits.

Cairn pulled the hand towel out of the copper basin, sopping wet with cold water, and held it over his face. Staring at the insides of his eyelids he could almost forget the abominable heat and the accompanying stickiness.

There was a banging on his door. What now? He thought.

“Sir?” Said the intruder when his noise failed to generate a response.

“Yes, damnit, what is it?”

“Trouble down at the college, sir. The Mage’s College, that is.” The voice was muffled by its travels through the grain of the door.

Cairn swore. “Pick two squads and tell them to be ready when I get down there. Standard kit.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Commander picked up his tunic and pulled it back on, buckled his breastplate over it and gathered his equipment from the shelf.

The troops were still pulling themselves together as he entered the barracks courtyard. They checked repeaters, tightened boots, tested the fit of their padded jerkins and brass-coloured armour. Cairn’s lieutenant saluted as he approached.

“What is this Wright? Why can’t the militia handle it?”

“It’s a bit out of the militia’s remit, sir.” Said his second in command. “It’s not some cult or church complaining about bad joo-joo this time, the mages themselves are fighting.”

“So what? They’re always arguing.”

“With respect, sir, this aint no duel between the adepts, nor a debate getting a little ‘heated’. There’s fireballs flying out of windows, yelling. The people around the area are scared.”

Another muttered obscenity. “I’d be scared if I lived near those lunatics. OK, let’s get moving.”

The squads moved through the streets at a brisk pace, drawing stares from the people in the markets and along the thoroughfares. People hurried out of their way as the clanking troop moved through, weapons at the ready, sweating in their cuirasses and heavy jerkins. Cairn moved ahead with his lieutenant, helmet in his right hand, left hand resting on his rapier.

Pedestrians stood silent at the conspicuous passage of a fully armed detachment of the city’s men. Even one of the burly Capra, come to the market specially to hawk his wares, stopped his bellowing and observed through softly curious eyes. The crowds grew thinner as they made their way nearer the spire on the south side of the metropolis – the mages’ tower – a vast edifice of stone which towered above even the Citadel of Governors, though with a far less central location. It was not long before the soldiery noticed the visible movement of people in the opposite direction, and several streets away from the edifice they became aware of why.

The air tasted coppery, like warm blood, and shimmered in ways that heat could not be responsible for. The minds’ of angry mages nearby were making the colours of the streets warp and writhe. Lines became sharper or duller, shapes grew more or less well defined, and the light seemed to drain some hues and imbue others with an increased vivacity. Cairn shook his head in a futile attempt to dislodge the buzzing noise that filled his ears. Ahead the grand entrance to the Mage’s College loomed, imposing and regal (if somewhat gaudy, thought Cairn). A robed adept, wearing a sash that seemed to denote he was of some mid-level grade though the riflemen’s commander couldn’t be sure, rushed to meet them.

“Inside,” he said, clearly agitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and cracking his knuckles. “Something’s gone horribly wrong.”

Cairn and Wright exchanged glances. “We can’t help with magical matters, surely you must have…”

The mage interrupted him, “Apologies, I meant with the meeting; they just started arguing. We were to have a discussion, some our colleagues were unveiling their latest project and… well, it was rather controversial.”

“Can they not just calm down and talk about it sanely, without…” Cairn gestured vaguely at their surroundings. “All the magic.” He finished lamely.

The mage bit his lip and looked edgy. “That’s part of the problem. Once they argued their emotions let the power slip, the power stirred up all sorts of energies which just made them more irrational, and it kind of turned into a vicious circle.”

“And you?” Asked Wright.

Once again the adept look nervous and his face flushed slightly. “I was out of the hall at the beginning of the argument. I had to… excuse myself.”

Cairn raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting.

“Look, someone needs to restore order before a rift opens to the Aether.”

            “How do you suggest we go about doing that? If I or any of my men walk in there we’ll be fried.” Cairn thought of the current weather for a second. “In the literal sense.” He qualified.

            The adept bit his lip. “You just have to break the circle, break their concentration from what they’re thinking about.”

            “In short, get a bunch of angry mage’s to focus on me.”

            An embarrassed cough. “It is somewhat risky, yes.”

            “Why not you?” Asked the commander simply.

            “I’d… rather not go in there. There’s a kind of critical mass building up in there, a practitioner’s mind would be overwhelmed and get sucked in. I’d not be able to stay focused long enough to attract their attention.”

            Wright cut in, “We ought to go in then, sir. A couple of rifle shots into the air might snap them out of it. Usually works with the drunks on a Saturday night.”

            Cairn’s expression soured. “And if it doesn’t? What then lieutenant?”

            “A couple of shots into the ones making the most noise ought to do it then, sir. Get the other’s listening to us at least.”

            The mage’s face blanched and his jaw opened and closed like that of a fish. “I… I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” He stuttered. “Just get their minds away from what’s making them angry and start talking right away, get them to focus on you. They should be able to calm themselves down then.”

            Cairn grunted and drew his pistol, a repeating wheellock of the latest design. He checked the column of firing chambers, making sure they would ratchet smoothly and didn’t jam, and that each was loaded and packed. With a word he gestured for his squad to follow. As he stepped on to the first step leading to the great entrance of the College a hissing and somewhat wet sound caught his attention and he turned to see something like a malevolently green ball made of tangled, ethereal snakes emerge through a window a few feet away. The glass didn’t simply break, but seemed to erupt from its frame in a fountain of glowing liquid that instantly cooled so that a cylindrical flower of slickly melted glass emerged from the stone walls of the College. Several of his men stepped back and even Cairn felt himself swallow hard, his eyes wide.

            “Mages. I hate mages.” He muttered, as he walked forwards.

            A short passage with a porter’s office led directly to the grand hall – placed near the entrance so that on exhibition days and public debates the proles wouldn’t have an opportunity to poke around, even the College’s noble patrons were tacitly discouraged from becoming too interested in its affairs. The grand hall of the Mages College was immense. The arched ceiling stretched so high that it could easily have accommodated one of the town houses in the surrounding neighbourhood; it was said that a giant wouldn’t even scrape his head on the ceiling. Baroque chandeliers hung from heavy, oil-blacked chains that disappeared into holes in the ceiling. It was said that when needed the candles they held were ignited by the pupils of the College. The hall was octagonal, the four sides that bordered the street outside had oval stained glass windows starting at head height and stretching all the way to where the wall met the ceiling. Each held a stylised representation of one of the four seasons, with winter being towards the eastern side to meet the sun, and winter towards the west to catch the sunset. The passage from the outside entered from due south, at the intersection between spring and summer. Summer’s window had been blasted and blown out about a foot from the base where the furious green orb had emerged; the stained glass around the hole was discoloured though not soot-blackened. In the four other walls were tall wooden doors leading deeper into the College. Above these doors were large niches with statues of the founding mages stood in them. The old stone men scowled down disapprovingly into the centre of the room. Columns stood at the intersections between the walls, each carved into various shapes that merged with the arches of the ceiling. One was made to look like an enormous tree, its branches turning into the arches at its summit. Another was carved to look like the stones and battlements of a castle. Still another looked like the twisted and thorned branches of a briar, and its neighbour resembled a bundle of chains which split at the summit where individual chains merged into the supporting arches. The entrance came out at the base of one of these columns, which bulged out and started just above the archway. This column was smooth except for the names of great and celebrated mages from history. Even given the long history of the city and the Mage’s College itself the names still only barely reached a sixth of the way up.

            Usually the grand hall was a solemn and quiet place, well lit from the enormous windows. Now it was a tumult of raised voices and rabid arguments. As Cairn and his men entered the room, coming up a few more stairs from the half-landing of the porter’s lodge, they realised that part of the background noise was not merely the shouts of angry mages. A multi-voiced humming and buzzing sound underscored the furore, the vibrations of the Aether roused by the emotions of the magical minds present. The power being drawn without an outlet was causing a pressure that even Cairn could feel. By the looks on his soldiers’ faces they could too. Though the hall usually had the light, airy, if somewhat sterile feel of all large public spaces, it was now plagued by shadow. Greyness seemed to have descended over everything. Colours were drained and dulled, deep pools of darkness lurked in corners and under chairs. Wright nudged his commander and gestured up at the statues on the walls opposite. The shadows behind them were the darkest in the room, and Cairn thought he saw movement behind them, as though there were creatures of some kind peering clandestinely from behind the chiselled robes of the looming stone adepts.