Aubrey was still drained from his efforts on the battlefield, but he ransacked his brains for a spell, something to counteract the attack that was coming. He didn’t spare any time wondering how Dr Tremaine knew the location of the new King of Albion. Magical means or ordinary spying, Dr Tremaine’s methods were thorough.
Aubrey remembered the havoc created by a similar aerial fleet attack on Greythorn. Much damage was done by weather magic concentrated by the skyfleet, but it had also dropped at least one bomb Aubrey knew about. He wondered if he could manage some sort of deflection; not stopping any bombs, but simply sloughing them to one side of the estate. If he couldn’t protect the whole estate, then maybe the chateau itself? What about the hospital, though? Could he shield it as well?
They ran, bent nearly double against the wind, weaving through the companies of soldiers who were being dispersed to dugouts and trenches about the estate. Aubrey was relieved to see that one private was dragging the black dog by a length of rope, while it continued to do its job of giving the wind a good barking at.
When Aubrey reached the side door of the chateau, he looked back. The skyfleet couldn’t have been a mile away. Its passage was flattening trees and crushing cottages, creating a swathe of destruction across the countryside. A herd of cows took one look and scattered; each cow was grimly doing its best to achieve this ‘galloping’ it had heard of but never personally experienced. The madcap sound of cowbells added to the cacophony of shots, shouting, artillery fire and the overwhelming, all-encompassing scream of the wind.
‘Get Bertie into the basement!’ Aubrey shouted to Caroline. ‘Tell him that Tremaine is here!’
Caroline glanced at the sky, then nodded sharply. The door was wrenched from her hand as soon as she turned the handle. It slammed back, almost ripping from its hinges. While guards struggled to heave it closed again, Caroline slipped inside.
Dimly, Aubrey heard the sound of breaking glass. He flattened himself against the stuccoed wall of the chateau. He had to shield his eyes from flying grit as he wrestled with the possibility of a spell.
At this distance, half a mile or so, the connection he had with Dr Tremaine was faint, almost ghostly. It tickled his awareness without giving much more impression than an itch that couldn’t be ignored. It was swamped by the magical presence that was the skyfleet itself, wrought by magic from cloudstuff – and by a furnace-bright burning that came from the heart of the flagship itself. It had the texture of the magic Aubrey had sensed coming from the Holmland trenches at Fremont, the magic that coincided with the twenty-seven points of light in the Directorate’s remote sensing.
Dr Tremaine wasn’t leaving anything to chance in his attack on the new King. He was bringing his collection of magical artefacts to add power to his magic.
Aubrey anticipated the stormfleet behaviour he’d witnessed in Greythorn. There, the skyfleet had swept in and circled a single position, creating mayhem through weather magic, trapping those inside its whirling perimeter with a wall of cyclonic wind. If Dr Tremaine achieved this formation he could pound the chateau and the new King of Albion to pieces. Basement or no, anyone inside would be doomed.
He was rapidly spinning an idea into the beginnings of a spell. The buffeting of the wind made him wonder if he couldn’t do something similar, some sort of displacement that could shift bombs. It would take a combination of the Law of Action at a Distance and the Law of Transference, but he might be able to shift a large enough volume of air to create a deflecting vacuum, or a vortex to spin a bomb aside… Of course, in order to cast these spells accurately, he’d have to spot the bombs as they fell, which would be a challenge in such conditions as the storm-brought darkness made the entire sky murky.
Aubrey’s beret was ripped from his head. It spun away and was caught in a nearby rhododendron. Aubrey ignored it as the storm rolled toward them, a juggernaut of lightning and cloud. The skyfleet itself pushed from the middle of it, a formidable battleline of giant warships, ignoring the anti-aircraft fire that fell far short of its lofty elevation.
An untried spell, put together in difficult circumstances? Aubrey was ready but, before he could even articulate the first syllables that he was still arranging in his mind, the heavens were torn apart in a blinding flash. The thunder that followed made the anti-aircraft fire sound puny.
Aubrey blinked at the purple after-vision. He shook his head to clear it but his ears were still ringing as he scanned the sky. Lightning lanced across the black wall of cloud, ragged rips in the heavens, leaking brightness that made his eyes water.
How was he going to spy a bomb dropped in such conditions?
Wedged between the stairs and the side of the chateau, Aubrey extended his magical awareness, hoping to detect any magical emanations from falling bombs. It was a forlorn hope but desperation often gave birth to such unexpected offspring.
Even with his senses – mundane and magical – so attuned, Aubrey nearly missed the particular lightning bolt amid the garish display the heavens had become. In the split-second he had, he realised it was because of foreshortening – he didn’t see it because it was coming directly toward him.
The next thing Aubrey knew he was lying in the rhododendron bushes near where his beret was lodged. The noises about him were muffled and dim. When he stood, on shaky legs, he realised he’d been deafened by the blast that had flung him sideways. Numbly, he contemplated the diamonds scattered on the ground at his feet for a few seconds, before he realised that they were actually fragments of glass. A soldier grabbed his arm, shouted something and pointed up, then ran toward the stairs of the chateau.
Pull yourself together, Aubrey admonished himself. He untangled his beret and held it in his trembling fingers. He smelled burning and looked up.
All the windows on the top floor of the chateau – the third – were gone. He couldn’t see flames, but what he saw on the roof of the building finally stirred his feet into action.
Giant electrical figures were capering about, swinging from antenna masts, skating along wires, dancing on chimneys, a horde in a manic, sparking frenzy.
Aubrey ran for the stairs, bent double, for the skyfleet was rolling directly overhead. It was a vast, oppressive presence, bringing a howling wind that came from all directions. The storm cannoned into Aubrey and sent him reeling. Only by throwing out a hand and catching the newel post of the stairs was he able to prevent himself from being hurled away from the entrance.
Inside, the chateau was pandemonium as military personnel from privates to generals either tried to flee the assault on the chateau or assist the injured who were staggering down the stairs.
Aubrey sprinted in that direction and swam against the current, mounting the stairs as fast as he could, while hoping that Caroline had managed to find safety with Bertie.
He was alone when he burst out onto the flat area between the turrets, the erstwhile site of the antenna array, just in time to see the last of the electrical fiends cavort on top of the flagpole, which had – until a few minutes ago – flown the Gallian flag. Its rough human shape and its magic left Aubrey in no doubt that it was a cousin to the creature he’d defeated on the roof of the Divodorum base, but before he could do anything the flagpole exploded in a hail of splinters that sent him sprawling to protect his face.
When Aubrey rolled to his feet, the malicious sprite had vanished. The flagpole was a blackened stub amid the slag and shreds of wire that had once been a carefully aligned antenna array.