Cartomancy

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “It is what I am doing.” I let my eyes half lid. “Stop me if you are able.”

  “I am more than capable.” He drew both of his swords and held them out to the sides, their points raised to heaven. He brought the right sword down in a slash. Drums began to pound to the east and that wing of his army marched forward. The other blade fell, and that half of the kwajiin force began its assault.

  He crossed the bridge, then paused. Flaming arrows sailed from behind his lines and ignited that bridge. Grey tendrils of smoke swirled forward and around him. He advanced to the circle’s edge, then crossed his blades over his chest. “I have dueled with gods and won.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve had dreams I thought were real, too.”

  He shook his head. “Enough of this. If you want to kill me, try. Succeed or fail, it will not change the outcome of the battle.”

  I opened my hands. “Let your steel talk.”

  On either side of us, the battle unfolded. Arrows darkened the sky. Men pitched screaming from battlements. Swaths of blue-skinned warriors fell transfixed. The wounded cursed and moaned or just sighed and died, bloodstained fingers trying to staunch rivers of blood. Assault ladders rose, and men with polearms pushed them back. More men fell as ballistae launched clouds of spears.

  Above it all, with smoke rising in a dark grey swirl, the wounded bear banner flew high over Deraelkun.

  And below the fortress, Gachin Dost and I dueled.

  Twin blades flashed and rang as we parried. Swords whistled through empty cuts and grasses pealed as we landed from leaps. The sting of pain, the flow of blood, minor cuts that but for a twist or slip would have cost a limb or opened an artery. A hard parry with two swords trapping a third, which whipped away through the smoke. Another sword plucked from a corpse, slashing, tracing a red line above a knee, and another clipping inches from flowing locks or harvesting an ear.

  We closed and passed, more feeling each other than seeing in the smoke; our movements cloaked, the sounds smothered by the din of battle. A quick cut severed lacings so a breastplate hung loose, and another freed it all the way. A bracer stopped a cut, but mail links parted and gnawed at the flesh beneath. A thrust, a grunt and finger probing a wound to the belly.

  We sprang apart, chests heaving, blood flowing from nicks and cuts. Sweat ran into them, igniting pain in places I did not know I’d been wounded. I tore away the ragged armored skirts that had meant to protect my legs. I hunched forward, feeling every year of my age, and eons more, then licked my lips and beckoned him forward.

  Gachin, black hair pasted to his face with sweat and blood, smiled easily. “You will not kill me.”

  “That was never my plan.” I nodded toward the south. “I just wanted to kill your army.”

  Above us, the wounded-bear banner descended on the tower’s pinnacle, and a tiger-hunting banner took its place.

  “Another desire that will be thwarted.”

  I shook my head. “It’s already been fulfilled.”

  The troops that had left Deraelkun had gone north, then worked west and back south through smuggler trails to flank the kwajiin army. They had met with very good fortune, as a breathless runner had informed Count Derael, because they’d encountered the First Naleni Dragons Regiment and a full battalion of Keru Guards. This added a third to their number and increased the competency of the task force Deshiel and Ranai had led from Deraelkun. The raising of my banner was the signal for them to begin their attack, which would take the kwajiin left wing in the flank.

  I couldn’t hear commotion from where they were supposed to strike, for it had been my right ear that was taken. Gachin must have heard something, however, for his eyes narrowed and his lips peeled back in a snarl. He knew, as I’d known, that the only chance his people had of breaking the flanking attack would be a coordinated withdrawal of the left wing and a counterattack by the reserves from the right.

  But with him trapped on a smoke-shrouded island, he couldn’t give the orders that would save his forces.

  So he tried to kill me before his army died.

  We became the stuff of smoke ourselves, save that we bled. Swords did not clang, but hissed. Parries misdirected, not deflected, and a blocking blade twisted up and around in a riposte before the tremor of its hitting the other blade had reached the wielder’s shoulder. We spun away from attacks, slid into others, gliding low and striking high, leaping higher and slashing downward. Unseen blades whispered past each other, cold metal seeking warm flesh, hunting a fluid sanctuary where all fighting would cease.

  And then he did it. He feinted low with a slash and I leaped over it. Gachin lunged as I came down, then drew his elbow back and thrust again, a heartbeat after my left sword had swept past. His sword pierced my chest on the left side, halfway between my nipple and the other scar I’d long borne there. He slid it home to the hilt, and his face, contorted with hatred and matted with blood, color vivid around his amber eyes, emerged from the smoke and thrust straight at mine.

  I know he meant to say something, something I could dwell on as he ripped his blade free, slashing it from between my ribs. He’d have taken my left arm off at the elbow as well, then spun, harvesting my head in one fluid motion. It would have been a thing of beauty, an ending to a duel that would have been sung of for generations, and might have earned me a monument at the foot of Deraelkun.

  But such monuments have never been to my taste.

  I snapped my head forward, driving my forehead into his face before he could yank his blade free. His nose cracked and blood gushed. His head jerked back and I drove mine forward again, smashing him in the mouth. Teeth broke and slashed my forehead bloody. Ivory chips sprayed over my face, and blood painted my lips and throat.

  He started to twist his sword in my side, but my right knee rose and crushed his groin. It occurred to me that kwajiin might not be as men are—I’d not checked any of those I’d slain—but my fear was unfounded. I slammed my knee up again, as hard as I could. His breath exploded, spraying me with blood and saliva, then a third blow from my forehead into his face pitched him backward.

  He staggered and tried to remain on his feet. He still clutched a sword in his left hand, but stabbed it into the ground in an attempt to stay upright. He caught a heel on a corpse and tumbled back. His sword sprang out of his grasp, and I pounced, stabbing one sword through his belly and deep into the ground.

  And then, ruined though it was, I took his head as a trophy. I stood slowly, still transfixed by his sword. I raised his head by the hair, blood still dripping from the neck, and as the smoke parted, I displayed it to one and all.

  Strike the head from a snake and the body will die.

  By the end of the day, the kwajiin army had receded from the walls of Tsatol Deraelkun, and the mountain fortress remained unconquered.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  3rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Voraxan

  Ciras Dejote stood outside the circle between the fountain and the steps to the ruby tower, wearing his best robe. It had seen better days—though he had patched the white silk as best he could. The red embroidery that worked a flame pattern had faded a little, and the intensity of the red sash had been dulled. Still, it was the best he had to wear, and he would not disappoint the Empress by appearing in anything worse.

  Tsirin Donitsa, the man they had first met in Voraxan, stood opposite him, at the bottom of the stairs. “Ciras Dejote, you have passed all examinations save this last. You have impressed us with your skills and your diligence. Your tales of adventure through the journey here have also pleased us. Pass this last test and you will surely be suited to joining our number and serving the Sleeping Empress.”

  Ciras bowed to him, then to the half dozen men and women standing at the top of the palace steps. They had examined him and Borosan both, though the two men
had been segregated so neither knew the nature of the tests the other had endured. For Ciras, it had been endless repetitions of fighting forms. Sometimes he was to move through a progression of forms as called out by his examiner. Other times he was called upon to strike and maintain a form, and once his examiner walked away for a time before returning and calling another.

  They examined everything he did, from waking to sleep. Another time, all of that would have driven him utterly mad, but he reached inside and embraced the peace of Voraxan. So close to his goal, he did not want to do anything that would get him rejected.

  The only thing that had caused him any trepidation was telling them about the time spent in Tolwreen. While he felt that Borosan was probably right and that only those who sought the Sleeping Empress with the right thoughts in mind could find her, he found it very easy to believe that her guardians might think he was a spy. After all, the vanyesh had trusted him and he had betrayed them, so why couldn’t he do that to Cyrsa’s people?

  His examiners listened to his story without much reaction, save for evident pleasure when he described having to kill two Turasynd to effect their escape. Ciras supposed that killing Turasynd was the one thing they had in common, and he hoped that bond would be enough to carry him through the examinations.

  Aside from the tests, the stay in Voraxan had been quite pleasant. He’d been given an emerald home all to himself and found it very restful. If he sat in the center of the largest chamber and closed his eyes, he could hear the surf crashing against the beach at Dejotekun on Tirat. When he breathed in, he caught the tang of salt air and the calls of gulls echoed through his head.

  Dreams there became quite vivid, and he found himself home again, walking through the gardens in the morning. From what Borosan had told him about the sun, it would be up in Tirat hours before dawn in Ixyll, so his dreams allowed him to wander with his mother in the garden. She couldn’t see him or hear him, of course, but he heard her and shared her delight as his older brother brought his children around for visits.

  Most curious of all, no blood nor war entered his dreams. He would have thought he’d relive the exercises or the lessons in which he’d originally learned the forms, but he didn’t. Even in recounting how he’d slain the Turasynd, he presented things in a matter-of-fact manner that dulled the impact of the event.

  Even the vanyesh sword seemed at peace. While the writing on it did shift, it did so slowly and with no urgency. Though he could not read it, he imagined the lines being from a poem about a woman wandering through an orchard, plucking ripe plums. He tried to remember such a poem but couldn’t. That didn’t surprise him, for most of the poems he’d learned had been of a martial nature—but then he found himself unable to recall any of them.

  Tsirin pointed to the circle with an open hand. “Advance, Ciras Dejote.”

  Ciras bowed and entered the circle.

  The slender warrior stepped into it opposite him. He drew his sword and assumed the first Dragon form. “Your final test is to slay me.”

  Ciras shook his head. He drew his vanyesh sword and scabbard from the red sash and laid it on the ground, then knelt and sat back on his heels. “I will not kill you. I will not fight you.”

  Tsirin stalked forward to the center of the circle and dropped into third Wolf. “Your final test is to slay me.”

  “I will not.” Ciras bowed deeply to the man and remained low. “When we entered Voraxan, you bid us the peace of the city. Dwelling here, I have only known peace. To strike you down would be to violate the peace of this place—meaning I should never be worthy of it.”

  Tsirin’s feet appeared inches from his head. “Your final test is to slay me.”

  Ciras came up and let his hands rest in his lap. The man towered over him, his blade raised and ready to fall. Part of Ciras knew that if he were to lean left and flick his right leg out, he could sweep Tsirin’s legs from beneath him. By the time the man hit the ground, Ciras could draw his sword and kill him, then resheathe the blade before blood spattered the onyx.

  He simply shook his head. “May the peace of Voraxan be yours.”

  The Imperial warrior retreated three steps and slid his blade home. He bowed deeply, then knelt. The other warriors strode down the steps and into the circle. From behind Ciras, Borosan and his thanatons came into the circle. The inventor, smiling, gave him a nod as he knelt.

  The eldest of the examiners, Vlay Laedhze, stepped to the fore of his companions and bowed to the two travelers. “It has been a long time since any have come here. Through the years there have been some, though Ixyll has been harsh. Of those who do make it to Voraxan, very few pass this last test. I congratulate you.”

  Ciras bowed his head. “Thank you, and thank you for the peace we have known. I am loath to shatter it, but I need to speak with the Empress. We must waken her.”

  Vlay shook his shaved head. “I’m afraid that is quite impossible.”

  “But we need her. The vanyesh and Turasynd are allied. The Nine are fighting, and the vanyesh say Nelesquin is returning. They are planning to bring to fruition the plans they made before the Cataclysm, and without the Empress’ help, there will be no chance of stopping them.”

  “We understand this, Ciras Dejote, but complying with your request is impossible.”

  “But is this not what you wait for?” Ciras opened his arms. “Everyone here, sleeping in Voraxan, dreaming of peace and those they love, of homes they’ve left and promised to defend, aren’t you all sworn to return to the Nine in a time of trouble?”

  Tsirin shook his head. “We are sworn to answer the Empress’ call to action.”

  “Yes, exactly.” Ciras pointed to the ruby tower. “If we do not waken her and explain the situation to her, how is it that she can issue that call? You must let me waken her so she can decide if the time to call you is now.”

  Vlay frowned. “We have not made ourselves clear, Master Dejote. We await her call. We would gladly let you waken her so she could issue that call, but we cannot.”

  “Why not?”

  Vlay glanced at the ground. “We cannot because the Empress is no longer here.”

  “What?” Ciras’ mouth hung open. “She’s not here? We came all this way, and she’s not here?”

  “No, she is not.” Vlay’s grey-eyed gaze flicked up. “She departed many years ago, over five hundred by our reckoning. She said that when the time came, she would send word, and we were to come. So, here we wait.”

  “I don’t . . .” Ciras scrubbed hands over his face. “I don’t know what to think.” He glanced at Borosan. “She’s not here. They’re waiting.”

  “I know.” The inventor nodded solemnly, then looked at Vlay. “She said to tell you, ‘Unsheathe your claws, spread your wings, and answer the call you have waited so long to hear.’ Evil times have come to the Nine, and she bids you march with all haste.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  3rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Tsatol Pelyn, Deseirion

  Keles joined Rekarafi at the easternmost point of the moat. The excavation had sunk it to all of five feet, but the canal had not been completed and, as the sun set, the chances of water ever filling the moat again were nonexistent. Keles handed the Viruk a waterskin, then looked further east. There, a half mile off, the Eyeless Ones had drawn up in companies nine wide and deep. He’d counted eighty-one companies, meaning the enemy numbered almost three times the refugees.

  And most of us are old or young, and all of us are exhausted.

  The Eyeless Ones were not the only troops the invaders arrayed against them. The monkeys skittered around the ranks and another company of large creatures lurked in the center. Hulking beasts with four arms, they reminded Keles of the Viruk, save that they were much bigger and had an extra pair of taloned hands.

  He glanced at Rekarafi. “Wha
t are they waiting for?”

  Water gushed down over his chin and chest as the Viruk lowered the waterskin. “Night. They’re blind. We will be at a disadvantage.”

  Keles shook his head. Though everyone had worked slavishly rebuilding the fortress, they’d barely been able to raise a five-foot wall on the old foundation. The fact that he saw no siege machinery amid the enemy ranks meant the wall would hold for a bit.

  “I don’t think they need any more of an advantage.”

  “But they will likely have one.” The Viruk pointed east toward a dark line of thunderheads moving toward them. “By midnight the rain will be here. We won’t see them until they are two hundred yards off.”

  “We don’t stand a chance, do we?”

  The Viruk’s lips peeled back in a terrible smile, revealing needle-sharp teeth. “I have seen such situations before.”

  “And you survived? Then there is hope for us yet.”

  Rekarafi shook his head and pointed east. “I was in their position.”

  “Oh.” Keles’ shoulders slumped, aching with the exertion of the day. “You’ve never been a defender?”

  “I have. I was in the company of heroes.” He looked back toward the peasants swarming over the walls. “They have been heroic, but they are not heroes.”

  “Yeah.” Keles shook his head as the Viruk drank again. “I’m sorry I got you into all this.”

  “Ha!” The Viruk crouched until he was eye to eye with Keles. “I am the one who brought myself here. My impetuous action left me in your debt. And know this, I shall be dead ere they harm a hair on your head.”

  “I don’t know if you meant that to be comforting or not, but I don’t take it that way.” Keles dug inside his robe and pulled out a small leather pouch. He weighed it in his hand, then extended it toward the Viruk. “I remember what you said when we were out west.”

  Rekarafi gave him the waterskin, then accepted the pouch. He opened it and poured a dozen white stones into his palm. He studied them for a moment, then poured them back into the pouch and flipped it back to Keles.