The New World

by Michael A. Stackpole

  He peered closely at the cords. “Yes, I see the little bronze tiger charm under there.”

  “That’s Chado, the tiger of heaven. Look at the handguard. You see the dragon at the top of the disk? That means the swords were manufactured before the fall of civilization. They also mean the swords belonged to a member of the Emperor’s Bodyguards.”

  Dunos nodded. “Virisken Soshir.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  He looked up. “Why did Count Derael give these swords to you?”

  “He didn’t give them to me, Dunos.” I met his wondering stare openly. “He returned them to me.”

  Dunos’ brows arrowed together.

  “The thing Kaerinus healed was not the scar, but the memories I’d lost when I was so badly hurt. I’m not Moraven Tolo, not really. I’m Virisken Soshir.”

  The boy blinked, not comprehending.

  I couldn’t blame him. I’d found that realization completely alien, and yet I’d also known it was true. Somehow, over five hundred years had passed between the time I rode with Empress Cyrsa to Ixyll and found myself at Serrian Jatan. My former apprentice became my master, never revealing to me who I really was. In retrospect it was easy to see he’d known all along but had never seen fit to tell me.

  Dunos pushed through his confusion and focused again. “Didn’t the Gloon say you were going to die?”

  “No. He said because I now know who I truly am, I’m free to die. But I’ve been close a number of times, and I really have no taste for it.”

  “Me, neither.”

  I reached out and tousled his brown hair. “That’s good. I don’t want you dying. You have a long life ahead of you.”

  He shrugged. “I’m pretty good at avoiding the vhangxi. They’ve hit me a couple times, but it hasn’t hurt.”

  “Excellent.”

  “So, you were a warrior a long time ago?”

  “I was the last Emperor’s bodyguard. I was one of his sons—not a prince like Nelesquin, but I was trusted nonetheless. Then the Turasynd came.”

  “That was a long time ago. You’re alive because you’re a Mystic, right?”

  That was the obvious answer. I was alive, in part, due to being a Mystic. But Phoyn Jatan, who had been younger than me, was now far older. It should have been impossible that I had somehow skipped several hundred years of aging, but I’d met Ryn Anturasi. Count Derael said Ryn had given my swords to his ancestor, and yet he was hale and hearty when I met him. Moreover, he had some odd conveyance that had transported me from the heart of Ixyll to Erumvirine in the blink of an eye. Given evidence that he could instantly travel vast distances and perhaps even through time, I had to assume that he found me and brought me forward to be healed and retrained as Moraven Tolo.

  “I think you’re right, Dunos.” I frowned. “You’ve seen the scar, though. Someone wanted me dead, and I don’t know why.”

  The boy shrugged with the confident carelessness of a child. “It had to have been Prince Nelesquin. He was your enemy.”

  “Life is never as clear-cut as bards’ tales.” I wanted to elaborate, but a thought occurred to me. The Time of Black Ice and the war against the Turasynd had created two key figures: the Empress Cyrsa and Prince Nelesquin. She waited, sleeping, to save the former Empire. He was evil incarnate and the source of all the hardships that had befallen the world. His vanyesh were demonized. And various other heroes, like Amenis Dukao, had their cycle of stories, which never let common citizens forget the great sacrifices made to stop the Turasynd.

  But Virisken Soshir remained virtually unknown. I’d learned a great deal about him, but only from Phoyn. The stories about Cyrsa seldom included anyone even close to me, and even when they did, my name was mangled beyond recognition. Granted, some of the stories Phoyn told me were unpleasant, I had clearly not been an easy taskmaster. But I’m sure the people I’d led from Kelewan would agree with that assessment.

  Ranai Ameryne would. In our escape from Kelewan, I’d used a crowd of hopeless souls to distract the enemy so we could break through their siege lines. Though memories of my life as Virisken were distant, disorganized, and fragmented, at the time I felt no difficulty with what I had done. Virisken, an Imperial bastard, had no qualms about using his inferiors. I had been ambitious—easily the equal of my half brother—so a conflict between us was inevitable.

  Thinking on it now, however, I did feel remorse. I’d told Ranai that the people were destined to die anyway, and that some of them might escape. I didn’t believe it, but I also did nothing to help them. If I had turned my force and attacked, more of them might have gotten away. We surely could have pulled some out with us.

  But would one or two, or even a dozen, have made any difference? Virisken would have said no because they were homeless peasants being driven before the invaders. People like them always fell to advancing warriors, just as mice fell prey to hawks. It was the way of the world.

  But that was the attitude of a bastard child who believed himself better than his legitimate kin. He should have been in line for the throne. He would rule more efficiently and better than they had. However, the chances of his attaining that throne were nonexistent.

  Unless there was a revolt and a new dynasty replaced the old.

  I shivered, because the person I had once been felt no qualms about that idea either. In fact, he found it attractive.

  But I was no longer that person. That was the reason Phoyn had trained me as he had. It was not to hone my skill with a sword, but to remake me as a man. The trauma of my wounding had cost me my memory, and Phoyn made me over into the man he had perceived me to be. He saved me in more ways than one.

  I blinked. “Forgive me, Dunos, I was lost in thought.”

  “My grandfather used to…” The boy’s voice trailed off. He pursed his lips and turned his face from me.

  I reached out and turned it back as a big tear carved a track through dirt. The boy sniffed then smeared the tear across his cheek. “I’m sorry, Master.”

  “Don’t be, Dunos. I met your grandfather, remember? He was worthy of tears. Your father as well—your whole family. You’re right to mourn.”

  “I hate the vhangxi.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  Dunos pressed his lips into a tight line. “Why didn’t I die?”

  I shook my head. “I do not know, Dunos. I know you wish your family was alive. Why Grija takes one person and not another is a mystery only the gods can answer.”

  “A witch in our village said I was Grija’s pet.” Dunos spat to his left. “I hate him, too.”

  I smiled. “I expect you’re his worst nightmare, young man.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re young, you’re brave, you’re certainly not afraid of him, and others can learn from your example.” I narrowed my eyes. “He’s never been my favorite god.”

  “Why not?”

  “He may be the god of Death, but what does he do? He takes the weak and defenseless. He skulks.” I touched the hunting tiger emblazoned on my robe. “Chado is a true hunter. Wentoki the Dragon is courageous. Even the Virine bear is steadfast and strong, and Kojai is the dog of War. He’s worthy of worship, but not Grija.”

  Dunos shivered. “But Grija can trap you in any of the Nine Hells.”

  “After what we’ve seen? How scary will that be?” I shrugged. “Besides, we will have other gods to help us into Kianmang. That’s where warriors are supposed to go.”

  Dunos smiled. “And I can get in there even with my arm?”

  “I will guarantee it.” I winked at him. “I’ll tell the gods you were so great a warrior you only needed one arm.”

  He laughed and I joined him. It felt good to be laughing. The sound banished the last lingering bits of malevolence left over from the battle.

  “One thing is very important, Dunos.”

  The boy nodded. “What, Master?”

  “You have to keep hoping. The vhangxi killed your parents, but we don’t k
now that they got Matut. He may be out there looking for you.”

  The boy considered, then nodded. “And that’s why we kill the monsters. To keep him safe.”

  “Him and everyone like him.”

  Dunos stood and hauled himself up to look over the battlements. “They’ll be coming again, won’t they?”

  “And they will be ready to destroy us.”

  “Will they?” He lowered himself and stared at me.

  “Tsatol Deraelkun was meant to discourage invaders, but no one ever imagined it would stop them. The kwajiin have taken Kelewan and who knows how much more. If they bring their full force to bear, this fortress will fall.”

  The boy frowned for a moment, then looked up at me. “Now that you have these swords, you have no use for your others, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll get them. You can start teaching me.” He nodded solemnly. “Teach me well. If I’m going to Kianmang, I’m going as a swordsman.”

  Chapter Seven

  22nd 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

  Tolwreen, Ixyll

  Ciras Dejote wished he had stuck to his principles and refused to ride one of the gyanrigot mounts. Borosan had been correct. The constructs could go further and faster than horses. A virtue, certainly, but training ate up time that would have better been spent on the road home.

  The problem lay in figuring out how the things actually worked. Borosan started from the assumption that they were similar to his thanatons. He created control-slates to command them, which they dutifully obeyed. Still, the devices did nothing to provide for interaction with a rider.

  Thus began a second phase of testing and instruction that revealed the variety of hidden abilities the mounts possessed. When a rider swung into the saddle, for example, armored plates fanned out from the mount’s shoulders to protect his legs. This led Borosan to examine the creations even more closely. He modified control-slates so the mounts would respond to pressure on switches: if a rider pressed in with a left knee, the mount would turn right—and the amount of pressure would determine how tight the turn would be.

  And they could be quite tight. Ciras shifted his shoulders. The bruising was almost gone, but some of the stiffness remained. He’d decided to see how sharply one of the mounts could turn midgallop. He dug his right knee in hard. The gyanrigot pivoted on its left fore-hoof and came about immediately, launching Ciras into the air. He hit hard on his back and bounced, then found the mount standing there, stock-still.

  Borosan had helped him to his feet. “It would seem, Master Dejote, the gyanrigot are capable of things humans cannot withstand. I will make sure that will not happen again.”

  “No. Make no changes to hobble the mounts.”

  The inventor looked askance at him. “I thought you did not like these things.”

  “I do not. But I would not ask a swordsmith to dull a blade because a clumsy student might cut himself.”

  So as much as he disliked the metal mounts, he forced himself to master riding one. He pushed himself to become the expert, and then helped instruct others. He even made suggestions to Borosan that further refined the mounts’ capabilities.

  He enjoyed training the others; it made him feel worthy. He turned in the saddle as they rode through a glass valley in Ixyll and studied the twisted reflections of the heroes. Three companies of warriors, Mystics all, who had survived the battle with the Turasynd and the Cataclysm. These were people who had been legends in the Empire. They had kept faith with their leader, and over seven hundred years later answered the call to duty once again.

  Vlay Laedhze rode up beside him, his shaved head protected by a leather helmet. “You seem amused, Master Dejote.”

  Ciras shook his head. “More amazed. I have long dreamed of being a hero. I wanted to be worthy to have served with you. Even so, I cannot imagine doing what you have done.”

  “Surviving? Remaining faithful?” The elder warrior shrugged. “These are really little things. Survival, well…is there another choice? Survival depends so much on chance. Why would an arrow take a man standing beside me and not me? Arrows do not target the virtuous or the malign; and those shot in volleys fall without the true intent of the archer.”

  The man smiled slightly. “And faith, how difficult is that? You make a decision and you choose not to question it. You honor the wisdom you exhibited when you made the choice.”

  “And what if it was a mistake?”

  “Then you must honor the wisdom that has shown you the mistake. You rectify it.”

  “That is not always easy.”

  “Do you think you have made a mistake, Master Dejote?”

  Ciras spat disgustedly, then patted the neck of the mount he rode. “I am astride one of these.”

  Vlay laughed. “It’s been a long while since I have been in the saddle, but I have no complaints. This is as fine a horse as I have ever ridden.”

  “But, Master, it is not a horse. It is a machine. A monster.”

  “And you find you like it.”

  “Yes.” Ciras shook his head. “These gyanrigot, they are evil, they truly are. They put magic in the hands of those who do not have the discipline to control it. They are a danger.”

  “A danger to whom, Ciras?”

  “To the world. To peace. Things like this mount, or a gyanrigot sword, or one of Borosan’s thanatons, can convince anyone that he is a warrior. Armies can be raised and equipped and nations can be destroyed.”

  “And how is this different from the magic you possess?”

  “I have spent years perfecting my skills. I am aware of what I can do, how badly I can hurt others.”

  “And have you ever attacked anyone without just cause?”

  Ciras shook his head. “Of course not.”

  “Then you are a very fortunate man.” Vlay gestured toward the east. “You were raised to see us as heroes, but we were—and still are—humans like you. We have made mistakes. Take the Turasynd war, for example. The Turasynd invaded, but why? Are they just evil, raiding for the sake of plunder?”

  “That is what I learned.” Ciras studied the man’s distant expression. “Is that not what happened?”

  “I believe it is, but I have heard many things. I’ve heard that a company of Imperial Dragons went raiding in the Wastes. Perhaps they wanted plunder. Perhaps they were out to punish the Turasynd for raiding in Deseirion. I do not know the truth of it, but I am confident there is a truth somewhere.”

  Vlay looked at him and smiled. “The reason I point this out is simple—the Imperial Dragons had the same sort of training as you, yet it did not prevent their commander from giving orders to kill women and children. Training and discipline are no brake on ambition—nor is a lack of training a license to revert to barbarism.”

  “But is it not true, Master, that a man who is aware of his responsibilities will be less likely to abandon them?”

  “True, but let us examine two situations. The first is one in which a leader you trust gives you an order to kill. He tells you the target is evil and must die for the good of the world. You do as you are bidden and, it turns out, you have just slain a poet whose only crime was to write a satire about your leader. You have acted responsibly, but you have been made into a tool for evil despite your discipline.”

  Ciras nodded. “I would be bound by honor to pursue justice and make amends.”

  “Honorable as that is, it won’t bring the poet back to life. The second case is simpler still. If discipline is the brake on ambition, then the only way to prevent war is to train everyone to wage it. If everyone was a warrior such as yourself, do you foresee a time of eternal peace?”

  Ciras started to answer, then stopped. All the training in the world might not blunt ambition. In fact, ambition could motivate training. His own ambition to become a hero was what kept him training when
he might well have quit. Another’s ambition to become emperor could drive him as I was driven.

  “You are correct. Discipline may not counter ambition. But this is no reason to put lethal weapons in the hands of those who have no understanding of what mayhem they will cause.”

  “I agree, Master Dejote. Your solution, however, is to label the tool evil.” The elder warrior shrugged simply. “I reserve my judgment for the means in which the tool is employed. You have trained with the sword. Now you will train with this metal horse. Master it. Justice will curb ambition, and, through you, a sword and a mount may serve justice well.”

  The Voraxani expedition headed southeast as quickly as possible. Because it was home to the vanyesh, Tolwreen became a target. Empress Cyrsa might not have called them forth to destroy the vanyesh, but allowing them to live would not be serving her.

  Ciras had feared the path to Tolwreen would be hidden. He and Borosan assumed the vanyesh would be watching for them, so the expedition remained alert as they approached.

  But the way to Tolwreen had neither been hidden, nor had it been guarded. They found the mountain stronghold without difficulty and even spotted their own tracks from three weeks previous. The preservation of the tracks unnerved Ciras. It was as if no time had passed, and he found it easy to imagine he would somehow see himself and Borosan escaping again.

  The tunnel at the mountain’s base gaped open like a mouth waiting to swallow them. Borosan sent two of his spider-legged thanatons in, and they returned without incident. One even brought with it a small gyanrigot mouser that was still in full working order.

  Borosan held it up. “This was the one you gave to Pravak.”

  “Did he abandon it because he knew we used it to track him, or is it bait for a trap?”

  Vlay took the mechanical kitten from Borosan. “Pravak was never terribly subtle. If he was present, he’d challenge us immediately. Shall we ride in?”

  He kicked his heels back, prompting the mount to trot forward. Ciras fell in line behind him, taking heart from the fact that the giant statues that had guarded the entrance were no longer present. Metallic hoofbeats echoed through the short tunnel, then the riders entered the heart of the mountain and spread out.