The New World

by Michael A. Stackpole

  A half dozen Fenn came boiling after him. They snapped and hissed, totally feral. They’d shifted into a shape perfect for killing Viruk. Long claws would slice flesh. Their teeth—longer than he’d ever seen on Shimik—would punch through bony armor. Their shape even changed with the terrain, their limbs growing longer to speed them.

  Being chased by Fennych was torture for a Viruk, but it would be paradise for the Fenn. Something was not right. The punishment was totally out of keeping with Tolwreen’s nature.

  What’s happening here?

  Facts cascaded together. Jorim cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Talrisaal, this way!”

  The Viruk and his pursuers turned toward him. Jorim looked up and smiled. He imagined the sky looked the color of rice beer. Let’s make Tolwreen work for us.

  Thunder cracked and sheets of the liquid sloshed up around his ankles. The Viruk slipped and slid past in the beer pond. The Fenn all happily dove into it, plunging their muzzles in deep. They greedily sucked up the frothy liquid then flopped onto their backs. Their little distended bellies pointed skyward. They opened their mouths, drank themselves insensible.

  Jorim splashed over to the Viruk. “Let’s get the mask off.”

  The Viruk held still while Jorim checked the mask. No seams. He applied magic, looking for the mask’s truth.

  Very clever! He smiled. The mask didn’t really exist. It consisted entirely of resistance to Viruk magic. Talrisaal could never have removed it. Jorim rebalanced the mai and the mask vanished.

  The Viruk stared at him, then rolled over and buried his face in the mud. “I thought hearing your voice was another illusion of this place. You have saved me again, Wentoki.”

  “I’m not Wentoki, Talrisaal.” Jorim frowned. “I have been Wentoki, but now I am just a man, trapped just like you. Do you know how long…”

  The Viruk looked up. Rice beer washed mud from his hair and face. “A long time. Nessagafel consigned me to this place. I betrayed him to you. He made your creatures my torment.”

  Jorim glanced over his shoulder. “They’re not real Fenn, just demons. Nessagafel doesn’t understand real Fenn.”

  Thunder cracked again and viscous sheets of rain poured down. The Fenn melted into skeletal demons with hooked horns and gnashing incisors designed to strip flesh from the bone in seconds. Another blast of rain completely drowned them in a quagmire.

  The Viruk slowly stood and the rain tapered off. “If you are not Wentoki, how did you come to be in this place?”

  “You and I have a common enemy. Nessagafel.”

  The Viruk bobbed his head. “A nasty enemy.”

  “None worse.” Jorim looked up. “No more rain. I think that’s because we’re not thinking about ourselves anymore.”

  Talrisaal’s honey-colored eyes tightened. “This may be true. Self-centeredness is punished here.”

  “If acting selflessly is all it takes to get out of here…”

  Even as Jorim spoke, the landscape changed. Cool green grass grew beneath their feet and a small, spring-fed pool formed. A small stream began to trickle out of it and back toward the rise over which Talrisaal had run. It eroded the ground and created a massive mud slide. The purple wave cut a swath through the valley nearly a mile wide. Bodies bobbed and sank. People screamed and, for a heartbeat, the unaffected escaped their torments. Demons evaporated. Flames vanished. Chains fell away and the sticks impaling so many evaporated.

  Drowning people begged to be saved. Many just watched. Then one heaved a heavy stone at a drowning person. The stone rebounded from the target. It accelerated and snapped the thrower in half. His torso landed in a tangle of crystalline cactus while his lower half crawled aimlessly across the ground.

  Talrisaal held a hand out. “If they would just help one another, they could escape.”

  “It won’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look at them. They have so long used the power of magic that they think themselves gods. You see, that’s the ultimate jest here. They all thought to rival the gods. When Tsiwen created Tolwreen she made it a place where you had to fight yourself. The only way you win that battle is to admit you can’t win. You accept your limitations, work to change them, and move on. They will never escape.”

  The Viruk slowly nodded. “But we are not trapped here?”

  “No. A god put you in here to punish you. You’re not part of this.”

  “And you?”

  “I got here by accident.” Jorim pointed toward the ground. “I’ve got to return to Heaven and get Nessagafel back under control. But first, I have to go through seven more Hells.”

  “Might I accompany you, Lord Wentoki?”

  “I’d be glad to have the company.” Jorim smiled. “When we get to the Fifth Hell, we can hunt down the demons who were chasing you.”

  The Viruk grinned and, for the first time ever, Jorim could appreciate the display of sharp teeth. “This would please me.”

  “Good. By the way, my name is Jorim.” He pointed to the pool. “I think we dive in, swim all the way to the bottom, and we’ll come out the other end in the Seventh Hell.”

  The Viruk scratched at his chin. “That is the one we call Icsdayr. For us, it is the land of predators.”

  “Mungdok is what we call it.” Jorim shook his head. “Blasphemers, murderers, politicians, and dishonest merchants are what we have there. Predators sums it up pretty well.”

  “We shall not be prey.” The Viruk leaned forward and dove into the water. A few bubbles rose.

  “No indeed, not prey.” Jorim smiled, dove, and escaped the Eighth Hell.

  Chapter Thirty

  16th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Imperial Road North, Moriande

  Nalenyr

  Nelesquin caught himself on both hands. Weakness would not prostrate him. Sweat coated him and stung his eyes. He tried to raise his left knee from the carpet. He failed and sank back, taking most of his weight on his shins and thighs. His arms still threatened to buckle, then another jolt of pain ripped up his spine.

  A cough wracked him. Lightning shot through his vision. His eyes threatened to burst. He gasped, gulping air. The pain drained and muscles quivered, but he still refused to collapse.

  I will not have them find me thus. He licked his lips, tasting salt.

  He forced himself to breathe normally. The drumming of his heart gradually faded. He resisted the urge to thrust himself to his feet. He’d faint. He’d done it twice so far on the trip and would not repeat the mistake.

  The outer tent flap snapped open, splashing dawn light over the thin inner curtain. He forced himself up and caught the edge of his cot, but couldn’t summon the strength to pull himself onto it.

  Kaerinus slipped quietly into his sleeping chamber. “Another spell, my lord?”

  Nelesquin nodded, then shifted to sitting on the edge of the cot. “I know why they are happening, but I do not understand why they become more debilitating as we move closer to Moriande. I did not suffer at all on Anturasixan.”

  “Proximity means nothing, my lord. You have been parted from your soul for a very long time. You seek reunion with it. Your body, your spirit, they reach out constantly, and this drains you. The sooner we reach Moriande and take it, the sooner we can locate the vessel and reunite you with your soul.”

  “Yes, that must be done.” Nelesquin reached over and pulled a blanket around himself. “I pray the search will not take much time.”

  “I imagine we shall find it directly. I shall perfect a spell to find it, though my lord’s precautions have not made that simple.”

  Nelesquin snorted. “But they were necessary. You successfully severed my soul from my body.”

  Kaerinus nodded. “I bound it into a ruby.”

  “And you passed it to another who bound it int
o something else, and he passed it to yet another.”

  The slender vanyesh tugged on the ends of his emerald sash. “And so on, through a half dozen, all of them slain afterward. Their deaths kept your soul safe.”

  “But we know it is in Moriande. This much I can feel.” Nelesquin stood and rubbed a hand over his beard. “The taking of Moriande will accomplish two things. My Empire will be reunified, and I shall be reunified. Then even the gods will tremble.”

  Kaerinus bowed his head. “I have no doubt they tremble even now, my lord.”

  “Flattery does not become you, Kaerinus. You were not a flatterer when I knew you before.”

  “I have spent much time alone, Highness, and have practiced flattering myself.” The xingnaridin smiled. “I do not know why your spells did not affect you on Anturasixan, but I suspect it is because, in that place, the rules governing death were blunted. It allowed you to escape from the Underworld.”

  “You’re doubtlessly correct. The sooner we take Moriande the better.”

  The blanket slipped from Nelesquin’s naked body. He shuffled across to the wooden stand from which hung his golden skeleton. It, naturally, stood almost as tall as he did. He turned and pressed his back to it. The cool metal chilled his flesh, then he invoked a spell.

  The metal warmed and the skeleton flowed onto his flesh. The heavy bones split, armoring shin and thigh, forearm and upper arm, with their halves up and back. Thin gold bands linked them at three points, holding them in place. Golden ribs plated his chest, and vertebrae thinned into overlapping strips covering his spine. Where collarbones joined they pooled into a gorget and below the pelvis covered his genitalia. Gold gauntlets warded his hands and the entire skeleton took on a supple vitality that supported him even when he felt weak.

  “It would not do for them to know I suffer.”

  Kaerinus shook his head. “It might dishearten them.”

  Nelesquin laughed shortly. “Not my Durrani. Nothing could take the fight out of them. No, I meant my enemies. Imagine how Soshir would laugh at my infirmity.”

  “He would laugh at his peril.” Kaerinus brought a hand up and a black-and-green butterfly picked its way over his knuckles. He watched it for a moment, then smiled. “There is news, my lord. The Anturasi arrived last night.”

  Nelesquin drew a robe on and belted it quickly. “Why was I not informed?”

  “None of us noticed.” Kaerinus pulled the curtain aside, then sped ahead of Nelesquin to open the tent flap. “When I awakened, I found this.”

  South of the army camp on a hilltop—a hill that had not existed when they had made camp—a pavilion had been erected. It dwarfed Nelesquin’s tent, and appeared to be made of granite. This feat was rendered even more remarkable by the fact that the walls fluttered in the light breeze.

  “This could be a problem.” Nelesquin’s expression darkened. “I had not expected Qiro to follow me, and I certainly had not expected his power to come with him. In fact, when I left him on Anturasixan, he was a broken old man.”

  “No more so.”

  “Agreed.” Nelesquin looked around. “Wasn’t there a Durrani regiment camped on that spot?”

  “I believe there was. The Sun Bears. They have been moved to the other side of Count Vroan’s Free Naleni Battalion. Better you had spared Pyrust, I think.”

  “Pyrust’s eventual rebellion would have been dangerous. Vroan will die in the first wave we throw at Moriande.”

  Kaerinus smiled. “I have little doubt Pyrust intended him to die at Tsengui, my lord.”

  “But Pyrust also thought Vroan had more than mere political value. I do not labor under such an illusion.” Nelesquin straightened his scarlet robe. “Shall we see what the Anturasi desires?”

  Kaerinus’ butterfly preceded them, riding nearly imperceptible breezes like a tiny ship on a storm-tossed sea. The pair threaded their way through the endless rows of tents. They’d been gathered beneath their unit standards, with slit trenches dug to the east and water drawn from streams to the west. Smoke from cookfires created a low haze hiding some of the more-distant tents, and Nelesquin enjoyed the fact that his army was so vast he could not easily see from one end to the other.

  Qiro’s hill did provide him more perspective, and that pleased him. In addition to his Durrani troops, he had levies from the Five Princes and mercenary companies joining him. New groups came on in the army’s wake and, to the south, an encampment swelled with those who habitually follow armies.

  The question of how to announce himself was rendered moot when the stone flaps slid apart like theater curtains. Guttering torches illuminated a spare interior that appeared, at first, devoid of luxury. The grass underfoot, however, grew thickly and was of no native variety. Flowers blossomed, though hidden in the shadows of stone folds. Two dwarf trees had grown and bore fruit—though on one tree the fruit came in the shape of roasted capons.

  Qiro, wearing a white robe featuring a simple gold circle as a crest, bowed his head in greeting. “Your visit pleases me to no end, Highness.”

  Nelesquin smiled, hoping Qiro’s good mood would last. “You have no idea how much your joining us pleases me, Master Anturasi. You should have informed us of your arrival.”

  “I did not wish to disturb your rest, Highness.”

  “You must have news. Have you prepared another womb-land to breed more of my creatures?”

  Qiro nodded, but his white brows contracted in a frown. “It was not easy. I cannot bring them to maturity rapidly.”

  “How can that be?”

  Qiro shrugged dismissively. “You know the nature of magic, Highness. Anturasixan was a place of my creation, so I was the supreme master there. What I wished to happen, did happen. Here, there is a complication. You see, in Moriande, in my tower, I created a map of the world. It was exacting in every detail. I created it with jaedun, before I realized what I was doing. It has become an artifact of great magical power. It is a focus of power, even, and it limits me.”

  “It did not limit you splitting Helosunde and Nalenyr. I saw you do that digging your heel through mud.”

  “True, Highness, but it is because no one else understood my map and its significance.” Qiro plucked an orange fruit from the other tree and sank long fingernails into it. “It seems that someone who does understand has studied it. Before, it was completely mutable. Now, with another in possession of it, my control is not absolute.”

  “You are powerless because of a map in Moriande?”

  “Powerless?” Qiro bounced a piece of the rind off Nelesquin’s chest. “Was this hill here yesterday? No? Will it be tomorrow? Only if I will it to be. I have power beyond your wildest dreams. And the meddler will know my power, my wrath.”

  Nelesquin plucked a bit of white rind from his breast, sniffed it, then cast it aside. Their gazes met: Qiro’s, angry and resolute; Nelesquin’s so very cold. It would have been the work of a heartbeat to cross the room and snap Qiro’s neck, but Nelesquin needed him still.

  “Master Anturasi, when I ask you a question, it is not done to embarrass you, but rather as a solicitation of information. If another’s possession of this map causes difficulties, then I shall take all steps necessary to remove the obstacle. Now, you have said this map is in your tower in Moriande. We must not destroy the building then, correct?”

  “Yes, true.” Qiro frowned. “It must be taken intact. No Anturasi blood may be spilled. That must be clear. You shed none of my blood.”

  “I shall pass the word to my commander. The focus of our assault is to the west of your tower. If you would be so kind as to draw us a map…”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Nelesquin’s nostril’s flared. “You try my patience.”

  “Have you not listened? I told you the map I created is hampering my ability to effect change in the world. If I were to draw you a map of Moriande with the walls in place, the walls would be in place. Your creatures could vent their fury on them for eternity and they would not fall.”

&nbs
p; “Then draw me a Moriande with no walls.”

  Qiro’s fist convulsed, spraying juice, then he flung the pulped fruit away. “You do not listen! My map already shows Moriande with walls. They exist. I cannot stop them from existing by drawing a new map. I can add details. I can make the unknown known. I cannot make the known unknown. I cannot render the unreal real with the stroke of a brush. Not now, not before I possess the map.”

  Nelesquin scowled. He wanted to remind Qiro that he’d mastered magic eons before Qiro had ever set brush to paper. For Nelesquin, magic was simple. He looked at reality, then imagined a different reality. Through an act of will he created what he desired. The process was not always a simple one, but as strong-willed as he was, it had always been effective.

  He understood Qiro’s plight with the map, even though it was no true problem. Having a focus for working magic was common enough. Kaerinus and his butterflies were a minor example. Nelesquin had come to magic through swordsmanship. He saw a sword as his focus—at least at the beginning of his career. He had since moved beyond it.

  Qiro might, too.

  A chill slid down Nelesquin’s spine. Qiro was wielding power that was all but unimaginable. In fact, it was unstoppable. This critical map might be the only means of controlling Qiro and that would be valuable beyond belief.

  In that moment, Nelesquin realized that either he or Qiro would be master of the world. Qiro was incapable of sharing power, as was Nelesquin. He would have to destroy Qiro.

  And he was equally certain Qiro had come to the same realization about him.

  Nelesquin smiled. “Master Anturasi, if it is your old home that you seek, with your kith and kin hale and hearty, so it shall be. We shall secure it and keep your chattels safe against all onslaughts. Doing that shall be the first installment on repaying the debt we owe you.”

  Qiro nodded as if he were already the Emperor. “It is the key to the world. If you wish to rule, you must possess it.”

  “Possess it? Not I.” Nelesquin bowed his head. “Inside a week, you shall be in your home again. The wrongs of the past shall be made right again, and a brilliant future shall be ours to enjoy.”