The New World

by Michael A. Stackpole

  The tiger hunters maintained a respectful distance, save one or two who growled and came closer to jab with their spears. Moraven ignored them, but Ciras batted a spear aside with his metal arm. The clang surprised the wildmen, and attracted the attention of their masters. They put a stop to further displays of bravery, which made the trip quicker.

  Kaerinus conducted them up the broad sweep of stairs to the Crown Chamber, which featured a scaled-down version of the Virine throne. A wretched-looking man sat at the base of it, bound to it by a slender gold collar and chain. A celestial disk backed the throne, recalling the days of the Empire. A half dozen kwajiin flanked it left and right.

  Nelesquin, thickly built and bearded, sat on the throne. He wore a gold robe and a simple crown. His expression brightened for just a heartbeat, then his eyes narrowed and he straightened up in the chair. He flashed a smile.

  He was big enough that, even seated, he would have been quite impressive, save for what had been done to the wall behind the throne. The Virine penchant for murals had been given full vent in the chamber, displaying heroic scenes from Virine history. The chamber’s rear wall, however, had been completely whitewashed. Over that, a fairly simple map of Moriande had been drawn and a tall, slender man with white hair stood by, apparently intent on continuing his work.

  Nelesquin rose to greet them. “My dear brother. So kind of you to visit. You’ve brought a friend.”

  Moraven bowed, though neither deep nor long. “Ciras Dejote, of Tirat. Once my apprentice, and now jaecaiserr.”

  “If you can’t kill me, he will?”

  Ciras lifted his chin. “I came merely to witness my master’s victory.” He carefully slid his scabbarded sword from his robe’s sash and set it on the ground.

  “I regret then, Master Dejote, to author your disappointment.” Nelesquin waved a hand toward the tower’s northern wall. “Behold my masterwork.”

  Ciras’ flesh tingled as magic played. Where no window had existed before, the northern wall drew back. Two small pillars, splitting the vista into three parts, provided an unobstructed view of Moriande centered on the Dragon Bridge, yet extended wide enough to display the entire length of the river.

  Nelesquin smiled. “The conquest of North Moriande begins now.” He turned and nodded to the white-haired man. “Master Anturasi, please.”

  The man bowed, then his icy blue eyes rolled up in his head and he picked up a brush.

  Keles sat bolt upright in bed. He threw off his nightclothes. The cold air shocked him. His flesh felt as if it were on fire. He understood immediately what that meant.

  Ever since the river had started to narrow, he’d felt magic pulsing through the land. That pulse had become a pounding, like a spike being driven into his skull. It amazed him that tables and chairs were not bouncing. He shivered, less now from the cool air puckering his flesh, than from identifying the magic’s source.

  Qiro.

  He lay back down, closed his eyes, and forced his consciousness within. He sought the pulses and visualized them as waves crashing on the shore of the moat at Tsatol Pelyn. He pushed inside the waves, joined them, and they propelled him into a new world.

  He found himself a giant standing astride Shirikun. The moons combed his hair. Below him people scurried about, tiny points of light, twinkling like stars.

  Contempt filled his grandfather’s voice. “You have finally decided to defy me openly.”

  Keles looked up. Qiro likewise rose as a giant above Moriande. His blue eyes had become novae that blazed with cold intensity. The old man appeared hale and hearty—years younger than when Keles had last seen him.

  He extended a brush toward the river.

  “No. Stop.”

  The unholy light in Qiro’s eyes flared. “By what stretch of the imagination do you believe you can command me?”

  “What you are doing is wrong.”

  “Wrong? Wrong? How dare you?” Qiro doubled in size and glared down at him. “I am Qiro Anturasi. I created this world. Nothing exists unless I make it so.”

  “That’s not true.” Keles steeled himself for Qiro’s fury. He hated the timorous note in his voice. He felt like a child again, cringing as Qiro berated one of his cousins. He’d always vowed he’d not find himself on the sharp side of his grandfather’s tongue.

  And yet here I am.

  “Not true? No? Who are you to say so? What are you, Keles?” Qiro’s angry words cut Keles’ flesh. “Are you anything that I did not make you? I taught you all you know, but you have been a poor student.”

  “No, I have learned more than you know.”

  “Have you?” Qiro’s tone sharpened. “I saved your sister from death. You couldn’t do that for the woman you loved, nor your mother.”

  “No, but…”

  Qiro’s laughter battered him, knocking him clear of Moriande and into the new northern swamp. “No qualifiers. No explanations. No excuses. You are nothing. This world is mine. I do with it as I wish.”

  And though Keles knew it was impossible, Qiro dipped his brush in the Gold River, and began to paint in stone.

  If not for the urgency burning in his breast, Dunos would have felt ashamed of himself. Horns blared and drums pounded, calling everyone to their posts. People shouted orders. The thunder of marching feet and the groan of ballistae being cocked echoed throughout the city. Something was happening. Something terrible. He should be there alongside Ranai and Deshiel.

  But his master needed him.

  Dunos had never known anything more clearly in his entire life. If he didn’t follow Moraven Tolo, all would be lost. He believed that with the pure and innocent conviction unknown to adults—the loss of which too often goes unlamented.

  He ran into the Inn of Nine Fishes and plunged into the sewers. He swam to where he found the rope and, taking hold with his good hand, began the long journey beneath the Gold River.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  4th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Grijakun, North Moriande

  Free Nalenyr

  Perhaps they were right after all, that taking Grijakun for my command post was tempting fate. Prince Cyron stood in its upper reaches, staring southeast toward the place where the Wolf Bridge had once stood. Though it was impossible, some invisible agency was plucking each stone from the river and layering it in place, re-creating the bridge. The stones appeared to be fluid—indeed, drops of stone fell back into the river or coated supports like wax on the side of a candle.

  Magic raked ragged claws over his flesh, and Cyron surrendered himself to it. He retreated to his matrix and watched it shift. He reached out, sending troops east, reorienting siege engines, searching for more lines. A cross the river, another matrix existed. Life pulsed along it, too. Thousands of lights burned on that side, massing at the Wolf Bridge, the Tiger Bridge, and the Bear Bridge.

  “Our strength is in one place, they come at another.”

  The last bit of the Wolf Bridge solidified. A howling horde of half humans poured across in a torrent so violent that some of Nelesquin’s troops were crushed to death against the bridge’s side rails. Broken bodies cartwheeled through the air, then splashed into the water.

  Part of that force dashed north, following the city walls, but the majority struck west along the River Road. The broad avenue allowed them to spread out. A few bled off into side streets, but most charged forward, intent on securing the Tiger Bridge footing. Magic was putting that bridge together stone by stone, and another slavering mass of wildmen waited to sprint across.

  The Empress’ Bodyguards hit the wildmen just after their leading edge had swept past Black Moon Road. The Voraxani blasted into the enemy on their metal mounts. Their charge carried halfway to the river before slowing. The warriors then cut west, bursting through the wildmen. They galloped another fifty yards, wheeled about, and c
harged again, breaking the wildmen and scattering them into the city.

  But by then the Tiger Bridge had risen again from the depths of the Gold River.

  Another horde raced north.

  The bridges rose from the river as Qiro Anturasi painted them onto his map. I measured the distance to him. I could cross it in seconds and cut him down. The kwajiin might prove a minor inconvenience, but the cartographer would die.

  Nelesquin eclipsed him. “I’ve not forgotten you, my friend. I know how you think. Cyron’s defenses might work if Qiro draws no more bridges.” He smiled. “I’ve felt it, too. He’s found his talent and mastered it. You might be right, but he won’t get a chance to finish what he’s started.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not carrying a sword. You can’t stop me.”

  He gestured. Ciras’ sword rattled across the floor, then rose to his gold-sheathed hand. “If you do not mind, Master Dejote, this will do.”

  “Would it matter if I did?”

  “No.” Nelesquin chuckled and bared the blade. “Oh, very good. This one has tasted you before, Virisken.”

  “Not when it was in your hand.”

  Nelesquin cast the scabbard aside. “Use both of your swords. I’ll let you.”

  “Draw the circle.”

  Nelesquin nodded and blue flames encircled the center of the floor. He stepped through them and bowed respectfully.

  I entered the circle and bowed in turn. I would not dishonor the art because I had no respect for the man. Yet he seemed completely unconcerned at facing me. One sword against my two would have been suicidal even for another Mystic. But Nelesquin was more than a Mystic swordsman. He had mastered magic.

  I straightened and he came for me. He slashed wildly, more Turasynd-styled fighting than any civilized discipline. His robe fluttered, flashing, his blade whistled. I ducked, dropping to a knee. The draw-cut with my right hand should have taken his right leg off at the knee.

  He leaped above the cut, whirling through a somersault at once majestic and graceful. He twisted in the air, then landed and drove back at me. He lunged, I parried. I had to whirl away, just escaping a slash at my back. I leaped above another slash that struck sparks from the floor.

  Landing, I drew my other sword and aimed a cut at his head.

  He ducked that one, but I knew he would. The sword in my right hand whipped forward. It caught Nelesquin’s sword arm at the elbow in a cut that would sever it cleanly.

  Dunos’ head broke the water’s surface and he gasped. He sucked air in, quenching the fire in his lungs. Then he waited, listening, but all he heard was the echo of water in the sewer tunnel. He waited until he caught his breath, then sloshed forward.

  He paused at the iron ladder set in the wall and looked up. He would have started climbing, but a flicker of color further on caught his eye. He stared at it. It grew larger, dancing through the air, then settled on his left hand.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The glowing green-and-black butterfly didn’t reply. It beat its wings softly, then launched itself deeper into the sewers. It flew on about ten feet, then hovered, waiting.

  Dunos followed. He worked the oilskin cover free of his sword, then bared his dagger and tucked it into his left hand. A side from the squealing of rats, the dripping of water, and his own sloshing, things remained quiet. Above people were running to and fro. It was easy to imagine that some of the dripping was blood running from the streets.

  But blood didn’t concern Dunos. War didn’t frighten him. What he dreaded most in the world was failing his master. Moraven Tolo had given him the sword. Moraven Tolo had led him in battle. He’d made Dunos Prince Iekariwynal’s bodyguard. He’d trusted Dunos and he’d made him a promise.

  A promise I’ll help him keep.

  The butterfly fluttered around another iron ladder, so Dunos mounted it. He climbed carefully. His left arm had never been much use in climbing, so he just kept it ready with the dagger, and the butterfly perched on his shoulder.

  Dunos pushed a wooden grate off at the top and emerged into a tower garden. Tzaden vines had overgrown the place. Dunos didn’t care for tzaden-flower tea. His mother had all but drowned him in it after his arm withered, and the scent of the flowers made him a bit nauseous.

  The butterfly flew to the tower. It disappeared through thick vines.

  Dunos shrugged his shoulders, bared his sword, and headed into the shadowed precincts of Anturasikun.

  The fight is over! That thought echoed in Ciras’ mind as Moraven Tolo struck. The younger swordsman watched dispassionately despite knowing the Prince’s forearm would fly across the room, taking the sword with it. Blood would gush and then, with another quick cut, Moraven Tolo would take Nelesquin’s head.

  Ringing loudly, Moraven’s blade rebounded from Nelesquin’s arm. The slashed sleeve revealed a golden exoskeleton wrapping the Prince’s limbs. The blade had cut flesh, but the wound did not bleed.

  That is not possible.

  Nelesquin stepped back and tore away his rent sleeve. He probed the wound with a finger, then smiled. “You see, you cannot kill me.”

  Moraven Tolo dropped into fourth Dragon, both blades at angles and forward. “I can blind you. I can take your tongue out, and I’m willing to bet there are other parts that aren’t shielded. Let’s end this.”

  The two of them flew at each other, a golden bear battling a fearsome tiger. Blades blurred, the skirling of parries becoming a constant hiss broken only by the whistle of missed slashes or the clang of sword on sword. Bits of fabric floated free as near misses carved cloth instead of flesh.

  Ciras watched slack-jawed. Warriors flowed from Wolf to Dragon, Tiger to Scorpion, Crane to Dog and back again. Blades licked as flame, missing by hair’s-breadths. It seemed impossible that they would miss, but somehow a warrior would flow around a crosscut blow or twist away from a slash. They’d become two beings of energy, mixing, twisting, and flowing around each other.

  And then the pattern broke. Moraven spun down on his knees and thrust both swords forward. The blades plunged deep into Nelesquin’s guts and the points emerged from his back.

  The Prince roared with fury and brought his sword down twice. The hilt cracked Moraven’s right arm, then his left, breaking his grip. Nelesquin’s sword flicked out once more in a slash that should have taken Moraven’s head off, but the Prince shifted at the last second. Instead it laid open Moraven’s right breast and shoulder.

  “You are most tiresome, Virisken!” Nelesquin plucked one sword from his belly and cast it aside. He followed with the second. “That is a fault of your birth. Tainted blood. And you dared think you could be Emperor? You’re a fool. You always have been.”

  Moraven raised a broken arm to staunch his bleeding. “I killed you before.”

  “Yes, yes. Crow about the last battle. You’ve not won this time.” Nelesquin retreated to his throne and sagged back, leaving Moraven alone in the circle of flame. “I should kill you now, but I want to watch her face when you die. You’ll end up in Hell together, along with your Prince Cyron. Actually, he should be there by now, and the last hope of Moriande goes with him.”

  There he stood, Prince Cyron. One-armed though he was, a tower of strength in a hive of chaos. Clerks ran in, ministers, too, bearing reports. The Prince didn’t even deign to look at them. Some he touched, some he just waved at, then issued orders like divine pronouncements. The same clerks turned and fled, hastening to follow orders they couldn’t even be certain they’d heard.

  Prince Eiran sat beside Cyron. The Helosundian took the papers, read them quickly, and sorted them into piles. He probably didn’t even recognize it in himself, but he was understanding what each paper said based on Cyron’s understanding. He had truly learned well from the Naleni Prince and was capable of mastering the same art as Cyron.

  It really didn’t matter.

  Minister Pelut Vniel moved through the chaos unnoticed and unchallenged. He, too, had mastered arts, and one was the ar
t of belonging. No matter where he found himself, he could make others believe he belonged. No one would question him.

  No one would stop him.

  He reached Cyron’s side. “Highness, do you remember the knife you sent me?”

  Cyron’s eyes blinked.

  Pelut Vniel drove the knife straight into Cyron’s heart.

  And twisted.

  The butterfly had led him on a bit of a chase through the tower. It ended in a room that Dunos entered through a four-foot-high passage. The room’s far side had a semicircular lattice of gold bars cutting it roughly in half. Beyond the bars lay many treasures. Chests of spices filled the air with exotic aromas that made it easy to forget about tzaden flowers and sewers. Exotic weapons were stacked here and there amid chests of gold coins. Dunos imagined the butterfly might have brought him there so he could choose a better weapon, but that was a waste of time.

  He’d never give up the sword Master Tolo had given him.

  The butterfly alighted on the gold bars, but a buzzing sound beyond it focused Dunos on the human skull mounted on a pedestal. The skull had been covered in gold and set with gems. Dunos guessed it might have been pretty. He didn’t like the empty eye sockets, didn’t want anything to do with it, but the skull buzzed.

  He came right up to the bars. The buzzing resolved itself into words. “You are most tiresome, Virisken! That is a fault of your birth. Tainted blood. And you dared think you could be Emperor? You’re a fool. You always have been.”

  Dunos snarled. “He’s not a fool. My master is not a fool!”

  The skull didn’t answer him. It just stared at him, the bared teeth a contemptuous grin.

  Anger boiling over, Dunos raised his withered left fist high and brought it down as hard as he could. The skull cracked, then bounced off the pedestal. It spun slowly, the jaw falling free, then hit the floor. It exploded, spilling the black and white stones filling it all over the floor.