The New World ви-3

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “We’ll both live to continue this discussion later, my lord.” I squeezed his shoulder then left the tower. I crossed the inner courtyard, passed through a sally port which was closed behind me, then mounted the battlements on the outer wall. Though I wore no armor, the tiger-hunting crest in orange on a black robe would be easy enough for my brother to spot.

  The creature bearing the pavilion stopped and lowered its head to the ground. Two figures emerged from the tent, walked past the driver, and along the beast’s neck. Nelesquin leaped to the ground from the snout while his companion floated down. As they came forward, a company of the Steel Bear archers mounted the battlements to either side of me.

  I waved their bows down. “We’ll trade words, not arrows.”

  Nelesquin strode forward casually. He picked his way carefully across the battlefield. New grasses had sprung up, but there was no mistaking the white of bones and the black of blood-fed earth. The confidence on his face brought back fleeting glimpses of our previous meeting at Tsatol Deraelkun, back before we had become mortal enemies.

  He opened his arms wide in welcome. “I had been told you lived, brother, though I already knew it in my heart.”

  “I would not know who I am, brother, save for your companion’s healing arts.” I bowed in the direction of Kaerinus. “For the first time ever, I am grateful for the vanyesh.”

  “Had you come to be healed sooner, Soshir, we could have finished this game much more quickly.”

  I shook my head. “This game is played on a schedule none of us have made.”

  A peevish expression flashed over Nelesquin’s face, then a false smile conquered it. “A call for the surrender of Tsatol Deraelkun will be rebuffed, yes?”

  “As quickly as my suggestion that we duel again for possession of the fortress.”

  “Gambit offered and declined; very good.” Nelesquin looked around at his army. “You cannot win. You know that.”

  “But I can cost you a victory.” I pointed to the north. “You know the might of Nalenyr is coming.”

  “You always did find the Naleni daunting. But me, never.” He posted fists on his hips, drawing attention to the fact he wore no swords. “Do not take it as any sign of insincerity that I do not kill you myself.”

  “Not that. Perhaps cowardice.”

  “I expected that.” He pointed toward his troops, and one of the hammer-headed apes, easily thirty feet tall with heavily muscled arms almost as long, lifted a huge stone. He drew it back over his head and I thought for a moment he meant to knock me from the wall. Instead the creature-responding to the driver’s jerking of gold rods-pounded the stone into the ground. It bounced, and I felt both that initial impact and the second.

  Before I could puzzle out the reason for that action, another tremor ran through the ground. The wall shifted. Cracks appeared in the mortar, and support for the catwalk snapped. Archers fell, some over the wall but most into the courtyard. I dropped to a knee, then leaped free as my section of the battlement collapsed.

  The roadway between the castle’s walls exploded upward. Cobblestones rose to meet me, propelled by the star-shaped nose of a mole the size of an elephant. Its stubby claws raked dirt into the hole, then it sprang out. Once the mole uncorked the hole, kwajiin warriors swarmed from it.

  Arrows sleeted down, spinning blue-skinned warriors away. I landed in a crouch, drawing both my swords. Draw-cuts swept an arm from one kwajiin and blinded another. An arrow-stuck soldier stumbled into a lunging warrior. I parried with one blade and stabbed the other through his throat.

  Beyond that hole another opened, and another. Then rocks flew, shattering crenels. Stone shards rained down into the space between the walls, ricocheting indiscriminately. Men screamed as they pitched from the walls. At such close range, the Steel Bears could speed shafts into gaps in kwajiin armor. One arrow punched clean through a helmet, emerging below the warrior’s jaw, dropping him at my feet.

  No time for rally cries or bold boasts; it was Grija’s harvest. Reap or be reaped, mercy a mere fancy that would find no champions. Blood sprayed over walls, glistening wetly long after the heart stopped pumping. Cleaved limbs fell heavily to the ground and hands clutched convulsively. Men sat against walls, futilely stuffing entrails back into their abdomens. Others shrieked silently, their words emerging as black blood from deep within.

  I was at once unconscious and hyperaware. In the chaos I noticed everything. Without thought I labeled the enemy in terms of threat, then dealt with the most deadly. I flowed forward with purpose, not trying to escape. My intent was to kill as many of the kwajiin as I could.

  More stones flew and the walls began to crumble. The woolspiders gained the battlements, looking not at all like sheep with their webbing played out. They affixed it to the crenels, then leaped away into the fight. The web lines tightened and whole sections of the walls flew outward. The woolspiders attacked anything that moved, proving an equal annoyance to the kwajiin as to us.

  At one point, in fact, a kwajiin and I broke off our swordplay to each dispatch one of the spiders. He killed his with a quick thrust through the carapace. Armed with two swords, I scissored its head off. The kwajiin and I shared a smile, united in our joint efforts-an omen of how our collaboration could have been.

  Then with a casual cut, I matched a slash on his throat to his thin gash of a smile.

  “Master Soshir, this way!” Dunos stood in a small sally port, a dead spider before him. His eyes blazed and though his lame arm held one of my old swords weakly, the other blade dripped with dark fluid.

  I cut down two of the kwajiin as I dashed for the opening. “Get back, Dunos! Close the gate.” I turned my back to it, ready to deny the kwajiin access. A firm hand on my sash yanked me backward. I stumbled over Dunos and went down, thinking all was lost.

  Then bows sang and arrows filled that gap. The first kwajiin fell well shy of the gate, and at least a half dozen fell behind him. Then a giant warrior in the armor of the Virine Jade Bears slammed the gate shut and secured it with a stout bar.

  Captain Lumel hauled me to my feet. “There is no holding this place. We’re withdrawing. Come on.”

  I sped away with his men and Dunos. Deep in the fortress’ bowels I caught up with Deshiel Tolo, Ranai Ameryne, and other of the xidantzu that had fought by my side. With them waited Count Derael, his wife, son, and Prince Iekariwynal.

  The count nodded as best he was able. “The fires have been started. Nothing can stop the destruction.”

  “Then get clear. Captain Lumel, you see them out. Dunos, you guard the Prince.” I looked at the rest of the xidantzu. “You have seen the plans. You know the bottlenecks. We hold them as best we can, and when the fortress comes down, we kill the survivors.”

  Fighting in the tunnels was not as fierce as I had expected. Nelesquin, happy that his ruse had worked, did not press us. While we killed more than a few kwajiin, they didn’t pursue. We withdrew back through the mountains. I emerged at an overlook above Tsatol Deraelkun.

  Fire engulfed the fortress. Its blackened towers vomited fire and smoke like distant volcanoes. Then, one by one, they sank into the inferno. Sparks rose and hot wind issued from the tunnel through which we had escaped. Down below the kwajiin cheered the fortress’ death, but it sounded hollow.

  I resheathed my swords and set my feet on the path north. I had beaten Nelesquin at Deraelkun once, and now he had defeated me. I tried to tell myself that this did not worry me, but there was no sense in lying.

  Nelesquin had come back from the grave. That victory, and the taking of Tsatol Deraelkun, started a nice string of conquests. That might have been enough to satisfy anyone but Nelesquin. His ambition had been strong enough to return him to life, and I was uncertain if there was much I could do to stop him.

  TheNewWorld

  Chapter Fourteen

  32nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynastyr />
  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Ixyll

  Though all of the warriors in the Voraxan expedition wished to answer Empress Cyrsa’s call as quickly as possible, they agreed with Borosan that a delay, so he could make their mounts faster, would be a benefit in the long run. The inventor made changes to gearing and other aspects of the mounts, then produced brand-new mounts in the Tolwreen factory. The old ones would be used as pack animals-an idea that saddened Ciras, despite his continued ambivalence about the mechanical beasts.

  Vlay found that idea rather amusing. “You are very like Jogot Yirxan, whose blade you bear.”

  Ciras swung from the saddle of his new mount, which was bigger, wider, and stronger than the previous one, decorated with a silver filigree of flames and sleeping tigers. “You knew him?”

  “Not well. I knew him before he joined the vanyesh.” The swordsman passed a hand over his shaven pate. “He came to jaedun through the sword, then his curiosity got the better of him. He learned much from Nelesquin and Kaerinus.”

  Ciras slid his sword from the scabbard. Black sigils writhed over it. “He created this sword and the changing words?”

  Vlay smiled. “He did. He was quite proud of it. He said the sword would be the bard to tell his tale.”

  Ciras frowned. “I have been given to understand that Prince Nelesquin and the Turasynd struck a bargain.”

  “True. Empress Cyrsa sent Virisken Soshir forth with a contingent to destroy the vanyesh.” He looked around at Tolwreen. “Apparently they did not succeed, but hurt them significantly.”

  “When they showed us Nelesquin’s skeleton, there were no more than eighty-one remaining.” Ciras returned the blade to the scabbard. “I had an unusual experience the first time I used that blade. It was here, in Ixyll. I was working through the forms and as I imagined foes, they came at me. Turasynd, all of them save one. Why would Yirxan fight with the Turasynd if he was of the vanyesh and they were allies?”

  Vlay’s eyes tightened. “As I said, I did not know him well, but I heard things of him even after he joined the vanyesh. I was told he retained his loyalties to the Empress. He was her agent among them. Through him, we learned of the alliance. No doubt the Turasynd would have taken a disliking to his show of allegiance.”

  “And the Turasynd could not have reported back if they were all slaughtered.” Ciras nodded, thinking back to the exhilaration he recalled from that exercise. Jogot Yirxan had been exultant in his destruction of the Turasynd. He had likewise been magnificent, facing them fairly, striking them down.

  “If this is true, I have to wonder at another thing I saw.”

  “What was that?”

  “Yirxan struck down a swordsman. He attacked him from behind, wounding him terribly.” Ciras closed his eyes. “I did not see the face of the man he struck, but the crest, it was of a black tiger hunting.”

  “A black tiger hunting?”

  The surprise in Vlay’s voice prompted Ciras to open his eyes, but he caught no emotion on the man’s face. “You know who that was? I ask because my master, Moraven Tolo, wore that crest. He also had a scar on his chest that corresponded to that cut.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “As best I can be.”

  Vlay pursed his lips for a moment. “The black tiger hunting was worn by the Empress’ lover, the leader of the Imperial Bodyguards. You say his name is Moraven Tolo?”

  “I can describe him for you, if you wish.”

  The other man shook his head. “No need. If Nelesquin has survived, it stands to reason Virisken Soshir has as well. They were both men of great ambitions-the sort which you are wise to fear, Master Dejote.”

  “But that makes no sense.” Ciras frowned. “My master was anything but ambitious. He was xidantzu, and though he was known to Princes, he had no pretensions or wild desires. He did not even want me as an apprentice, but his master insisted.”

  “Perhaps I am mistaken, and the matter of crests is merely a coincidence.”

  “But the mystery remains. If, as you say, Yirxan was loyal to the Empress, what reason would he have to attack her lover?”

  Vlay smiled. “No mystery at all. Soshir was ambitious. The Empress was a means to destroy Nelesquin, his rival. If she made him Prince-consort, Soshir could become the Emperor in all but name. To rise to such heights from so lowly a start would have been remarkable. And yet, he could have risen higher. She ascended, after all, when she killed her own husband. Soshir could kill her, setting to rights the balance, restoring royal blood to the Celestial Throne. That was how Soshir would think.”

  “So she sent him out on a mission against Nelesquin that should have killed them both, and when Soshir failed to die…”

  “…She had him killed by a man she knew could be trusted.” Vlay shook his head. “Ambition can often counteract ambition, but to be caught in the middle of such a struggle is a lethal proposition.”

  “So it appears.”

  “Do not dwell on it, Master Dejote.” Vlay smiled and headed off to finish loading the wagons. “Just find a way to avoid it.”

  Ciras nodded, but his thoughts were already racing. If his master was indeed Virisken Soshir, then would he be as much of a danger now as he had been? And if he was, could Ciras kill him? He would never strike his master from behind, and he was not sure he could defeat him in an even fight.

  More important, his loyalty was for Moraven Tolo, not an Empress he’d never met. He’d known of her as a courtesan. She and his master knew each other, but did Moraven know who she was? Did Moraven know who he was? Was his choice of names a window on his intentions, or a blind meant to hide them?

  Many warriors changed their names. Some did so on a whim. Others did so to honor a master or a patron. Often a warrior did so to commemorate a great deed. Ciras had not because he was proud of his name and wished to honor his family.

  Moraven Tolo, when written out, could be read one of several ways. Sleeping dragon would be the most common reading. Another would be courage unfolding. The darkest reading, however, was victory of desire, which did not seem in keeping with his master, as it hinted at hidden ambitions.

  Ciras growled to himself. “You’re playing children’s games. You know your master. You know his character. His ambition is to keep his sword in the scabbard.”

  But his mind would not be turned from consideration so easily. Jogot Yirxan likewise could be read many ways. Steadfastly loyal came easiest, and yet what Vlay had said about Yirxan put the lie to that from the vanyesh point of view. Midnight justice also worked. As Vlay had said, justice can oppose ambition, and Yirxan must have done just that.

  Perhaps I can do both things. Ciras rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I am heir to a sword, but not the circumstances that drove it through my master.”

  With the last of the wagons loaded and groaning under the weight of Borosan’s loot from Tolwreen, the Voraxan expedition headed out again. And Ciras admitted that the new mounts could appear almost lifelike-but he refrained from calling them beasts or horses. They carried the riders smoothly along, almost as if they were floating on a river.

  They passed swiftly through a series of valleys. Ciras recognized none of them. Forests of silver trees sprouted leaves that tarnished into dust before they could spiral to the ground. A carpet of red flowers looked innocent enough, but when one of the thanatons scurried into the valley ahead of the riders, serpentine warriors slithered from the ground, each with red blossoms atop antennae. They sought to wrestle the thanaton to a stop, but the gyanrigot pulled away and Voraxani arrows cut down the pursuit.

  They skirted that valley, which made their journey longer. The valley curled around to the south and extended across their line of march. The riders increased their speed because the serpent-men didn’t move very quickly, but in doing so almost raced into disaster.

  They crested a line of hills and started down into a wide and dusty bowl. Ciras rode in the lead and found the place refreshingly benign until, u
p ahead, he saw riders riding hard toward them. Before he could suggest they slow down, he recognized the lead rider as himself, growing larger as if he were riding into a mirror. Uncertain if it was a mirage or something more malevolent, Ciras drew his sword and touched a switch on his mount’s neck, snapping armor and spikes into place.

  A heartbeat before the Voraxani ran into the mirror, Turasynd horsemen burst through the illusory curtain. They let fly with a volley of arrows. The missiles sped across the narrowing divide, intended to sweep the Empress’ riders from their mounts.

  Arrows bounced from Ciras’ mount. Curved metal plates had slid out to protect his shins and thighs. The mount’s mane stiffened into a coarse line that then split like butterfly wings to either side of the neck. Missiles glanced from the mane or snapped harmlessly against the mount’s broad breast.

  Blades and spikes bristled from the mount’s shoulders and flanks. Ciras crashed straight into the Turasynd riders. The shock of the collision shook him, but he remained firmly in the saddle. Blood spattered and horses reared. Crippled horses went down squealing and kicking, crushing hapless riders beneath them.

  Ciras lashed out, stroking his sword through an armpit. Dark feathers flew, for these were Black Eagles. Hot red blood splashed against the sword’s guard, then sprayed as he cut at another Black Eagle. The scent of copper filled the air. Guiding his mount with pressure from his knees, Ciras parried, then stabbed and cut. Riders fell, and mechanical mounts stamped the remaining life from them.

  He burst through the Turasynd line, and through the magic curtain beyond it. No more Turasynd lurked there, giving him some hope. Reining his mount about, he plunged back into the fray. There were more than enough Turasynd to kill- perhaps even too many.

  The Turasynd had attacked in a slender line. Their formation flanked the Voraxani on both sides, reaching as far back as the wagons. The Empress’ warriors fought hard, but the Turasynd outnumbered them four to one. Turasynd cheered triumphantly as one of the wagons tipped, rolling over twice, casting its load all over the battlefield.