The New World ви-3

by Michael A. Stackpole

  I laughed lightly and began to shuck my oilskins. “Then I beg your forgiveness for having kept you waiting. Let me get dressed, then we shall do something Prince Nelesquin will never forgive.”

  Four Hells prevented Jorim and his companions from reaching the plane of Zhangjian-literally, the place between the Heavens and Hells. The Fourth Hell, Landao, almost proved their undoing.

  It was the Hell given over to the punishment of the slothful and greedy. Their dreams would hang in front of them like fruit on low branches, but no step taken in that direction would bring them any closer. Then, when frustration boiled over and they really exerted themselves, they would shoot past their goal in the blink of an eye. They’d turn around and try again, repeating the whole process.

  Talrisaal figured out how to beat Landao. He made his goal the desire to get as far away from something as he could. That brought it into reach, and he plucked it. His action frustrated many of those trapped there. However, the more they wanted to come close and bash his brains out, the further from him they were sent.

  Pyrust immediately made it his goal to lead everyone as far away from the gateway to the next Hell as possible. The army passed through into the icy plains of Shanchu. The whole of the Hell seemed to be made of floating ice islands on slushy seas. Wayward souls bobbed shrieking in the water and got ground between colliding islands.

  The army moved pretty quickly along a chain of islands and into Ji-bing. Disease ravaged the people trapped there. They seemed mostly to be people involved in heretical and fundamentalist cults. They seemed to spend a lot of time gathering together groups to worship. A disease would spring up, covering them in boils. The entire congregation would catch it and literally fall apart. In fact, leprosy would have been kind in comparison to what they suffered.

  When they finally expired, pus puddles would boil. The rising steam created ghosts, which solidified into people. They’d wander about until they heard someone preaching a message and join that group. Then the boils would rise, mucus would run, and things would get ugly from there.

  Maintaining discipline in the second and third Hells had not been difficult. This was just as well because the last Hell, Chong-to, was the realm of warfare. From the moment they began to assemble, pulling themselves from a shallow river in the center of a verdant valley, warrior bands began attacking them.

  The ferocity of some combatants surprised Jorim. Chong-to was not meant for warriors, but for the warlike. Those politicians and bureaucrats who had been content to create wars without ever shedding their own blood ended up in Chong-to. Cowards also landed there, as well as men who had greatly exaggerated their exploits or warriors who’d only carried hate in their hearts. It was a place where men who thought of war as a game were trapped for eternity, seeing that it was not.

  Jorim pointed. “Some of the bands are joining together over there.”

  Pyrust nodded. “I’ve heard it said that if you die with honor in battles here, you win your way to Kianmang.”

  The Viruk shook his head. “But since they are fighting to serve themselves, they cannot die in honor.”

  “Which is why they will be here forever.” Pyrust snarled as one of the winged apes fell from the sky, shot through with an arrow. The moment the beast hit the ground, he vanished. “Our troops, on the other hand, will be flooding Kianmang.”

  Pyrust formed his army up with the lizards on the wings, and the hart-cavalry in the center. The winged apes hung back, waiting to flank the bands and harass them. The formation moved ahead in good order and blew through the small gathering of bands. Potbellied men wheezing into battle ran as the lizards swarmed. Skeletal spearmen fled before cavalry charges and the apes kept opportunist bands from hit-and-run raids.

  When Chong-to’s denizens died, the earth swallowed them, leaving old, rotten armor and helmets on the ground. The lizards sniffed at the relics and shied from them. Pyrust had the apes gather the weaponry into piles and the army marched on.

  As they came out of the valley, the landscape changed into one lit with purple balefire. The blue river that had brought them flowed into a dark swamp tangled with broken trees and marsh grasses deep in black mud. Big bubbles appeared across the swamp’s surface like giant frogs’ eggs.

  The eggs popped and warriors emerged. They dug through the mud, salvaging old armor with slimy, half-rotted leather harnesses and weapons that were composed more of rust than metal. They waded from the swamps and ran off along hidden pathways.

  Jorim watched them go. “They’re not stupid. They’ve seen us fight. They’ll pick a place they can do the most damage.”

  “There are only narrow paths through the swamp. They’ll ambush us there.”

  The Viruk turned to the Prince. “Can your lizards swim?”

  “They can, but I wouldn’t want to swim in that mess.”

  Jorim smiled. “Using the lizards to flush the ambushers is a good idea. I have another one. Just get everyone back over the ridge.”

  Nirati glanced at her brother. “Whenever you get that look on your face, you do something dangerous. Please, don’t.”

  “You worry too much.” He stood on the crest of the ridge above the swamp and set himself. “You, too, Talrisaal, get behind the ridge.”

  “If you’re going to do what I think you are going to do…”

  “It will be fine.” Jorim frowned. “I’m a god, remember? I probably helped design this place.”

  Nirati was too far away for him to hear her clearly, but he thought she said something like, “I don’t find that particularly reassuring.”

  He grinned and closed his eyes, beginning to manipulate the magic. When the Amentzutl first taught him magic, he had learned to find the truth of things. As he reached out, he sought the truth of the swamp gas that gathered and burned. Using the mai, he gathered it together, squeezing it into a sphere, then used magic to shift its elements. He unbalanced them and injected a lot of heat.

  A brilliant sun dawned over the swamp.

  Then the fireball exploded. The shock wave blasted him off the ridge. He tumbled back through the air, his robe smoking. He hit hard and bounced, but a winged ape caught him.

  Nirati hurried over, but already the light in the sky had begun to dim. “Jorim, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” He slapped at a smoldering bit of cloth on his thigh. His ears were ringing, but he scrambled up the hill. A couple of the winged apes charged after him, but they hung back well shy of the crest.

  Talrisaal helped him to his feet. “It was a good idea, in theory.”

  “Yeah.” Jorim turned around. “Get ready. They’re coming!”

  The blast and fire had destroyed the swamp, baking the ground black and cracking it as if it had been dry for nine hundred years. Reborn warriors dug their way out of shallow graves and ran off in the other direction, joining a horde of easily nine thousand or more.

  Pyrust joined him on the ridge. “Remember those wings you had when we first found you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sprout them again. Go that way.” Pyrust stepped down and began shouting orders. “Let the enemy see you. You’re bait.”

  Bat’s wings sprang from his back. Jorim rose and moved off to the left, with Talrisaal rising beside him. The enemy, which came on in a ragged mass, shifted to follow them. Below, Pyrust led his army back down and around, poised to hit the horde in the flank.

  The Viruk pointed toward a shimmering curtain between two tall mountains. “The pass into Zhangjian?”

  “I hope so. So very close.”

  Pyrust’s army came around the hill and blasted into the lost souls. The hammer-headed apes tossed huge boulders that rolled to a stop along a trail of pulped bodies. The hart-archers lofted volley after volley into the attackers, cutting down huge swaths, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. The dead were springing back up and coming on stronger.

  “They aren’t reacting like a normal army.”

  The Viruk pointed. “They’
re swarming like a flock of birds.”

  It was true. When the archers cut down whole ranks, the others flowed around them. There wasn’t even an attempt to keep a disciplined line, just a wave of flesh that kept coming. Some of Pyrust’s troops died in each skirmish, never to be replaced. They couldn’t win the war of attrition.

  “Come on!” Jorim swooped low and began manipulating the mai. Death and dying were painful, but the enemy knew they would be reborn in no time. Interrupting that cycle was impossible. Rebirth was part of Chong-to. To change that, he’d need all the power of a god, and he had but a fraction of it at his command.

  But there is an answer.

  One of the enemy took an arrow through the chest. He fell, clutching at it. When the arrowhead emerged from his back, it cut a nerve. The man’s left arm hung limp.

  Jorim manipulated the mai. He used just enough of it to stop the man from dying. He didn’t heal the damage, just insulated the man from death. He did the same for the blinded man next to him, and a man who had lost a leg. The magic staunched the wound and sealed the stub.

  Talrisaal, seeing what Jorim had done, swooped in after him and did the same. Jorim came around and shouted to Pyrust, “Maim them; don’t kill them!”

  The wounded clogged the battle line, but the mass continued to flow. More and more warriors appeared to join the group. The edges made it past Pyrust’s lines and threatened to surround him. He pulled his lines together, maneuvering to a small hill, but the horde pressed tighter around them, nibbled away at Pyrust’s troops.

  Then horns blared and drums pounded. A cavalry force slammed into the horde’s flank. War chariots with Naleni archers ranged around behind the enemy. And heavily muscled warriors wearing masks of jade and gold, wielding war clubs edged with obsidian, slashed their way into the horde. The war clubs harvested limbs, and then Amentzutl maicana cast spells to heal the maimed.

  The horde shifted, turning to face the new threat. Pyrust ordered his troops forward, catching the enemy in midmaneuver. The wounded were driven back into their own troops and the horde began fighting with itself. It disintegrated into mobs of half-dead warriors limping as far away from others as possible.

  Jorim flew down beside Pyrust. “I bet you never thought Naleni cavalry would be saving you.”

  “No. Who are the others?”

  “The Amentzutl. They live on a continent far to the east, across the sea. The Stormwolf expedition found them.”

  “How did they get here?”

  “I have no idea.” Jorim’s wings grew back into his body as the Amentzutl line parted. A black-and-gold bundle of muscle and fur bounded up the rise and tackled Jorim.

  “Jrima, Jrima, Shimik comma. Shimik here!” The Fennych hugged him tightly, then leaped up, did a back-flip, and landed on his chest again. “Shimik happy happy happy.”

  Then Fennych caught sight of Talrisaal. His ears flattened back against his head and a growl rose from his throat.

  Jorim caught the Fenn by the scruff of his neck. “No, Shimik. Talrisaal is a friend.”

  Shimik sat back down, then did another back-flip, landing at Jorim’s side.

  And beyond Jorim’s feet, previously eclipsed by the Fennych, stood Nauana. She had her hands clasped at her waist, fear and joy warring on her face. A single tear glistened.

  Jorim sprang to his feet and gathered her into a huge hug. He hung on tightly, burying his face against her neck. The scent of her, the silken brush of her hair against his face, her arms enfolding him, her little gasp and sob made him wish this moment would never end.

  He kissed her neck, tasting his own tears. “I’m so sorry, Nauana, for all the pain.”

  She took his head in both hands and kissed him. “How can it cause pain to have a god sacrifice himself so you may live?”

  “But…”

  “You are a god, Tetcomchoa. You cannot die.” Nauana kissed him again, then opened an arm to indicate the troops behind her. “We knew you needed help, so we came.”

  “You knew we needed help?”

  “Of course. It is centenco.”

  Jorim shook his head, then slipped from Nauana’s arms. He bowed to the woman approaching them. “Captain Gryst, how did you get here?”

  “You disappoint me, Cartographer, god or not.” The Stormwolf ’s captain smiled. “Have you forgotten we found the Mountains of Ice on our expedition? There have always been stories told of an opening to the Underworld there. We found it. A big fireball pointed us to the battle.”

  “Jrima, fire, whoosh.” Shimik clapped his hands.

  “I believe he’s expressed our thoughts rather aptly.” Anaeda pointed back along their line of attack. “We can leave whenever you desire.”

  “We’re not leaving. Not yet. There’s a rogue god who wants to unmake all of creation. He needs to be stopped. Care to come along?”

  Anaeda Gryst frowned. “It’s not exactly within the purview of Stormwolf ’s directives from Prince Cyron.”

  Pyrust smiled. “I doubt marching into Hell was either.”

  “Good point.” Anaeda nodded. “You’re the cartographer, Jorim Anturasi. Lead, and we shall follow.”

  TheNewWorld

  Chapter Fifty-three

  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

  River Dragon Inn, South Moriande

  Imperial Nalenyr

  Ciras nodded and shuttered the lamp, plunging the Inn’s cellar into darkness. He kept his voice to a whisper. “When I first arrived, I checked the ground floor. I saw nothing. A stone had blasted through a corner, but the street looked empty, too.”

  “That’s all good, but we may have been betrayed. Ranai and some of the others tried to come with me. They knew where I’d be.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “An educated guess. A clerk somewhere made a note, and once into the bureaucracy…” Moraven snorted. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Master.” Ciras hesitated. “Master, you don’t think I’ve betrayed you, do you?”

  “Because of Jogot Yirxan?” A hand found his upper arm and squeezed. “No. In fact, I hoped you would be here-at least at my side in the battle against Nelesquin.”

  “Is that why you sent the boy to watch me?”

  “Sometimes there are things we learn best when others watch and we teach-even if we don’t know we’re teaching. Dunos is a brave boy, and he would learn much from you. And you would learn from him, as I learned, teaching you.”

  “You learned from me?”

  “I did. You maintain the idealism of youth. Older heads would say that such idealism is impractical and must give way to pragmatism and compromise. But compromise that strips virtue and rewards vice is evil. I learned that from you.”

  Ciras nodded, unseen. “You sent the boy to remind me who I was.”

  “Who you are, Ciras.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  Moraven squeezed his arm again. “I think it is time we show Nelesquin who we are.”

  They crept up the stairs to the Inn’s ground floor. Tables and stools had been scattered haphazardly. They picked their way through the disarray and waited at the eastern door. The street outside remained dark and quiet, save for the occasional rattle of an arrow against cobblestones.

  Ciras searched the opposite skyline for signs of the enemy. He saw nothing. Moraven shook his head, so they slipped through the doorway and padded quietly along the wooden sidewalk. At the corner, they darted across the street, heading southwest toward Quunkun.

  The trap closed about them on the second block. Men slipped from the shadows bearing long tiger-spears. With twin barbed heads on either end of a curved shaft and wooden haft, they more closely resembled pitchforks than weapons. They’d been chosen more to mock Moraven than for their efficacy. Kwajiin warriors commanded each squad, and Virine archers appeared on rooftops. They noc
ked thickheaded, blunted arrows that would batter and stun.

  Ciras and Moraven immediately drew their swords and stood back to back-two men and three swords facing a horde of misshapen creatures that would have sent the demons of the Fifth Hell running. Their kwajiin leaders rested hands on sword hilts, obviously eager to test themselves.

  “You bear two swords, Master, so I expect you will kill twice as many as I do.”

  “But I am older than you. Once you’ve dispatched your third, feel free to help me with mine.”

  A tall, slender man in a dark cloak appeared and walked through the horde of tiger hunters. He clapped his hands, then paused and bowed respectfully.

  “Master Soshir, welcome to imperial Moriande.”

  The swordsman straightened from the first Wolf form. “You are most kind, Kaerinus. I remember your healing touch at last year’s festival. I have yet to decide if I should thank you or not.”

  “Thank a vanyesh. I think not. We have unfinished business.”

  “We can finish it here and now.”

  “Tempting, but His Imperial Majesty Nelesquin the Ninth awaits.”

  “The Ninth?” Moraven returned both of his swords to their scabbards. “There were not eight emperors of that name before him, nor have their been any since the time of his death. How comes he by that designation?”

  “This you will have to ask of him.” Kaerinus spread his arms. “He knows you came here to kill him, and has sent this escort to make sure you get the chance. But, first, he wishes you to be his guests at a very special event. You’ll be able to see it clearly from Quunkun, I assure you.”

  “And what would that be?”

  The vanyesh smiled. “The destruction of the rest of Moriande.”

  “Put your sword away, Ciras. We have an audience with the Prince.”

  Kaerinus led the procession to the Bear Tower. An imposing structure, it had been built due north of Kelewan as a miniature copy of the Imperial capitol. Quunkun functioned as the Virine embassy and housed the Virine Prince on state visits.

  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.