The New World

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 Dynasty

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, up 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.

Ciras purposefully drove his mount in close grazing runs that carved up Turasynd and horse alike. He hated hurting the animals, but sowing havoc in the Turasynd ranks was more effective than simply killing them. The screams of a dying horse and the pleas of gutted comrades could take the fight out of even the most dedicated warrior.

A huge Turasynd Black Eagle, sunlight flashing silver from the feathers covering his shoulders and arms, engaged Ciras. There was none of the nicety of civilized fighting. No challenges formal or otherwise, just a wild scream and a sword raised in fury.

Ciras parried a blade high, then slashed down. His cut split ring mail and opened the inside of a man’s thigh. Bright blood splashed against the horse’s neck, then another Turasynd was upon him. Ciras leaned away from that cut and felt the sting of a flesh wound, then spitted the man. He ripped his blade free and the dying man spun from the saddle.

One or two Black Eagles gave off traces of jaedun, but their lack of discipline doomed them. Ciras had practiced countering such assaults. Jogot Yirxan’s blade seemed eager to gorge on Turasynd blood, and Ciras allowed it to drink deeply.

Ciras raced along the Turasynd flank toward the overturned wagon. The barbarians had gathered there, intent on plunder despite the battle continuing to rage. A number of the Voraxani put up a spirited defense, but it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

Borosan pulled another wagon out of line as if to block the Turasynd advance. Wide-eyed, he leaped from the driver’s seat and into the back, quickly taking refuge behind the ancient shields that had been mounted on the wagon’s sides. Arrows rattled off them, and a half dozen Turasynd charged the wagon.

One by one, a handful of the thanatons popped up from behind the shields on their spider legs. Panels slid back and crossbow bolts sped out. The volley swept Turasynd from their saddles, killing several.

A wounded Black Eagle limped behind the overturned wagon. He sought sanctuary, hunkering down amid rectangular metal boxes. Small thanatons — the ones Borosan considered mousers-sprang away in response to the man’s guttural growl. His laughter followed the gyanrigot as they scuttled along the ground, but died abruptly as the first of the metal boxes unfolded itself. Legs unfurled and arms thrust, raising skeletal, gearwork warriors which towered over the Black Eagle. Before his expression could shift from triumph to terror, the nearest gyanrigot brought a clawed hand up. It closed around the man’s throat.

He struggled, tearing at the metal hand, kicking at the body as the machine jerked him upright. He gurgled and his face purpled as booted toes scraped in the dust as the gyanrigot ’s claw shifted and snapped his neck cleanly.

More thanatons ’ missiles dropped riders. Something metallic clicked behind Ciras. One of the mousers had leaped onto his mount’s rump and snapped its legs into little holes astride the tail. The upper half of the mouser’s dome twisted and a small dart shot out, glancing off a Turasynd’s nose guard.

Ciras spun and cut the man from the saddle. Two more of the barbarians charged at him. The mouser shot one in the throat. While hardly lethal, the dart distracted the warrior enough that Ciras dispatched him with ease. The swordsman then turned in the saddle and parried the second man’s slash as they passed.

He turned to engage the man again, but one of Borosan’s gyanrigot warriors had already struck. Barely modified from the blacksmith it had been in Tolwreen, its first hammerblow crushed the horse’s skull. The beast went down, pitching its rider headlong. The barbarian struggled drunkenly to his feet and was knocked aside by another Voraxani.

He went down again, his face slashed open. The gyanrigot blacksmith finished the job, driving most of the man’s helmet deep into his skull. The Turasynd crumpled, blood and brains dripping from his killer’s hammer.

The thanatons moved forward in concert, rolling up the Turasynd flank. Ciras and others ranged wider, cutting off retreat. They killed as many of the Black Eagles as they could.

The rest they drove into the valley of the serpent-men. Whether it was better to die there, or be killed by a gyanrigot, Ciras could not be certain. In the end he decided it didn’t matter. But if forced to, he’d have chosen the serpents.