The New World

Chapter Seven

22nd 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

Tolwreen, Ixyll

Ciras Dejote wished he had stuck to his principles and refused to ride one of the gyanrigot mounts. Borosan had been correct. The constructs could go further and faster than horses. A virtue, certainly, but training ate up time that would have better been spent on the road home.

The problem lay in figuring out how the things actually worked. Borosan started from the assumption that they were similar to his thanatons. He created control-slates to command them, which they dutifully obeyed. Still, the devices did nothing to provide for interaction with a rider.

Thus began a second phase of testing and instruction that revealed the variety of hidden abilities the mounts possessed. When a rider swung into the saddle, for example, armored plates fanned out from the mount’s shoulders to protect his legs. This led Borosan to examine the creations even more closely. He modified control-slates so the mounts would respond to pressure on switches: if a rider pressed in with a left knee, the mount would turn right-and the amount of pressure would determine how tight the turn would be.

And they could be quite tight. Ciras shifted his shoulders. The bruising was almost gone, but some of the stiffness remained. He’d decided to see how sharply one of the mounts could turn midgallop. He dug his right knee in hard. The gyanrigot pivoted on its left fore-hoof and came about immediately, launching Ciras into the air. He hit hard on his back and bounced, then found the mount standing there, stock-still.

Borosan had helped him to his feet. “It would seem, Master Dejote, the gyanrigot are capable of things humans cannot withstand. I will make sure that will not happen again.”

“No. Make no changes to hobble the mounts.”

The inventor looked askance at him. “I thought you did not like these things.”

“I do not. But I would not ask a swordsmith to dull a blade because a clumsy student might cut himself.”

So as much as he disliked the metal mounts, he forced himself to master riding one. He pushed himself to become the expert, and then helped instruct others. He even made suggestions to Borosan that further refined the mounts’ capabilities.

He enjoyed training the others; it made him feel worthy. He turned in the saddle as they rode through a glass valley in Ixyll and studied the twisted reflections of the heroes. Three companies of warriors, Mystics all, who had survived the battle with the Turasynd and the Cataclysm. These were people who had been legends in the Empire. They had kept faith with their leader, and over seven hundred years later answered the call to duty once again.

Vlay Laedhze rode up beside him, his shaved head protected by a leather helmet. “You seem amused, Master Dejote.”

Ciras shook his head. “More amazed. I have long dreamed of being a hero. I wanted to be worthy to have served with you. Even so, I cannot imagine doing what you have done.”

“Surviving? Remaining faithful?” The elder warrior shrugged. “These are really little things. Survival, well…is there another choice? Survival depends so much on chance. Why would an arrow take a man standing beside me and not me? Arrows do not target the virtuous or the malign; and those shot in volleys fall without the true intent of the archer.”

The man smiled slightly. “And faith, how difficult is that? You make a decision and you choose not to question it. You honor the wisdom you exhibited when you made the choice.”

“And what if it was a mistake?”

“Then you must honor the wisdom that has shown you the mistake. You rectify it.”

“That is not always easy.”

“Do you think you have made a mistake, Master Dejote?”

Ciras spat disgustedly, then patted the neck of the mount he rode. “I am astride one of these.”

Vlay laughed. “It’s been a long while since I have been in the saddle, but I have no complaints. This is as fine a horse as I have ever ridden.”

“But, Master, it is not a horse. It is a machine. A monster.”

“And you find you like it.”

“Yes.” Ciras shook his head. “These gyanrigot, they are evil, they truly are. They put magic in the hands of those who do not have the discipline to control it. They are a danger.”

“A danger to whom, Ciras?”

“To the world. To peace. Things like this mount, or a gyanrigot sword, or one of Borosan’s thanatons, can convince anyone that he is a warrior. Armies can be raised and equipped and nations can be destroyed.”

“And how is this different from the magic you possess?”

“I have spent years perfecting my skills. I am aware of what I can do, how badly I can hurt others.”

“And have you ever attacked anyone without just cause?”

Ciras shook his head. “Of course not.”

“Then you are a very fortunate man.” Vlay gestured toward the east. “You were raised to see us as heroes, but we were-and still are-humans like you. We have made mistakes. Take the Turasynd war, for example. The Turasynd invaded, but why? Are they just evil, raiding for the sake of plunder?”

“That is what I learned.” Ciras studied the man’s distant expression. “Is that not what happened?”

“I believe it is, but I have heard many things. I’ve heard that a company of Imperial Dragons went raiding in the Wastes. Perhaps they wanted plunder. Perhaps they were out to punish the Turasynd for raiding in Deseirion. I do not know the truth of it, but I am confident there is a truth somewhere.”

Vlay looked at him and smiled. “The reason I point this out is simple-the Imperial Dragons had the same sort of training as you, yet it did not prevent their commander from giving orders to kill women and children. Training and discipline are no brake on ambition-nor is a lack of training a license to revert to barbarism.”

“But is it not true, Master, that a man who is aware of his responsibilities will be less likely to abandon them?”

“True, but let us examine two situations. The first is one in which a leader you trust gives you an order to kill. He tells you the target is evil and must die for the good of the world. You do as you are bidden and, it turns out, you have just slain a poet whose only crime was to write a satire about your leader. You have acted responsibly, but you have been made into a tool for evil despite your discipline.”

Ciras nodded. “I would be bound by honor to pursue justice and make amends.”

“Honorable as that is, it won’t bring the poet back to life. The second case is simpler still. If discipline is the brake on ambition, then the only way to prevent war is to train everyone to wage it. If everyone was a warrior such as yourself, do you foresee a time of eternal peace?”

Ciras started to answer, then stopped. All the training in the world might not blunt ambition. In fact, ambition could motivate training. His own ambition to become a hero was what kept him training when he might well have quit. Another’s ambition to become emperor could drive him as I was driven.

“You are correct. Discipline may not counter ambition. But this is no reason to put lethal weapons in the hands of those who have no understanding of what mayhem they will cause.”

“I agree, Master Dejote. Your solution, however, is to label the tool evil.” The elder warrior shrugged simply. “I reserve my judgment for the means in which the tool is employed. You have trained with the sword. Now you will train with this metal horse. Master it. Justice will curb ambition, and, through you, a sword and a mount may serve justice well.”

The Voraxani expedition headed southeast as quickly as possible. Because it was home to the vanyesh, Tolwreen became a target. Empress Cyrsa might not have called them forth to destroy the vanyesh, but allowing them to live would not be serving her.

Ciras had feared the path to Tolwreen would be hidden. He and Borosan assumed the vanyesh would be watching for them, so the expedition remained alert as they approached.

But the way to Tolwreen had neither been hidden, nor had it been guarded. They found the mountain stronghold without difficulty and even spotted their own tracks from three weeks previous. The preservation of the tracks unnerved Ciras. It was as if no time had passed, and he found it easy to imagine he would somehow see himself and Borosan escaping again.

The tunnel at the mountain’s base gaped open like a mouth waiting to swallow them. Borosan sent two of his spider-legged thanatons in, and they returned without incident. One even brought with it a small gyanrigot mouser that was still in full working order.

Borosan held it up. “This was the one you gave to Pravak.”

“Did he abandon it because he knew we used it to track him, or is it bait for a trap?”

Vlay took the mechanical kitten from Borosan. “Pravak was never terribly subtle. If he was present, he’d challenge us immediately. Shall we ride in?”

He kicked his heels back, prompting the mount to trot forward. Ciras fell in line behind him, taking heart from the fact that the giant statues that had guarded the entrance were no longer present. Metallic hoofbeats echoed through the short tunnel, then the riders entered the heart of the mountain and spread out.

“They’ve gone.” Borosan pointed to the remains of the citadel that had once stood tall and proud. “And they’ve taken their weapons with them.”

Ciras nodded. The citadel had been pieced together with swords and shields, armor and spears. It had been a martial masterpiece. Now the wires that once suspended it hung slack and what remained lay scattered like gold coins spilled from a cut purse.

Wildmen emerged from the distant shadows. Some brandished weapons as if they were talismans. A few had pulled on armor. Greaves hung awkwardly from shoulders, and bracers pinched calves too tightly. Helmets had been put on backward, then tipped up to let the wearer see his feet.

Vlay clapped his hands commandingly and the wildmen scattered, hooting and screaming. He turned in his saddle and looked at Ciras. “There is discipline for you.”

“Where have the vanyesh gotten to?”

Borosan pulled a small, boxy device from a saddlebag. “There are several mousers below the Prince’s Hall. Let’s see what they’re doing down there.”

It took some hunting, but they found a series of tunnels that carried them deep beneath the mountain. Using Borosan’s device to guide them, they entered a series of natural caverns that opened into one huge cave that had been extensively altered. At first glance, it reminded Ciras of the workshop where the mounts had been created in Voraxan, only much bigger.

Borosan dismounted immediately. He attached blue gyanrigot lights to his thanatons and explored. The ghostly light revealed massive forges with huge hammers and tongs, supported by geared circles that allowed them to rotate freely. Further a device with smaller hammers could be seen; and beyond it were other machines with arms ending in even smaller hammers for fine work.

Borosan paused near the large device and held up one of the command-slates. “The vanyesh used these forges to create the bodies they wore. I cannot tell what else they might have made, but there is a pile of command-slates here. They probably have mounts just like ours. They might even have created enough for the Turasynd Black Eagles.”

Ciras shivered. “Would they be that insane?”

Borosan shrugged. “You saw them. Most had left humanity behind a long time ago. They were talking to the Turasynd. Why would they hesitate to arm the barbarians?”

“I can’t imagine.” Ciras sighed. “Can you make sense of those slates?”

“Probably. If we fire up the forges again, we can see what they were making. I can make more parts for our horses. I’ve had some ideas since we rode out…”

“Figure out what they were doing first.” Ciras looked at Vlay. “What are your thoughts?”

“The vanyesh clearly believed Nelesquin was calling them to arms. I don’t know why; Nelesquin is dead. His head was struck from his body and both were buried in a tomb built to the Empress’ specifications. The tomb was disturbed, however. We can assume the vanyesh violated it. You said his skeleton is housed in a chamber above us.”

Ciras nodded. “Gilded, every inch of it, save for the skull, which was missing.”

“Show me, please.”

Vlay and a handful of warriors accompanied Ciras up to the Prince’s Hall. Tall, narrow, and deep, the chamber seemed even more forbidding because it lacked the reflected light from the vanyesh ’s golden robes. Tiered seating rose on either side. Entering, the hall appeared as if it had been abandoned for eons.

Three weeks, and already decay has set in.

Hand on sword hilt, Ciras marched beside Vlay. They stopped just shy of the purple strip of carpet leading to a massive stone throne.

Vlay nodded. “It’s the Celestial Throne, the one Nelesquin coveted.”

Ciras drew his sword and pointed at the purple garment discarded across the throne’s arms. “The skeleton had been wearing that robe.”

“It looks like the one we buried Nelesquin in.” The ancient warrior shook his head. “We’d placed his tomb at a crossroads so he’d not know which way was home. That precaution, apparently, was insufficient.”