Michael Stackpole: The New World

Laedhze smiled gently. “The dreams are very seductive, and some will not awaken. And, alas, some of our companions have expired in their sleep. We know they have gone to a better place. They will rest happily in Kianmang, awaiting the call of another time to fight again.”

“So how many will we have?”

“We have a battalion.” Laedhze nodded solemnly. “We may have a few more.”

Ciras’ stomach twisted in on itself. “Two hundred forty-three warriors? Granted, they are all Mystics, but only three companies. How is that possible?”

Borosan caught Ciras’ sleeve. “Ask him how many survived the battle.”

Laedhze’s expression became grim. “Just over four hundred.”

“Not possible.” Ciras tore his sleeve from Borosan’s grasp. “All the stories…Even this place…How could four hundred have created it?”

The warrior from Voraxan clasped his hands at the small of his back. “You have traveled past the battlefield. You have seen how the corpses continue to fight. Such was the violence of that day-the venom of each man, the strength of his will-that even death will not release them. Would you care to see the scars I bear from that day? To say we triumphed is an exaggeration-we barely survived. We were the Empress’ Bodyguard. There were two thousand of us held in reserve.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “We were but a tenth of our army, and a twentieth of the horde we faced. The vanyesh had already been broken, but had bled much of the Turasynd horde. By rights, the nomads should have retreated; but they believed the Empress had brought her treasury with her, so they came on. And came and came and came. And we killed and killed and killed.”

Ciras nodded, his anger ablated by the man’s sober tone. “But this place, four hundred of you, how could…”

“You forget, Master Dejote, that this place was alive with wild magic. All of us were steeped in it. There were those of us who could work magic-not all the magicians belonged to Prince Nelesquin’s vanyesh. They and a Viruk companion of ours shaped the magic and made this place. They made it to be our haven. If what you tell me of Tolwreen is true, then vanyesh survivors have done the same thing.”

“But not as well.” Borosan shook his head. “This place nourishes you, but Tolwreen is just a shabby mausoleum.”

“I am certain they would just as soon call this place a mausoleum, too.” Laedhze looked up, his face again a pleasant mask. “It is not a mausoleum, however, and we have not all just lain sleeping. It is with this in mind that I need your aid, Borosan Gryst. You may come, too, Master Dejote.”

Ciras agreed with a nod, his mind still reeling. The trio set off, with Borosan’s thanaton pacing them. Its metal feet ticked loudly on the onyx road, reminding Ciras of the ringing of one blade against another. The peace of Voraxan was something he would know no more, and he felt certain none of those waking would ever return to it, either.

Laedhze led them into a bloodstone building and down a broad set of stairs. They emerged in what might once have been a natural cavern but had been shaped and carved into a stable of stone that extended into darkness. The nearest end had been transformed into a smithy, and though the fires were out, there was ample evidence that it had been very active throughout the ages.

Borosan gasped and drifted toward the nearest stall. “I don’t believe it. I have dreamed it, of course, but…” He raised a hand and stroked a sleek metal muzzle.

The thanaton had wandered forward, and there was a clear kinship between it and the tall mechanical horse Borosan stood admiring. The thanaton had an insect’s simplicity, but the steed revealed intricate gearing and springs, support pieces and joints. All the mechanical beasts had been decorated with plating, making them as beautiful as they were sturdy.

Laedhze pointed off into the darkness. “When we awakened to rotate through sentinel duty, we each assembled at least one of these creatures. We were given plans for how they were to be constructed and examples of the pieces. The original plans have long since been lost, though each of us has memorized them. We know each beast is meant to be ridden, yet each is immobile. And we know no magic to make them work, though we are certain some must exist.”

Borosan moved into the stable and slowly made a circuit of the steed. He ran his hand over the flanks and along the neck, then reemerged at the head. He stared closely at it, then waved Ciras over. “Come here. I need your help.”

Ciras frowned. “Have you forgotten I want nothing to do with your gyanrigot?”

Borosan looked back at him, incredulous. “This isn’t mine. I mean, I dreamed it, but this is more refined. It…I can’t explain, but I need your help.”

Ciras approached reluctantly, and almost retreated when he saw himself reflected in the steed’s dead ruby eyes. “What do you need?”

“Up there, by the ear, there is a spring-loaded catch. Press down and in.”

Ciras did as he was bidden. Something clicked and he pulled his hand back fast, dropping it to the hilt of the sword at his waist. He reached out and tugged Borosan back with his other hand.

Borosan smiled, but did not laugh. “It won’t hurt us.”

With a hiss the faceplate tipped up near the ears and extended straight out, coming down near the muzzle. At the same time the steed’s head dipped, bringing the cavity behind the faceplate into clear view. The fact that the ruby eyes still stared at Ciras did not make him feel any better.

Borosan stepped forward and poked at five narrow slots in a flat plate. “Of course. Brilliant.”

The Voraxan warrior came forward. “What is it, Master Borosan?”

“The one useful thing I discovered in Tolwreen was an alloy of thaumston, which could store both the wild magic and directions for the operation of a gyanrigot. Made into command-slates and properly inscribed, they should power and direct one of these mounts. They work in the thanaton, so there is no reason they won’t work here.”

Ciras folded his arms over his chest. “I will not ride one of those things.”

Borosan smiled. “On our horses we can go maybe thirty miles in a day. What if these will take us sixty, and in half the time? In a quarter of it?”

Laedhze nodded solemnly. “And think of these mounts in combat. Just their weight alone will shatter an enemy formation in a charge.”

Ciras frowned. “And where is the heroism in that? It takes no skill and wins no honor.”

The ancient warrior pressed his hands together. “Our final battle was not a matter of skill. There was no honor to be won. It was a war of survival, and we did what we were required to do. We won because we survived.”

Ciras bowed. “I mean to suggest no dishonor.”

“And I did not think you had.” Laedhze smiled cautiously. “But the Empress has summoned us, and it is not to display skill or win glory. She summoned us because of dire peril. And so I will not hesitate to use whatever means are at my disposal to reach her side as fast as possible, and do her bidding with all the strength I possess.”

4th 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

Tsatol Pelyn, Deseirion

Keles Anturasi looked up at Tyressa. “Prince Cyron ordered you to kill me?”

The blond Keru warrior gave him a hard stare. “You are more valuable to Nalenyr than you could possibly imagine. You have knowledge of the world that would benefit all nations, including our enemies. I was tasked with keeping you safe.”

“But in the event that I was captured, you were to kill me?”