Michael Stackpole - The New World

Deshiel Tolo, Pasuram Derael, and Captain Lumel took charge of our force. They reorganized it, rounded up deserters, and deployed our meager cavalry as scouts. They ranged south to check on the enemy advance. For whatever reason, the kwajiin did not seem interested in pressing their advantage, but none of us were inclined to trust appearances.

Just over a hundred miles separated them from Moriande. They could be there in a week. There weren’t enough kwajiin to surround and isolate Moriande, so the siege would be nasty. Their very presence would cause a panic. It was easy to imagine streams of refugees heading north.

Messengers had been dispatched to Moriande with the dire news. Out of the forty-four thousand warriors we’d had at Tsengui, only a third survived. Desei line troops had taken the majority of casualties. The survivors-primarily cavalry-might well have been dead. Their prince had fallen. Though they never could have saved him, they all imagined they might have and that gutted their morale.

If there was going to be any hope for Moriande, we had to rebuild that morale. I focused them on vengeance. I told them that if Prince Cyron thought they’d been broken, he’d send them home. They’d never get their chance to avenge their beloved Pyrust. I also played on their contempt for soft southerners, using it to rekindle their pride. They would show us all how true warriors fought, and they would gain immortality because of it.

The Desei conscripts were little more than cattle. Most abandoned weapons and armor as they fled. They’d been reduced to exhausted, terrified wretches marching north through enemy territory. Their spirits had been completely broken. The surviving Hawks had nothing but contempt for them. And shunned by their own people, they had nothing to live for. They just wanted to go home.

Only I couldn’t let them do that. Once we got to Moriande they’d be rearmed or used as forced labor. A handful might see Deseirion again, but war’s voracious appetite made that doubtful.

The Virine and my xidantzu were in the best shape of all. They’d fought the kwajiin before and survived. They didn’t share contempt for the other. I culled the troops from Tsatol Deraelkun for officers and imposed them on the Desei conscripts. This created sufficient structure that desertion dropped off and the conscripts’ morale began to pick up.

I selected a valley about eight miles out from Moriande to house the army temporarily, then rode ahead to meet with the Empress. Resupplied, clad, and fed, they would look much better coming into the capital.

Tired though I was, just catching sight of the White City lifted my spirits. It gleamed, its tall towers unbroken. I reined my horse in and stared-wondering what Nelesquin or the kwajiin would make of the view.

Then three men stepped from the forest. Not even a year previous I’d stopped in the same spot.

Back before all this had begun.

Back before I knew who I was.

The largest stepped to the fore. “There’s a toll on this road, friend.”

“Blood or gold?”

“I’m sure you’d rather be paying gold instead of blood.”

I shrugged and shifted in the saddle. “I’ve killed your like on this road-in this spot-since before the Time of Black Ice.”

Two of them laughed, but the third slowly clasped his hands at the small of his back.

I glanced back over my left shoulder. “In half a week an army will be coming up this road, to lay waste to Moriande. Now you can go to Moriande and be useful, or you can die here.”

The leader laughed again and looked at his two comrades. One laughed with him, but the other kept his hands behind his back. The leader frowned at his companion. “What’s with you?”

“My mother lives in Moriande.” The goldfish crest on his robe shimmered as he shifted from foot to foot. “If what he says is true…”

“He’s lying to save his skin.”

“But we saw the army head south.”

“That was Pyrust, and good riddance to him. Let him rule in Kelewan. He’s never coming back this way.”

I straightened up and looked at Goldfish. “Come to Moriande. Find me through Serrian Jatan. I’ll give you honest work.”

The other underling, who wore a crest of a seated dog-probably stolen from a Helosundian deserter-looked up. “Me, too?”

“Hurry.” I smiled at the leader. “Coming to Moriande, or do we make the road a little less thirsty?”

His companions stepped away, isolating him. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“The quiver in your voice suggests otherwise.”

“I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid for my mother.” He brought his head up. “S-she lives in Moriande, too. I think.”

“Good. Wait here for my army. Ask for Ranai Ameryne. She will bring you into Moriande. Dunos will take you to Serrian Jatan. I’ll find you there.”

The three of them straightened into a line and bowed. I returned the bow and rode on. I would see two of them again. This gladdened me, but only for as long as it took them to disappear into the woods. A month from now, none of them would be alive.

I doubted, a month from now, that Moriande would be alive.

Prince Cyron greeted me in Wentokikun’s throne room. He looked different than when last I’d seen him, and it was not just the half-empty sleeve. He’d lost weight and had that haggard look of a man with too little sleep. Yet his blue eyes still possessed an inquisitive quickness that marked the sharpness of his mind.

He waved me forward and came halfway down the red carpet to welcome me. “I know it’s not me you wanted to see, but I needed to see you. Are you prepared to direct the city’s defenses?”

“Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“I have no skill at defending against a siege, Highness. I will be on the walls fighting the kwajiin, but if I had any skill at resisting sieges-or any inclination toward that art-I’d have died in Kelewan.”

Cyron stared at me. “But you were the leader of the Emperor’s Bodyguard.”

“You’ve forgotten. He died. Not much of a recommendation.” I smiled. “I sent you the best man for the job. Count Jarys Derael.”

“Yes, but he’s…”

“Crippled?” I frowned. “His body’s hurt, but not his mind. You must have an appreciation for that situation.”

Cyron’s face flushed crimson. “Point well made. I have been sending him information. Humoring him, really, since you sent him. I thought…but, never mind. I will consult with him.”

“And act on his plans?”

The Prince laughed. “Yes. No need to twist the only arm I have.”

“He’ll know how to defeat them.”

“What of Pyrust?”

“Dead, probably. I don’t know. I sent a messenger offering to ransom him.”

“And Vroan?”

“He survived. I did not like him, so did not extend the same courtesy.”

“Pity. We could have spared a bucket of warm horse piss.” Cyron sighed. “I had planned to monopolize you to go over facts and figures, but I shall leave that for Count Derael.”

“I am interested, but…”

The Prince nodded. “She waits for you in my sanctuary. She hopes you won’t be angry with her.”

“Why would I…?”

“There are some things, Master Soshir, that only the Empress knows.” Cyron smiled. “Best not to keep her waiting.”

The palace’s sanctuary made it easy to forget the horrors to the south. Lush plant life filled several acres, drawn from throughout the Nine. Flowers clung to trees, and sweet fruits I’d not seen in eons hung from branches. The thick vegetation deadened sound from beyond the walls. The yowls of exotic animals echoed through the jungle, and if not for the white stone pathways, I might have thought myself in the depths of Ummummorar.