Michael Stackpole - The New World

“Yes, true.” Qiro frowned. “It must be taken intact. No Anturasi blood may be spilled. That must be clear. You shed none of my blood.”

“I shall pass the word to my commander. The focus of our assault is to the west of your tower. If you would be so kind as to draw us a map…”

“Absolutely not.”

Nelesquin’s nostril’s flared. “You try my patience.”

“Have you not listened? I told you the map I created is hampering my ability to effect change in the world. If I were to draw you a map of Moriande with the walls in place, the walls would be in place. Your creatures could vent their fury on them for eternity and they would not fall.”

“Then draw me a Moriande with no walls.”

Qiro’s fist convulsed, spraying juice, then he flung the pulped fruit away. “You do not listen! My map already shows Moriande with walls. They exist. I cannot stop them from existing by drawing a new map. I can add details. I can make the unknown known. I cannot make the known unknown. I cannot render the unreal real with the stroke of a brush. Not now, not before I possess the map.”

Nelesquin scowled. He wanted to remind Qiro that he’d mastered magic eons before Qiro had ever set brush to paper. For Nelesquin, magic was simple. He looked at reality, then imagined a different reality. Through an act of will he created what he desired. The process was not always a simple one, but as strong-willed as he was, it had always been effective.

He understood Qiro’s plight with the map, even though it was no true problem. Having a focus for working magic was common enough. Kaerinus and his butterflies were a minor example. Nelesquin had come to magic through swordsmanship. He saw a sword as his focus-at least at the beginning of his career. He had since moved beyond it.

Qiro might, too.

A chill slid down Nelesquin’s spine. Qiro was wielding power that was all but unimaginable. In fact, it was unstoppable. This critical map might be the only means of controlling Qiro and that would be valuable beyond belief.

In that moment, Nelesquin realized that either he or Qiro would be master of the world. Qiro was incapable of sharing power, as was Nelesquin. He would have to destroy Qiro.

And he was equally certain Qiro had come to the same realization about him.

Nelesquin smiled. “Master Anturasi, if it is your old home that you seek, with your kith and kin hale and hearty, so it shall be. We shall secure it and keep your chattels safe against all onslaughts. Doing that shall be the first installment on repaying the debt we owe you.”

Qiro nodded as if he were already the Emperor. “It is the key to the world. If you wish to rule, you must possess it.”

“Possess it? Not I.” Nelesquin bowed his head. “Inside a week, you shall be in your home again. The wrongs of the past shall be made right again, and a brilliant future shall be ours to enjoy.”

25th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Moriande, Nalenyr

This year, Moriande would host no Harvest Festival. Crops that could be taken early had been. Though premature, the harvest had been generous. Storehouses bulged with grain. Cattle, sheep, and swine had been slaughtered.

And to the south, in the stubble-and chaff-ridden fields, Nelesquin and his vermin had taken up residence. They had taken their time setting up. Nelesquin always had liked a parade and spectacle. He put on quite a show for us, though few in Moriande truly understood their peril.

His army did look impressive from atop South Gate. The kwajiin made up the bulk, but he also employed human regiments from the south and even Nalenyr’s western provinces. The Free Naleni Regiment fought beneath Count Linel Vroan’s banner, which surprised no one. Prince Cyron had exclaimed that the man was hardier than a cockroach. There wasn’t a warrior on the walls who hadn’t boasted he’d be the one to crush him.

Nelesquin’s slow advance allowed us to complete most of our siege preparations. Pilings had been driven deep into the river and vast chains stretched between them to bar all passage. We’d also sown the known channels with stout spikes that would stave in hulls. Where channels were too wide for that, we’d scuttled a ship or two.

Under Count Derael’s direction, the river’s edge had become fortified. Barricades covered both approaches to the nine bridges. The ferries had been cut off. Streets leading up from the river had also been blocked. He stationed soldiers at key points in case the vhangxi were infiltrated through the river.

Children had all been issued nets and sticks, and been trained how to smash the winged toads. Derael suggested the best way to combat fear was to give people something to do. Only the helpless truly feel afraid. I marveled at little gangs of feral children marching in good order, patrolling their neighborhoods. I wished their parents would take soldiering as seriously.

Our defensive plan had three components. The first and most important was the defense of the walls. Keeping Nelesquin’s troops outside the city would be best for all. We were prepared to defend them, but chances were the walls would be breached. We had to assume they would be.

From the walls we would fall back to the towers. Three of the city’s nine provincial towers lay south of the Gold River. From west to east, they were Kojaikun, Quunkun, and Wentokikun. Initially it was assumed that we would surrender the Dragon Tower only after every defender had been slain, but Prince Cyron demurred. He’d already evacuated the animals from his sanctuary to the north end, housing them in the gardens adjacent to Shirikun. While we were expected to defend his palace, the plan was simply to bleed the enemy and buy time so people could escape north across the bridges.

After the towers, we’d hold the bridges’ southern ends, then get driven back to the north ends. We already had catapults, ballistae, and trebuchets ranged and sighted for sweeping the long archways. If Nelesquin’s troops got that far, the slaughter would be horrible.

“Master, I should like to say…”

I turned and smiled. Ciras Dejote stood before me in a full suit of armor. A flame had been painted on the breastplate in yellow and orange. The armor’s lacings likewise alternated those two colors. He wore a pair of swords, one long, one short, and a fierce armored mask hung by its lacings from his shoulder.

I clapped him on the shoulders. “Ciras, I am no longer your master. You traveled to Voraxan and came back with the Empress’ loyal retainers. It was an act that shall be sung of for a long time.”

“Only if we win, Master. If not, we shall be sung of as the vanyesh are now.”

I nodded. “Then we cannot let that happen.”

“Master Tolo-I do not know if I call you that or Master Soshir…” Ciras frowned and slid the long sword, scabbard and all, from his sash. “This blade belonged to Jogot Yirxan. There is some indication that I may be him, reborn. Using the sword, out there in Ixyll, I had visions. And one of them was…”

I held up a hand, then extended it. He laid the blade’s hilt in my palm and it was as if ice encased me. My vision blurred and night came on fast. I knew I was me-Virisken Soshir-but my body felt alien. It was as if I were wearing a costume, pretending to be someone I was not.

Nelesquin’s camp in far Ixyll had been laid waste. My brother’s body stretched out in front of me. I tangled fingers in his hair and lifted his severed head. I held it high, laughing. He had thought to oppose me. He had thought himself my better.

I spat in his face, then kicked his head into the darkness.