Michael Stackpole - The New World

I don’t know how I knew he was there. A sense? Jaedun, perhaps. I think it may have even been deliberate on his part, a tiny sound, just a hint of warning. Not that it availed me much, because his sword-the sword connecting me with Ciras-connected the two of us. It bit through me, carving into my left side from spine to breastbone.

My hand fell from the sword. I found myself on my knees. The scar ached as it had not in a long time.

“Master, are you…?”

“I’m fine, Ciras.” I got to my feet, steadying myself against the wall. “You had a vision of almost cutting me in half.”

Ciras could not meet my gaze. “It dishonors me.”

“It should not, no more than the scar does me. Jogot and I had been as brothers-truer brothers than Nelesquin and I had ever been, or so I thought. When he joined the vanyesh I felt betrayed. I did not realize why he had gone.”

I looked past him, north, to Shirikun, where the Empress had taken up residence. “When first I saw her again she looked for something. She wanted to believe she could trust me, but I had broken her trust before.”

Ciras shook his head. “You never would have done that.”

“I am afraid I would have.” I pointed to the sword. “I saw Nelesquin as my rival for Imperial power, not hers. I’d struck him down, just as I would strike down anyone who stood between me and the throne. She knew that. She sent you to kill me. You did.”

The blood had drained from Ciras’ face. “But in a most cowardly way, Master. I struck you from behind.”

I shook my head. “Not cowardly. Prudent. Your vision ended after you struck me down?”

“Yes.”

I reached out and tipped his chin up, exposing his throat. “I was a very dangerous man then, Ciras. You paid dearly for your fidelity to the Empress.” I hesitated. “There was just enough life in me to take your head.”

Ciras swallowed hard. “This explains many things. If you demand satisfaction of me, Master…”

I let his chin fall again. “Do not be silly. I know better than to want to tangle with you.”

He blinked.

“If you wish me to say it, I will. I fear you, Ciras Dejote.” I laughed and he joined me, albeit slowly.

“Fear me? I would think you hate me.”

“Hate you? No. You acted bravely for the Empire. And that’s good to remember, now that we’re here, fighting a war we thought we had fought eons ago.”

Ciras leaned on the wall and peered south. “You could challenge Nelesquin to combat in the circle and be done with it.”

I shook my head. “He’d not accept.”

“He fears you would kill him.”

“Nelesquin fears nothing, which has always been a problem.” I shrugged. “I have had many more years of practice at this point, but he has his magic. It would probably be an even fight.”

“Then why refuse the challenge?”

“His war is with the Empress. Killing me is for later.” I chuckled and patted Ciras on the shoulder. “I’m glad to see you ready to fight. They will come tonight, just after the sun has gone down.”

“We will show them no mercy.”

“Exactly. You’re already a hero, Ciras Dejote. Today you’ll become a legend.”

The assault came even later than I expected. I’d forgotten Nelesquin favored a short nap after his evening meal. I sat with my back against the wall, sharing a bowl of rice and some warm soup with Dunos, wondering what Nelesquin supped on. He’d always enjoyed the finer things. It surprised me that he’d limited his extravagances to the gold gauntlets I’d caught glimpses of.

When their drums began pounding, and some of their odd creatures started hooting, I sent Dunos off with our bowls. He protested being sent away, but I also gave him a message for Count Derael. That errand mollified him somewhat. He promised he’d return soon with an answer.

Trumpets answered on our side. Torches flared along the walls. Warriors-veterans and conscripts alike-donned circle talismans or drew ashen circles around their eyes to ward off magic. I couldn’t feel the tingle of jaedun, but the vanyesh were out there, somewhere. I couldn’t fault anyone taking precautions.

Melodies shifted. Our catapults launched oil-filled flaming urns. They streaked through the sky and exploded against the ground. None found a living target, but the burning pools cast enough light for us to see the enemy.

The xonarchii loomed forward and hurled boulders in high arcs. Several eclipsed the stars. Two or three landed well shy of the city. Others struck sparks from the stone and bounced off, gouging the walls.

One sailed completely over and collapsed a hovel into a pile of shattered kindling.

It had been hurled by the largest of the xonarchii. A massive beast, it had been painted with black stripes over its blue flesh, like a tiger-Nelesquin’s way of mocking me. It did make for a terrifying display. The driver turned the beast and it disappeared into the shadows to retrieve another rock.

I glanced at Penxir Aerant. “Three hundred yards.”

“Three and a half.” The giant twirled an arrow. “Next throw if it comes to the same spot. The one after if it does not.”

“Perfect.”

A loud clacking filled the street below. I smiled. The Derael spikes were working as intended.

No one who had been at Tsatol Deraelkun could forget the giant moles. Count Derael named them danborii after one of the Rat god’s more odious aspects. He’d made ready to give them the welcome they surely merited.

Every nine feet along the entire length of the wall we’d dug postholes another nine feet deep. Each hole had a bamboo shaft in it and an old man or woman holding it. Above the hole we positioned the same sort of pilings we’d used to stop the river, with three yards of hooked-iron spike on the downward end. They’d been hoisted into position with a pulley and angle-frame. When the sentinel felt the bamboo shift, he or she clapped two shorter lengths of bamboo together and a wall warden cut the Derael spike loose.

The piling shot down into the posthole. The iron spike pierced the danbor ’s skull, pinning it in the tunnel. As the beasts thrashed out their deaths, the muffled thumps made us smile. Soldiers sighted back along what they imagined was the tunnel’s line. Archers nocked arrows, ready to feather anyone trying to dig his way free.

The xonarchii returned to hurl more stones. Penxir drew his great recurve bow and held it. Firelight danced over the razored edge of the broadhead. He waited, his muscles never quivering, the arrow rock still.

The tiger-striped xonarch turned.

Penxir released.

The arrow spun out into the night. It was ridiculous to think that so small a missile could hurt such a massive creature. Yes, warriors had suggested that driving an arrow through an eye might get into the creature’s brain, but the head was as wide as most wagons were long. A cloth-yard shaft would completely disappear into the thing’s skull before it had a chance of hitting the brain.

But then, as we’d discovered before, finding the monster’s brain wasn’t the only way to stop it. Penxir’s arrow passed through the rider’s armpit. There was no mistaking the dark spray of arterial blood. The arrow poked out the other side, completely transfixing the kwajiin. He fell back and to the side, to hang by one foot from a stirrup.

The beast yelped and swiped a hand at the control sticks. It missed. The xonarch rolled onto its back, then over, staining itself with the driver’s pulped remains. On its feet again, it tore off across the ground, going low and fast, barking out furious challenges.

I smiled. “Nice shot.”

He shook his head. “Next time I will not kill a driver. I will kill one of the creatures. It will be the perfect shot.”