Michael Stackpole - The New World

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Again whole, with lustrous long, dark hair, she picked up the robe the most recent patron had discarded. At her touch it became a brilliant green silk, bearing a gold tiger crest. She cinched it around her waist with a golden sash, then moved through the crowd and joined a table.

“It would appear, Talrisaal, they serve and serve again.”

The Viruk pointed after the woman. “No one seems particularly distressed at either serving or roasting. It is not much of a punishment.”

“True.” Jorim cut through the tables and made his way to the table where the woman had taken a seat. Based on her crest and the style of embroidery, she was some minor Moryth princess. There were stories about a branch of the royal family who indulged in unnatural vices with peasants and later murdered them. The princess sat with others of royal blood, one of whom was well known in Nalenyr.

Prince Araylis?

Prince Cyron’s older brother had a breadth of chest and robustness of features not found in Nalenyr’s current ruler. He bore no sign of the sword cut that had split his skull, though he did sound a bit nasal. He wore a robe with the Naleni crest and an Imperial crown hovered above the dragon.

“If only I had been more patient. I think that is it, really. The Desei were weak and would have grown weaker had I waited. Pyrust could not have held his throne much longer. I could have done it. I could have forced him out of Helosunde and brought that realm fully under my control.”

Jorim frowned. He’d been a child when Araylis died. He’d worked on some of the maps the Prince had carried on his campaign. Curiously, the campaign had only ever been praised as one in which the Prince would free the Helosundians from the shackles of Desei domination. There was no hint of taking Helosunde for Nalenyr.

“No, no, patience would have availed you nothing.” The man who spoke wore a brown robe with a white hawk in flight. “The battle goes to the swift. I made my mistake in waiting. I wanted your dynasty to fall apart in civil strife. I wanted you weakened, but it did not happen. If only I had struck when your grandfather first took the throne. Quick, decisive action would have won me your nation.”

Another woman focused on a reality only she saw. “If only I had not forced peasants to grow blue lilies. Then that child would not have been stung by the bee and died. And his parents would not have started the rebellion. My family would yet rule…”

“No, that’s not right.” Prince Araylis wiped spittle on his sleeve. “If only I had been patient. That would have been the thing. The Desei would have weakened…”

Jorim slowly backed away. Doing so, he picked up other snippets of conversation. Everyone had a complaint. Each one of them had a regret-some trivial, some monumental-which they cited as their undoing.

But Prince Araylis was wrong. Impatience hadn’t killed him. Arrogance had. The same arrogance that told him that he could take Helosunde was what told him he could defeat Prince Pyrust. No matter how long he waited he’d probably never have been able to defeat his Desei rival.

Jorim turned to Talrisaal. “The punishment here is not serving or even being roasted alive. It’s reliving your failures over and over, for all time.”

“Does it fit the crime?”

“I suppose. These people went through life without second-guessing themselves. They believed in their infallibility. They acted based on it.” Jorim shook his head. “Forced to relive mistakes without finding a solution. I can’t imagine.”

One of the servants, bowed by the weight of a sloshing tray of cups, cackled. “If you can’t imagine, you’ll be back here soon enough. As you serve, you see what fools they all are. What a fool you were. And there is no escape.”

Talrisaal pulled Jorim back. “Do not engage him. He would trade places with you, much as they all seek to foist blame on others.”

“What a terrible place.”

The Viruk nodded. “Being roasted and carved must be the most acute punishment, but I would suffer beneath the rest as well.”

“I hope all their victims know pleasures equal to the pains down here.”

“We must move on, Wentoki.”

“True. The door is over there. I’ll meet you.”

The Viruk regarded him curiously. “What are you going to do?”

“Magic will work here, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, this will only take a minute.”

True to his word, Jorim rejoined the Viruk and they marched to the sea. They waded into it and dove down, heading for the Sixth Hell. It was only as the waters closed over his head that the screams of Junel Aerynnor left Jorim’s ears. The man had asked for help, and Jorim had been glad to oblige. The healing spell had taken immediate effect, returning his flesh to pink and sealing the wounds left by the carving knife.

And it would continue working, forever, so Nirati’s murderer would spend eternity on a spit, screaming out his innocence for any who cared to listen.

Chapter Thirty-six

27th 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

Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

Nirati knew not how many days had passed in the real world since she had made her decision to save Jorim. In her realm, days passed at a whim. Time could even be reversed-at least, she believed it could. She seemed to recall reliving a number of days. She grew so frustrated at the end of each that she wished they had never taken place.

In Kunjiqui, her wishes were law.

But there were some things she could not wish into existence. She’d told Takwee that they would not travel into the Underworld alone. She needed an army and set out to raise one. The task should have been easy, since Nelesquin had created his army on Anturasixan and sent it off to invade the Nine.

More important, he had left her some of his creatures. As he worked with Qiro to create lands that were conducive to breeding fierce warriors and terrifying weapons, some creations were not quite what he wanted. Nelesquin and her grandfather had simply wiped those lands away and started over, but Nirati had collected the orphaned strays, like Takwee, and made a home for them. Because it gave her so much pleasure, Nelesquin had taken to giving her larger and larger populations of creatures to house in what he called the Land of Lost Toys.

Hopeful, she had gone there, seeking to replicate the Durrani. She concentrated on the things she knew. Proto-Durrani-small, brutish men with blue skin and heavy muscles-took well to riding deer with golden horns. They used their mounts to herd other creatures, including the giant and quite docile hammer-headed rock-throwers.

A whole race of emerald-furred apes with bats’ wings flew down from the mountains. They called themselves the Nighfor. They imitated the formations Nirati put her troops through. Within four or five generations, they understood commands and had become very loyal. They couldn’t use bows, but spears suited them, and they were very good at dropping rocks on things.

Other creatures, like her long, reptilian wolves, also developed a rudimentary intelligence. They seemed to flock by instinct and sprinted quickly. They had a nasty bite and were happy to hunt as long as the day was sunny and warm.

In fact, all of her troops were happy to do whatever she required of them. She’d found shrines built in her honor, with flowers and sacrificial offerings. She became as devoted to them as they were to her. As their eldest died and were laid to rest, she would come to ease their passing and promised loved ones they would be reunited in the Underworld.

All the creatures would indeed lay siege to the Underworld at her command. The problem was, she didn’t know how to command. While she could breed creatures as well as Nelesquin, she had no clue as to what generals did. Like every other young girl of Nalenyr, she’d watched plenty of military parades and learned all about the Keru when she was younger. Parades and drills were useful for establishing discipline, but did nothing to teach creatures how to attack and use strategy or tactics. As for killing…Nirati really didn’t like the idea of killing much.

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