Michael Stackpole - The New World

Her army was made up of innocent creatures who would do whatever she might ask- but there are just some things that should not be asked.

Nirati found herself firmly stuck between two unacceptable alternatives. She could let Jorim remain trapped in the Underworld, or she could lead inexperienced and insufficiently trained creatures into a war that she had no skill to execute. Either would be a disaster, but doing nothing would not work either.

“I need a general.” Nirati frowned as she stared out at the silver ocean into which the land’s azure river poured. A wave crashed and flowed up the beach to wash her feet. As it retreated, the sand buried her to the ankles. She twiddled her toes, laughing at the sensation, then remembered something.

Her grandfather, exhausted and quite insane, had shaped a small army of mud. He’d placed his little warriors in boats and sent them off. They were meant to free Keles from the Desei capital. He’d even shaped a leader for them, taking a single hair from Nirati’s head to complete the creation.

Nirati smiled and dropped to her knees, piling up handfuls of wet sand. Takwee and her two Nighfor bodyguards fell in and helped. They heaped wet sand into an oblong six feet in length and three high.

Nirati plucked Takwee from atop it and patted it all smooth. She began by generally outlining the shape of a tall, well-muscled man. She’d studied a little bit of sculpting in her long quest to discover her talent, but took heart in the fact that her grandfather’s mud soldiers had been quite crude. She worked on the details, right on down to individual finger-and toenails.

She saved his face for last. She sought in vain for any image of the Emperor Taichun-the man who had created the Empire. The few surviving pictures had been idealized and melded easily in her mind with images of Jorim. She knew of other generals from stories, but had no clear images of them. She could conjure up an image of Prince Araylis, but she remembered that he’d died with his head split in two and didn’t think he’d be very useful that way.

Nirati knelt and closed her eyes. She laid her hands on the empty face. Instead of trying to imagine a specific person, she concentrated on the traits a great general ought to possess. A strong jawline, certainly. High cheekbones, strong brow, and high forehead. A nose with a bump, perhaps having once been broken. And eyes, set not too deeply.

As she cut the eyebrows in with a fingernail, her entire body tingled. She focused on her need, her desire, for a warrior who would lead her army and save her brother. It had to work.

Then a huge wave hit. It caught her in the back, breaking on her. The water knocked her sprawling on top of her sand general, then the undertow plucked her away. Nirati tumbled down the beach. She clawed at the sand. It melted from between her fingers. A second wave drove her into the sand. Grit ground beneath her teeth. She sputtered, then inhaled water. She started coughing and the retreating wave sucked her into the silver waters.

She struck toward the surface, but the boiling water rolled her over and over. Hair wrapped her face and throat. Her lungs burned. She coughed. Precious air bubbled out. She thrust a hand toward the surface. She felt air, but also felt herself slowly sinking.

Then a hand closed on her wrist. Her savior dragged her from the depths and held her dangling childlike. Nirati coughed some more, sucked in air, then vomited all over herself. She gasped and struggled as he lowered her into the water, washing her off before hauling her free again.

Finally, she swept hair from her face. She recognized the man holding her aloft. His face-it had the strengths she’d sculpted, and much more. The eyes, a green of a deeper hue than Nighfor fur, glowed intensely. His gaze flicked from her face to the two charging apes.

The beasts stopped abruptly, snarled, and retreated up the beach.

He set her down, then looked at his left hand. He flexed it, studied it, and flicked his thumb against the ring on the fourth finger. He smiled, quite pleased. “I’ve lost my beard, but regained two fingers. It’s a bargain I’ll take.”

Nirati covered herself with a gown of seaweed. “Welcome to Anturasixan, Prince Pyrust.”

30th 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

I dropped to a knee before one of the shrines to Cyron and tossed a beggar a silver coin. From within his dirty robes, he produced a small wedge of incense and lit it. The self-appointed priest of Cyron began mumbling a prayer, making up in fervency what it lacked in coherence.

The shell-shaped shrine was like nine thousand others scattered throughout Moriande. It had the requisite picture that looked a lot like the Prince and a couple of toy soldiers standing vigil. My priest had a small finger bone purported to be from Cyron’s lost arm. This hardly made the shrine unique-if only a ninth of the enshrined bones had actually come from Cyron, the man’s left hand would have once sprouted at least eighty-one fingers.

I’d seen no harm in offering a prayer for Cyron’s well-being. The Prince’s directives gave people a purpose. That purpose gave them hope. My hope was that the prayers would help us to keep Nelesquin out of the city.

Kneeling there, I felt their approach before I heard it. Vibrations rose through the ground. The finger bone danced, which the beggar-priest took as a sign of divine favor. We stood at the same time-he to pray more loudly and me to race up the wall.

Metal hooves and the thunder they made had me wishing my priest would pray just that much harder.

Giant metal beast-men, reminiscent of the gyanrigot but much bigger and more ornate, charged from Nelesquin’s camp. The lead rank of nine ram-headed men bore double-bitted broadaxes. Ranks of elephantine warriors flanked them, trunks trumpeting, and steel spikes capping ivory tusks. Tigers and wolves, bears, bulls, and lions raced north. Some were gold, others bronze, and some looked like wood and bone.

I’d never seen anything like them. I’d never even imagined war machines so large. My mouth went dry. Pirates, Viruk, Turasynd, and even the vanyesh. I’d killed them all. But here, these things…

“What will we do, Master?”

Dunos’ question brought me back to reality. “We fight, boy. Get down there. Clear the courtyard.”

“But the fighting will be up here.”

“Not for long. Go.”

I ignored his grumbles and plucked the fan from my sash. I snapped it open and gave the signal.

Our trumpets blared louder than the elephants. Hammers struck. Catapults and trebuchets lofted missiles that grazed the low-hanging clouds. Smaller stones just rattled off the metal creatures, but a large stone hit a bull in full charge, crushing its skull, dropping the metal beast. A following bull leaped over his comrade’s shell and kept coming.

A ram sprinted for the city’s gates. I expected it to lower its head and slam into them, but it stopped short. Shrugging off a hail of arrows, the ram hammered the gate with its ax. The heavy blow spun me around and dropped me to a knee. Wooden splinters shot through the courtyard. Men reeled away, stuck through with lethal fragments, and a big hunk of wood knocked Dunos down.

A tower crew levered a small ballista around and wedged it up. They had no real chance to aim, but the machines were thick at the gate, so they simply shot. Their iron-tipped spear pierced a ram, entering at the left shoulder, lancing down. The ram froze, tottered, then collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs.

More chopped at the gates. Others pounded the walls. Mortar cracked, stones shifted, and men fell. Below, in the courtyard, men loaded their ballistae and trained them on the gates. More splinters flew, then a hinge screamed.