Michael Stackpole - The New World

Cyron turned the wheeled chair toward the massive map spread over the center of the tower’s floor. Cyron’s grandfather had credited his penchant for playing with toy soldiers as the source of his military acumen. Toys had been painted to represent the various units stationed throughout the city and placed appropriately on the map.

“Highness, we must assume that the units at the gates are gone or soon will be gone. Likely our second line of defense as well. We can already see people coming over the bridges.”

Cyron glanced back south. The nine bridges were choked with refugees. Here and there a cart was pitched over the side. Occasionally a body fell from the spans.

“Perhaps we should have evacuated everyone.”

The count’s voice came in a firm whisper. “We could not have anticipated Nelesquin’s weapons. He did not have them at Tsatol Deraelkun. He did not have them five days ago.”

Cyron shook his head. “But we knew he was coming.”

“It does not matter. It would have been wrong to evacuate everyone.”

“How can you say that?”

“Prince Cyron, I lived my entire life in a fortress. My sole reason for living has been to kill the enemy. Those who lived with me knew no quarter would be asked or given. Had Tsatol Deraelkun fallen, survivors would have been slaughtered. To assume it would be any less here is folly.”

The Prince frowned. “Because everyone is at risk, we shouldn’t make them safe?”

“No. We are at war. To allow any segment of the population to pretend it is safe is dangerous. It makes defending the nation a task for warriors alone. People come to regard them as they might gardeners or other servants. They allow themselves to become insulated from the reality facing them. Either a people is united behind a leader to guarantee the destruction of its enemies, or its effort is futile. If anyone is allowed to think he is exempted from involvement, the war is lost.”

Cyron regarded the sharp-eyed man trapped in a dying body. “There are a lot of children out there.”

“And we shall mourn every single dead child. Our job is to determine how we can best prevent the enemy from killing them.”

Cyron nodded and turned back to the window. He gazed out at the city. He saw it less as a collection of stones piled one on the other than as a web. To the south, strands were fraying and snapping. The city took on a glow-at least the parts of it his forces still controlled-and the disease that was Nelesquin’s invasion darkened the edges.

The bridges over the Gold River, the high arches with their blue gyanrigot lights, they glowed the strongest.

“People produce that glow.”

“Did you say something, Highness?”

“Thinking out loud.” He returned to the map. “We have no choice. We recall our third and fourth lines across the river, then we cut all the bridges save one: the Dragon Bridge.”

Count Derael closed his eyes. “We will get as many people across as we can first, but you are right, this must be done.”

“And so it shall be.” Cyron sighed and waved a clerk forward. “We’ll cut the bridges and anyone caught on the far side, may Grija be kind when he welcomes them into the Underworld.”

Through the book, Keles measured the enemy advance. He clutched the oversized folio against his chest and waved his cousins from the tower. They ran with arms full of charts and maps and diagrams. As long as Keles had his Secret Atlas, he could re-create anything that was lost.

And make sure nothing that has been created will be lost.

His cousins had worked tirelessly. In three days they had largely completed the world atlas. The pages came to him swiftly, and it seemed that each cartographer had pushed to make his chart better than any other. They worked together, adding illustrations and bold legends. Some of the youngest clerks wrote out notes from Jorim’s adventures, and even Qiro’s, which were bound into the atlas in the right places.

Keles had mentioned the project in passing to his mother, and she noted that it was a pity that they’d not done the work on paper made from plant fibers native to the appropriate places. She had some of the plants in the tower garden-the portion of it not yet overrun with tzaden — so they pressed petals between sheets and used some oils to provide scents.

He had to make the world of the book as real as possible. He needed everything-sight, scent, texture, folktales, all the things that gave a place its unique identity. As the pages came in, he studied them and bound them himself. Only he knew all that the book contained, but his cousins were certain they could reproduce their pages. It was this task they were set upon completing when the enemy hit the walls, and the horns and drums from the north sounded a general retreat.

Keles hurried the last of his cousins out of the tower, then shut and locked the golden gate. Tyressa found him there, her armor on and spear in hand. “We have to get going, Keles.”

“Have you seen my mother? She was going to get xunling root for one of the maps. She thought she had it in her workshop or might have to dig it up from the garden.”

“I haven’t seen her.” Tyressa pointed to the stairs. “Go. Check the garden. I’ll check her workshop.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“No, keep going. I’ll catch up. Kojai Bridge. If you get over it, go to Shirikun. You’ll see your mother there again, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” He reached a hand toward her face.

She stiffened, then smiled. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Get going. Hurry.”

Keles took the stairs two at a time, then leaped to the landing. He raced out into the garden, bursting through a green tangle of tzaden vines. He fought through, but a few still clung to him.

He stopped. “Mother?”

At the base of the garden steps, a silver skeletal monster held his mother’s broken body. One tentacle wrapped her throat, the other encircled her thighs. Her neck was bent unnaturally.

Behind him a large leathery-winged creature nibbled fruit from a naranji tree.

The monster let his mother’s body spin to the ground. “She wouldn’t tell me where you were. Now it doesn’t matter.” The creature stalked forward and slid a scabbarded sword free of the harness on its back.

“Prince Nelesquin sends his regards, Keles Anturasi. He begs you to come visit him.” The monster grinned. “He has a conflict with your grandfather, and believes you to be the solution to that particular problem.”

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 glanced left. “Dunos, escort that woman and her children north.”

“No, Master, I am staying with you.”

“Dunos, do as I ask.”

Count Vroan waved dismissively. “Go, child, you will be safe. I shall send a runner with you.”

Dunos thrust out his chin defiantly. “I’m not a coward.”

“So says the blood dripping from your weapons.” The count bowed briefly in his direction. “But you must obey your master. Go.”

I nodded. “Yes, Dunos, go. We must all obey our masters. The count obeys his, and will pay a fearful price for it.”

“Then may I hope, Moraven Tolo, that you will obey your master.”

The voice came softly, yet surprisingly strong, from a small, ancient man huddled beneath an old blanket and a conical straw hat. He moved slowly, supporting himself on an oaken staff taller than he was. He could have been any old man out wandering, save that gauntlets encased his hands.

I started toward him. “Master!”

Vroan laughed. “ This is your master? If you learned to fight from this thing, Prince Nelesquin has no reason to fear you.”