Michael Stackpole - The New World

He held a hand up. “Let me stand so I can die like a man.”

“To die like a man, you once had to be one.” I took his head in one stroke. It rolled away. I kicked his body for good measure, then I stalked forward, looking for more men to kill.

A few of them came, imagining themselves to be braver than their master. This does not say much for them. Those were the stupid ones, and they died easily. The smartest had run when my master had engaged the war machines.

I quickly exhausted my foes, but there were screams and the sounds of combat to the northeast. I sprinted over, straight into the ass end of a Ixunite formation. Though the Ixunites were grown men and trained as soldiers, a small group of students drove them back. With their master slain, the students of Serrian Jatan had no reason to grant mercy.

Nor did I. A thrust here, a slash there, and men went down screaming. Suddenly aware of an assault from the rear, the last of Vroan’s soldiers panicked and fled.

“ Serrdin of Serrian Jatan, join me.” I pointed a bloody sword north. “We must cross the river.”

Their leader, Eron Jatan, saluted me and sent his charges toward where Dunos waited. Beyond them lay Ixunite corpses and a few wounded, each feathered by Deshiel Tolo’s archers. I noticed an arrow stuck in a building further along. “Follow those arrows north.”

I ran with the others through streets strewn with the debris of war. Wounded people limped along, sometimes helped by friends and strangers. Others, mostly the elderly, sat beside buildings, heads tucked between their knees, their hands wrapped over their heads, sobbing. Dogs ran free, forming the packs that would feast on the dead. One mongrel even raced past me with Vroan’s head held by an ear.

Things became worse the closer we got to the span of the Tiger Bridge. The Wolf span, parts of which were visible around a shallow curve in the river, wavered and twisted. I couldn’t tell why, but the reason was soon apparent. The whole bridge collapsed much as the first wooden mantis had.

The crowd wailed at the bridge’s failure. People shouted. Fistfights broke out. Men knocked aside children, old women, and pregnant girls. A gang lifted one cart and threw it over the River Road South wall. People surged into the opening, but the crowd barely moved any further.

“Dunos, Eron, with me. We’re going to the bridge.”

I invoked jaedun, reading the crowd as I would an enemy formation. I watched them jostle each other. Where two people bumped together and rebounded, I passed through their point of contact. I slid sideways between ranks, then darted forward. A nudge here, a push there, and I gained the bridge in short order.

I found the problem.

A gang of armed men controlled the bridge’s approach. Bared steel and nocked arrows gave them all the authority they needed. They let a trickle of people through, making sure panic wasn’t going to get anyone crushed.

I would have applauded their efforts, save that they were charging for passage.

I squeezed through and made for their leader. One of his underlings planted a hand in my chest. Dunos emasculated the bandit before I had a chance to take that hand off at the elbow.

I stepped past the screaming man, my eyes hard. “I haven’t the time to draw a circle, so you have a choice. Die where you stand, or follow my orders. Choose. Now.”

The man, whose eyes had widened at the mention of a circle, bowed his head. “How may I serve you, Master?”

“How high can you count?”

He looked at his hands. “Through the Nine Gods and one for me.”

“Good. Pick nine people. They go.” I nodded to Dunos and Eron. “Pick nine and send them. Stagger it.”

Word of what I’d said passed back through the crowd. People took heart and grouped themselves in sets of nine. They started moving quickly over the bridge, which was just as well. Looking back into the city, seeing the smoke rise and the growing crowd heading toward the bridge, getting them all across was going to take a long time.

And we were going to run out of time long before we ran out of people.

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

Ciras Dejote leaped over Tyressa’s body and smashed both feet into Pravak’s face. The vanyesh giant stumbled back, unable to free the sword in Tyressa’s belly. The swordsman landed and dashed forward. His slash rang loudly, notching Pravak’s thigh.

The tentacle swept out, but Ciras sidestepped it. He twisted away from a cuff by Pravak’s open hand, then blocked a slash aimed at his back. He forced the blade up and over his head, then slashed again and scarred a shinbone.

“Ciras, get away from him.”

“No, Keles, I know this one. Get free.”

Pravak, bootprints still denting his profile, withdrew and settled himself in fourth Scorpion. “You show me no respect, attacking without warning.”

“You deserve none, conspiring with Turasynd and fighting against the Empress.”

“And I thought you truly were Jogot reborn.”

Ciras raised his sword in a salute. “I am, in more ways than you could ever imagine.” He invoked jaedun and set himself. “And I am your better.”

“Don’t do this, Ciras!” Keles screamed at him.

“I have no choice, Keles.”

Pravak launched himself. He came hard, raining blows down on the swordsman. Ciras retreated, step by step, dodging some blows, parrying others. The few he blocked sent shivers down his arm. Ciras’ ripostes would have sliced muscle from arms and legs, crippling a normal foe. Against Pravak the worst of the cuts only curled silver off bone.

Ciras ducked. A wild cut lopped a branch off a tree. Ciras exploded through the shower of leaves and kept low. Pravak’s sword whistled above his head. Ciras cut around, then slashed at the giant’s knee, carving through the silver bands that bound the joint together.

The woven silver band snapped, then jaedun pulsed, and the tiny metal threads wove themselves back together.

Pravak spun and laughed. “I remembered how you defeated me before. I have taken precautions.”

“Ciras, leave him alone!”

The swordsman ignored Keles’ plea. He drove forward, his blade a blur. A cut swept through a knee and even before it had begun to heal, he slashed at the ankle. His sword came up and around, denting the smaller arm bone, then poked a vertebra to the side and chopped through a low rib. He disengaged from every parry, eluded every thrust, and constantly attacked, forcing Pravak to devote time to straightening limbs and repairing joints.

It became a battle of attrition. Pravak became battered; Ciras just became tired. Yet even as his muscles ached and his lungs burned, the magic filled him. He moved more swiftly than ever, reading intention in the slightest movement and countering strategies before they had even begun. Pravak could not defend and repair himself in the same moment. It would be a matter of time before the vanyesh lay scattered over the garden.

Pravak clearly realized this. The swordsman’s blade slashed through the giant’s left knee. The shin fell away and Pravak’s femur jabbed into the ground. Ciras pivoted, bringing his sword back up for a strike at the monster’s head but, as he turned, Pravak’s right fist slammed into his face.

Ciras went down, landing hard on his tailbone, legs tingling hotly.

Pravak’s sword came down. Lacquered leather bracers snapped and ring mail pinged as the sword chopped through it. Blood gushed and bones cracked. Ciras’ sword flew as his hand spasmed, then Pravak bore down, using his weight to take Ciras’ right forearm off.