Michael Stackpole - The New World

“Being a vanyesh reborn is still not being a vanyesh, Ciras.”

In shock, Ciras stared at his severed forearm lying two feet away. The hand still moved and clutched, but at nothing and weakly. Blood spurted from his stump, the severed artery pumping his life out with each thundering heartbeat.

I am dead.

Then a vine wrapped itself around his arm at the elbow. It just grew there, up through the ground, and tightened. The bleeding stopped.

Pravak grabbed his lower leg and fixed it back into place. Jaedun flared and the silver bands became whole again. The vanyesh patted the leg lovingly, then stood. “You tried, Ciras, and failed. No loss of honor in that.”

Then the vanyesh turned toward Tyressa, presumably to recover his sword, but he couldn’t lift his right leg. Vines similar to those that had formed the tourniquet had grown up through his feet and wrapped around his ankles. He tried to pull his foot up, but he couldn’t escape the plants’ tenacious grasp.

“What is going on here?”

“You murdered my mother.” Keles Anturasi stood deeper in the garden, his fists clenched, his face closed. “You’ve hurt my friends. You didn’t expect me to let you get away with that?”

Pravak turned, ripping one foot free. “You have no idea whom you are defying.”

“And you have no idea whom you have angered.” The cartographer raised a hand, then brought it down swiftly.

The carpet of tzaden vines fell in a wave from the tower. The green avalanche smashed Pravak to the ground. The sword flew, but vines rose and plucked it from the air. Then the whole plant flowed back up the tower, carrying Pravak’s head high, but leaving his feet on the ground, and spreading the rest of his parts in between.

Keles gathered up a book and stood. He clutched it tightly to his chest with both arms. He closed his eyes.

In garden beds behind him the earth boiled. Plants clawed their way out of the ground. The rootlets formed arms and legs. As tall as a man, they stalked from the beds.

Two of them marched to where Siatsi Anturasi lay and lifted her up. They bore her to the garden and laid her in the hole from which they had emerged. They covered her with dirt. In an instant, fiery red and gold flowers carpeted her grave.

Two more of the plants reached Ciras and helped him up. One recovered his sword, but left his arm on the ground. The other plant ground the nub end of its hand against a paving stone, scraping away purple flesh. Liquid oozed up, and the plant painted both Ciras’ stump and his punctured left hand with sticky darkness. Pain eased.

Ciras found concentrating difficult. “What is this?”

Keles opened his eyes. “ Xunling root. My brother brought it from Ceriskoron. My mother cultivated it-the only bhotridina to succeed this far north. She’d come for some when…”

The last two roots reached Tyressa’s side. They cut themselves on the sword in her belly, letting their sap run down the blade to her wound. They also dripped fluid over her lips.

Keles nodded and plants grew thickly beneath Tyressa. She rose and Pravak’s sword came with her. Turning her on her side, the roots treated the exit wound as best they could.

The two that had buried Siatsi joined the ones tending Tyressa. Rootlets sprang from the ends of their arms and wove together into a thick mat, creating a litter. A few roots grew over to secure her to it, then the four bore her to Keles and Ciras.

“Come, Ciras, we must quit this place.” Keles looked back at the tower and Pravak glittering amid the vines.

Ciras pointed at the winged beast. “What about that?”

“Oh, right.” Keles gestured at the naranji tree. A branch stabbed out, impaling the beast. It flapped its wings, then collapsed. In the tree’s shade, fungus began to consume the creature’s body.

“Thank you for reminding me.” Keles headed down the stone steps toward a garden gate and didn’t look back. “Never again will Anturasikun be my home.”

A captain in the Prince’s Dragons found me on the south side of the bridge. “We have to bring this bridge down now.”

Stonemasons had already been lowered to pound away at keystones on the central arch. Once they were knocked out, the center of the bridge would collapse.

“Look at the people, Captain, they still need to cross.”

“It doesn’t matter; the order has been given.” The captain pulled a folded message from within his breastplate. “Prince Cyron’s seal.”

Muttering prayers and making all haste, people kept crossing. Most of the hale and hearty had already made it, and we were down to the sick, wounded, and lame. Carts lay abandoned, cargoes picked over. Somewhere, a child was crying.

“I’ve got my warriors out there, Captain. You can’t expect me to abandon them.”

“No, but they’re not going to cross the Tiger Bridge. I have my orders.”

I signaled Dunos to back away and the boy resheathed his knife. “What do I tell them?”

“The Dragon Bridge will remain open. We’ll hold it. Same goes for your men. I have no choice.”

“I have to get more across.”

“You have until I’m back on the other side.”

“Walk slowly.”

He nodded and departed.

We sent as many more as we could across, but it wasn’t nearly enough. While double the size of any other, the Dragon Bridge couldn’t handle all the traffic. Moreover, Nelesquin would have made taking it a priority. How anyone thought they would hold it against the war machines, I had no idea.

“Eron, I need you and your students to start herding people west. They have to go to the Dragon Bridge.”

He looked at the crowd, then back at me. “They will never make it. Look at the River Road. Twenty yards wide, a four-foot wall on the river side. It’s a slaughter yard. And if anyone decides to go over the wall, it’s a twenty-foot drop to the river.”

“I know-and that’s why you have to get them to the Dragon Bridge. I’ll see how close the invaders are.”

“Don’t lie. You’re going to buy them time.” Eron rested a hand on my shoulder. “Let us come. We can fight, too.”

“I know. I just need you here.” I shook my head. “I’m counting on you.”

“It shall be done. May the gods smile upon you.”

“I’d rather they frown on the enemy. Dunos, with me.”

We fought our way through the thinning crowd and raced into a tannery and onto the rooftop. In a city like Moriande, with so many buildings set so closely, one could travel swiftly from one point to another across the roofs.

Dunos stood beside me and slipped his right hand into my left. “This is bad. Very bad.”

A woman, naked and bleeding, had leaped from a tower window and hung herself. Soldiers-Men and kwajiin alike-pitched riches to people waiting below. Warriors fought, screaming and dying, and fires had accidentally sprung up in several places.

And here and there, glimpsed between buildings and along streets, the gyanrigot giants stalked victims. A small congress of the machines had gathered where Phoyn Jatan had destroyed two of their number. I dearly wished we had a trebuchet capable of hurling a stone into their midst.

I gave the boy’s hand a squeeze. “Let’s go, Dunos. We have to find the enemy, then convince them to stay away from the bridge.”

If not for the xunling warriors-for this was how Ciras had come to think of them-he would not have made it to the Dog Bridge. Their juice, which smelled bitter, had seeped into the wounds. A side from dulling the pain, it induced a mild euphoria, against which part of his mind fought. He’d lost his sword arm, but somehow that seemed of questionable importance.

The unlikely group moved quickly through the city streets, most of which had been left to the dead. Many of the dead had been looters. The valuables that lay beside them were scattered or smashed, and clearly not worth dying for. One dying thief had crawled to a Cyron shrine, offering loot for mercy.