Michael Stackpole - The New World

Hoots and hollers, jeers and other rude noises began sporadically, then built. People laughed at him. Stones and half-gnawed food splashed in the river. People began to chant all manner of discordant things, but it quickly resolved itself into pulsed shouts of “Never the bear, never the bear.”

Cyrsa looked up at him. “Had you expected a different outcome?”

“No. This was exactly what I expected.” He raised a finger and brought it down again.

The dari rams marched forward, turned left, then sprinted toward the end of the bridge. They reached the footing and tore apart the barricades. Ballistae shot, but most of the bolts rattled harmlessly off their metal hides. Men shouted orders and reloaded, waiting.

The rams remained on the south bank, having pulled back after clearing the path. They could have easily reached the next line of defense, and the one after that. They could have burst free and killed thousands.

And the crowd knew it. People screamed and fled. A few pitched over the bridge’s side and plunged into the river. People vanished from windows, pulling shutters closed. At least one man tumbled from a rooftop. The milling mob hampered the arrival of a company of Naleni Dragons.

Nelesquin’s eyes narrowed. “There, Cyrsa, now your people know what awaits them. You do, too. You could take that bridge down, but I would just ford the river and lay siege from the north. If you want me to be generous, now is the time to speak, because when I leave this barge, we will speak no more.”

Before she could reply, a man on the bridge shouted down at them. “No! You shall not win. I shall not allow it.”

Nelesquin looked up. The man stood on the bridge’s railing. Two soldiers tugged at his legs to pull him back, but they might as well have been trying to shift stone.

Qiro and Cyron both shouted at the same time. “Keles, get down!” The Prince begged, the grandfather commanded, but each had the same luck as the soldiers.

“You’ve destroyed too much. No more.”

Keles bared a silver blade with a flick of his wrist. The scabbard spun through the air like a falling autumn leaf. He stroked the knife over his left wrist. His hand tightened. Blood spurted.

Red rain spattered the river.

Magic pulsed with each heartbeat, each wave of it stronger than the one before. A million scorpions scuttled over Nelesquin’s flesh. Vast amounts of magic surged through him, shocking him.

A red mist rose from the river, stinking of copper. It washed over the barge, infusing blood into the white parts of the Prince’s robe. Nelesquin staggered, crashing to his knees. Kaerinus and Qiro fell with him.

The mist swept past them and thickened. It swirled up into the clouds, then pulled them down as well. The clouds took on the red-brown of dried blood. Nelesquin expected lightning as the clouds descended on the River Road, but none flashed.

And the only thunder was that of the poles crashing through and sinking Nelesquin’s elevating platform.

The clouds lifted again, then parted, allowing a shaft of sunlight to sweep the southern shore.

The dari armor had vanished.

Virisken started forward. Kaerinus interposed himself between the swordsman and Nelesquin. “There is yet a truce here.”

Virisken nodded and righted the Empress. Behind them Cyron gained his feet.

She remained kneeling, but began speaking before Nelesquin had time to gather himself. “Your advantage is gone. Do you wish these fraudulent negotiations to continue, or shall we speak of something substantive?”

Her offer tempted him, and he might have agreed to an arrangement, save for two things. He did know her art, and knew she could be quite persuasive. No doubt she would take any advantage she could.

The other thing, however, was the note of unease in her voice. She had not known what Keles was going to do. None of them had. It surprised them, and the sheer power of it frightened them. She might pretend to be in a strong position, but he had taken Tsatol Deraelkun without dari. So the rest of Moriande would fall.

He levered himself into a kneeling position. “This changes nothing. A week. I give you a week to consider surrendering the rest of Moriande. It is half a city against an empire. If I am forced to take it, Moriande will be destroyed and, like you, will be forgotten well before my Imperial reign ends.”

34th 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

Anturasikun, South Moriande

Imperial Nalenyr

“Stop saying he’s a clever boy!” Nelesquin upended a desk in Qiro’s tower, scattering papers and brushes. “He bleeds in the river and my army vanishes. Twelve hundred warriors in gyanrigot armor, Keerana among them! The best of the best were in those suits, and they are gone! And all you can say is that he is a clever boy?”

Qiro’s arms remained hugged around himself, and he chuckled. “Far more clever than I had imagined. More clever than his father, by far. No, Ryn never could have figured this out. It was very good.”

“No, Master Anturasi, it was very bad!” Nelesquin balled a fist and took a step toward the cartographer, but his left leg didn’t want to move. Weakness seized him. He leaned heavily against a table and discovered his fist would not unclench.

Qiro did not notice. “Keles really doesn’t understand the power. He has little experience, but he always was sensitive. He always tried to shield his brother from me. But now he’s hit on something and he’s feeling his way through it. It’s remarkable, actually, that he was able to do what he did. And, if we asked him, I doubt he would know how he did it himself!”

Nelesquin snarled and smacked his fist against his thigh to loosen it. “He’s probably dead.”

“No, I would know.” Qiro tapped his temple. “I would feel it if he died. He’s very weak now, but his mind still functions. They’re dosing him with xunling root and tzaden — flower tea. He will recover.”

“So he can do this again.” Nelesquin pointed north. “He’ll fill that bridge with mist and my soldiers will never make it across.”

“Fear not on that account, Highness. I won’t let that happen.”

“Won’t let it happen? Why didn’t you stop it in the first place?”

“Because I didn’t know what he had done.” Qiro sighed with a schoolmasterish air that made Nelesquin want to choke him. “Keles was in Felarati, then he came south. He passed by the new channel I cut. But I acted in haste when I did that. Instead of piling the earth up on either side, I made it go away.”

“Away?”

“Out of this reality. I am uncertain if it ended up in one of the Hells or in some other place entirely. But Keles must have been close enough to get a sense of the void into which the earth vanished.” Qiro stroked his chin and glanced at the map of the world. “Keles, in his urgency to get rid of the dari armor, must have picked up on the idea that it was not really part of this world. It had been formed in a pocket world-another creation entirely, much as his sister’s paradise, Kunjiqui, was.”

“I remember.” Nelesquin slowly flexed his fingers. “So the dari are there, then. Bring them back.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t understand, Highness.” The cartographer paused for a moment, then smiled patronizingly. “The world, as I have drawn it, is a chessboard. Keles and I each understand the board on one level or another. My mastery is much greater than his, of course, but he has learned much. In our game we have the ability to shift aspects of the board-but only aspects that have not been identified. While each of us is capable, the board remains the same.”