Michael Stackpole - The New World

“Is it your work?”

The Viruk toed a hawk’s feather. “The Desei shadows. You killed their prince. The Mother of Shadows has avenged him.”

“I am not afraid of you, Rekarafi. I have killed Viruk before.”

“I know. I have heard the tales.” The Viruk slowly began to spin the spear. “Two at once, it’s been said.”

“Both bigger than you.” Pravak dropped the stones, drew his swords, and let his tentacles snake out. “You are a fool to avenge them after so many years.”

“It’s not them I seek to avenge.” Rekarafi opened a hand. “You slew a Keru of my acquaintance. I avenge her.”

“Then you shall die just as quickly as she did.” Pravak darted forward, his tentacles whipping low back and forth. The moment the Viruk leaped above them, Pravak would cross his swords right through his midsection. The tactic had worked before and the Viruk didn’t give off a sense of jaedun, so he knew the fight was over before it began.

Only Rekarafi never leaped. He lifted one foot, then the other, bringing each firmly down on a tentacle. He thrust the spear forward, catching the swords before they reached him, then snapped the spear’s butt end up. The iron cap just missed his pelvis, but caught his spine solidly and drove him back.

The Viruk retreated, crouching. “The stones, do you know what they are?”

Pravak slid into a tiger stance. “Scrying stones?”

“No. Ghoal Nuan. Soulstones. They will weigh you down in the grave. You’ll remain in the Underworld forever.”

Pravak laughed. His tentacles withdrew and wrapped around to armor his spine. Metal talons scraped on the stone. He inched forward, both swords raised. “ If you put me in the grave.”

He attacked, his blades a blur. The spear spun, battering the blades away, but Pravak moved with them. From the first form to the fourth, then the fifth and the ninth, following no pattern, but flowing from one moment to the next. The Viruk ducked and deflected, blocked and riposted, but always gave ground.

Like a tiger’s claws, Pravak’s blades tore into whatever they touched. They clove through tables and shattered benches. Down from shredded bedding filled the air. Teapot shards crunched underfoot. Sparks flew as swords gouged the floor and further scattered bits and pieces of dead vanyesh.

Faster and faster the swords flew. Pravak shifted from Tiger to Mantis, then Scorpion and back. Rekarafi remained on the defensive, retreating around the room. Occasionally the spear’s blade might score a rib, and the butt end slammed fully into his sternum once, but it did not stop the vanyesh ’s offensive. But for everything he threw at the Viruk there was a counter, and the Viruk looked no closer to tiring than he was.

Pravak lunged with both blades. Rekarafi brought the spear down and around in a parry that trapped the blades on the floor. The combatants snarled, faces close enough that Pravak could feel the Viruk’s moist breath.

The Viruk laughed. “They may have been bigger than me, but they were not me.”

Pravak whipped one tentacle around the Viruk’s arms, binding his elbows together. The other wrapped around an ankle and yanked. The Viruk started to go down, but Pravak caught him by the throat and lifted him from the ground.

“But they were both as stupid and died just as easily.”

He began to tighten his grip, intent on snapping the Viruk’s neck. Muscles bunched, thwarting him, so he redoubled his effort.

What’s happening? It shouldn’t have taken this much effort. He’d broken iron posts in his grip. Something was very wrong.

The Viruk spread his arms and the lifeless tentacle slid off easily. The other one slithered from his ankle. Pravak’s knees buckled. He dropped into a kneeling position, but only remained upright because the Viruk had grabbed his wrist and steadied him.

I don’t understand. Pravak wanted to say the words, but the mechanism that allowed him to speak had failed.

“You forgot something, Pravak Helos. You made yourself into a creature of magic.” Rekarafi tore the vanyesh ’s hand off and flung it against the far wall. “The Viruk existed before magic. We discovered it, learned how to use it. How to contain it. We also learned to absorb it. I have absorbed it from you.”

The metallic tinkling of his skeleton’s collapse sounded distant. Pravak tried to keep shock from his metal face. He would not wear a surprised expression to the grave.

The Viruk plucked his skull from his spine and everything crashed to the floor around him. Rekarafi held it high and peered up at him. “Your head, I’ll take. I’ll place it at the highest point in the city, and you will live long enough to watch your dream die.”

Ciras winced as a cadre of gyanrigot soldiers marched through the factory. The sight of gyanrigot smiths making soldiers still made his flesh crawl. No mercy in them, just efficiency. The same blows that shaped metal would break bone and spill blood. It might be necessary this time, and even the next, but what would happen when it wasn’t and someone used them anyway?

He worked his way across the floor to a small bench. Borosan Gryst sat hunched over a drawing. He waited, hoping Borosan would notice him. When the inventor did not, Ciras remained quiet. He’d seen Borosan concentrate like that before. He had learned to respect it as much as Borosan had respected his training regimen.

The crash of metal from deeper within the factory brought Borosan’s head up. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. “Ciras? Master Dejote?”

Ciras nodded. “I wanted to speak with you. I have wronged you. I accused you of wanting to make me into a monster. Though I am half a man, I thought you wanted to take that away from me.”

“No, Ciras, that was never what I wanted.”

The swordsman raised his left hand. The arrow wound was still healing. “I know.”

Borosan shook his head. “I didn’t think, Ciras. I have become consumed with my machines. I see the elegance and intricacy. When I make something move, it excites me. And your wound grieved me. I wanted to help so I…Well, I disregarded everything you ever said about gyanrigot. I know you hate them. They have no judgment, they can only follow orders.”

Ciras nodded. “And all the command-slates in the world will never equal what a man knows in his heart and head.”

“Well, actually, I am working on some small gyanrigot that can write in very tiny script on command-slates, so there are more orders…but, well, that isn’t really practical right now.”

“And you are correct, Borosan. I hate gyanrigot because they have no judgment. They have not learned the things I have learned. They do not know to make the decisions I know to make. That’s not your fault. It is not a failing of your work; it is just the conditions of the machines.”

Borosan nodded. “Perhaps someday.”

“Perhaps indeed.” Ciras shook his head. “Someday, however, will not come soon enough to stop Nelesquin.”

“You’re right.”

“I know. This is why I’ve come to you.” Ciras threw his cloak back with his half arm. “Make your measurement. I have the judgment your machines lack. Right now, I am half a man. Make me a whole swordsman again, and we’ll live to see your someday.”

35th 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

Quoraxan (The Fifth Hell)

The demons of the Fifth Hell launched themselves at Jorim and Talrisaal. They filled the bowl and choked the air above the burning lake. All scaly skin and irregular ebon teeth, with blazing black eyes and talons that put a Viruk’s claws to shame, the demons came for the two magicians, undaunted by the sudden appearance of their wings.