Michael Stackpole - The New World

Jorim immediately folded his wings and dropped toward the lake like a stone. Claws tore at his clothes but missed the flesh beneath. Part of him wanted to conjure magic armor, but all the armor in the world wouldn’t kill demons, and killing them was the key to getting free.

If, of course, they actually can be killed.

He put the consequences of that idea out of his mind and snapped his wings open barely twenty feet above the burning lake. He swooped back toward the falls, diving through a sheet of flame, then summoned magic and pushed hard. His head came up and he shot skyward.

The demons winging hard after him couldn’t follow that sharp a turn. They plunged straight into the falls. One or two burning bodies rebounded from the cliff and trailed oily black smoke down to the lake. There was no telling if they were dead or not.

Talrisaal opted for armor and found a way to destroy demons. He surrounded himself with a blue sphere upon which the demons descended immediately. Once they’d covered it in a living carpet, blue spikes shot up and out, impaling them. The sphere then tripled in size, becoming a hexagonal lattice spiking at each point. A similar, marginally smaller lattice caged the Viruk.

Demons flung the bodies of their incapacitated comrades away and squeezed through the first lattice and started on the second. Talrisaal gave a wave of his hand and the second lattice started spinning. It pulled the demons apart, slicing off limbs, which pattered down like rain on the fiery lake.

That gave Jorim an idea. He flew up to the mouth of the river and the demons came after him. Just as they reached his altitude, he ripped a hole into Wandao. The river gushed, bringing with it a storm of the copper ants. Wet and angry, they poured over the demons, biting flesh and gnawing through wings. Thousands of demons fell to the fiery lake.

Jorim smiled. “We might get out of here.”

The Viruk shook his head. “This isn’t a lake. It’s a womb.”

Demons crawled from the lake like insects emerging from cocoons. Some now had copper mandibles. Other sported extra pairs of limbs. Some were even wreathed in flame. Whatever had killed them just made them stronger, and they were still intent on ripping the two companions apart.

A new flight of demons launched itself, then something odd happened. A volley of arrows arched up over the basin lip. Some demons, stuck through, spiraled down into the flames. Others fell to the ground and melted away.

More took to the air, but odd, winged creatures-apes of an emerald hue-soared up to engage them. The fleet among them flew high and hurled rocks, while the heavier ones soared up to meet the demons retreating from the stones. Demons and apes both fell, but far more of the demons.

Then below, ten-foot-long lizards poured into the basin. Sharp teeth filled their mouths. One lunged high enough to pluck a demon from the air. The lizards munched and demons screamed.

“If they don’t make it back into the lake, they’re not reborn!”

Jorim nodded to his companion. “That could be, but I’m not eating them.”

“Jorim!”

Jorim’s jaw dropped open, and it wasn’t just the giant hammer-headed ape cresting the basin, or the fact it had a demon clutched in a paw like a snack. The beast had been fitted with a bridle and he knew the driver saddled between its shoulder blades.

He swooped down immediately. “Nirati!” He avoided the ape’s slothful swipe at him, and landed on its spine. “How?”

“I knew you were in trouble. I came to help. Kunjiqui has a gate to the Underworld.” She beamed. “Here we are.”

In the wake of the lizards’ sweep rode a company of the oddest mounted archers Jorim had ever hoped to see. Blue-skinned men rode golden-antlered hinds. Leading them came a man riding in a chariot pulled by four of the hinds. He barked orders in some guttural tongue and the cavalry complied. Arrows flew, demons fell, and Talrisaal swooped down.

Jorim looked at the man. “Prince Pyrust?”

The charioteer nodded. “We can’t stay here. They will overwhelm us eventually.”

Nirati pointed off to an odd blue spot. “We came in through there. It will take us back to Kunjiqui.”

Jorim shook his head. “We can’t escape. We have to push on through the last Hells. Nessagafel, the first god, wishes to undo all of creation and remake everything. He’ll succeed unless we stop him.”

Pyrust ran a hand over his jaw. “Fight our way through the Hells so we can assault the Heavens and throw down a god?”

Talrisaal nodded. “As daunting as that sounds…”

Pyrust laughed. “Not daunting, challenging. A worthy fight for a worthy reason. What have we got to lose? We’re already dead, and if we fail, we’ll be unmade with the rest of creation? Lead on.”

36th 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

Quunkun, South Moriande

Imperial Nalenyr

Kaerinus’ expression made clear the fact that he was not bringing good news. If possible, it was even worse than word that the vanyesh had been destroyed. That had hit Nelesquin particularly hard because the vanyesh were crucial to generating more troops.

The Prince knotted his robe’s sash. “What is it now?” He held up a hand. “No, wait, I know it has to do with Qiro.”

“It does, sire, and your troops.”

Nelesquin shook his head. He took the small leather pouch from inside his sleeve, poured the scrying stones into his palm, then let them dribble through his fingers. They bounced across a tabletop. He read the pattern, the play of black and white stones, the angles at which they rested, and let go a large sigh.

“Not a complete disaster. Tell me.”

“I wish telling would suffice. You need to see it.”

“I have no desire to ride south at the moment.”

“No need. He brought a company here.” The magician led the way through the corridors of Quunkun. Pairs of Durrani warriors had been stationed every twenty feet to deal with intruders. They snapped to attention, hammering right fists to left shoulders as Nelesquin passed.

“Remind me, Kaerinus, to choose a new Dost. I should have done that already.”

“That, Highness, is perhaps the only bright spot in this whole affair. Holgaara of the Ox clan has worked tirelessly to drill these new soldiers. Working in the pocket world has not only aged him, but apparently made him wiser. The new soldiers follow him almost fanatically.”

If they follow him that closely, I will eventually have to destroy him.

They descended broad circular stairs to a vast storeroom just below street level. It had been cleaned out of anything useful. There had been some rice available and, when it turned out that it was not poisoned, it was distributed to the troops. Still, I would have thought there would have been some of it left.

Qiro awaited them, Holgaara beside him. The new troops waited behind them, arrayed in neat ranks ten wide and deep. They contrasted poorly with Holgaara. They contrast poorly with Qiro.

Nelesquin glanced at Kaerinus. “I thought you said they brought me troops. These are shallow-skulled, stoop-shouldered wildmen. We’ve not seen their like in these parts for eons, and these are more brutish than ones that haunted the jungles of Ummummorar.”

Qiro smiled. “You will find, Highness, that you are mistaken.” The cartographer joined him at the base of the stairs, then nodded to the Durrani.

The blue-skinned warrior turned and shouted orders in some pidgin tongue. The soldiers split evenly and with precision in their movements. Half of them bore spears, the other half cudgels. The weapons had been crudely manufactured, but had a brutal quality to them that intrigued Nelesquin. The spearmen attacked when ordered to, and the clubbers parried, then attacked in response. Most of the spearmen blocked the blows, but several of those who failed went down hard.