Michael Stackpole - The New World

Talrisaal, seeing what Jorim had done, swooped in after him and did the same. Jorim came around and shouted to Pyrust, “Maim them; don’t kill them!”

The wounded clogged the battle line, but the mass continued to flow. More and more warriors appeared to join the group. The edges made it past Pyrust’s lines and threatened to surround him. He pulled his lines together, maneuvering to a small hill, but the horde pressed tighter around them, nibbled away at Pyrust’s troops.

Then horns blared and drums pounded. A cavalry force slammed into the horde’s flank. War chariots with Naleni archers ranged around behind the enemy. And heavily muscled warriors wearing masks of jade and gold, wielding war clubs edged with obsidian, slashed their way into the horde. The war clubs harvested limbs, and then Amentzutl maicana cast spells to heal the maimed.

The horde shifted, turning to face the new threat. Pyrust ordered his troops forward, catching the enemy in midmaneuver. The wounded were driven back into their own troops and the horde began fighting with itself. It disintegrated into mobs of half-dead warriors limping as far away from others as possible.

Jorim flew down beside Pyrust. “I bet you never thought Naleni cavalry would be saving you.”

“No. Who are the others?”

“The Amentzutl. They live on a continent far to the east, across the sea. The Stormwolf expedition found them.”

“How did they get here?”

“I have no idea.” Jorim’s wings grew back into his body as the Amentzutl line parted. A black-and-gold bundle of muscle and fur bounded up the rise and tackled Jorim.

“Jrima, Jrima, Shimik comma. Shimik here!” The Fennych hugged him tightly, then leaped up, did a back-flip, and landed on his chest again. “Shimik happy happy happy.”

Then Fennych caught sight of Talrisaal. His ears flattened back against his head and a growl rose from his throat.

Jorim caught the Fenn by the scruff of his neck. “No, Shimik. Talrisaal is a friend.”

Shimik sat back down, then did another back-flip, landing at Jorim’s side.

And beyond Jorim’s feet, previously eclipsed by the Fennych, stood Nauana. She had her hands clasped at her waist, fear and joy warring on her face. A single tear glistened.

Jorim sprang to his feet and gathered her into a huge hug. He hung on tightly, burying his face against her neck. The scent of her, the silken brush of her hair against his face, her arms enfolding him, her little gasp and sob made him wish this moment would never end.

He kissed her neck, tasting his own tears. “I’m so sorry, Nauana, for all the pain.”

She took his head in both hands and kissed him. “How can it cause pain to have a god sacrifice himself so you may live?”

“But…”

“You are a god, Tetcomchoa. You cannot die.” Nauana kissed him again, then opened an arm to indicate the troops behind her. “We knew you needed help, so we came.”

“You knew we needed help?”

“Of course. It is centenco.”

Jorim shook his head, then slipped from Nauana’s arms. He bowed to the woman approaching them. “Captain Gryst, how did you get here?”

“You disappoint me, Cartographer, god or not.” The Stormwolf ’s captain smiled. “Have you forgotten we found the Mountains of Ice on our expedition? There have always been stories told of an opening to the Underworld there. We found it. A big fireball pointed us to the battle.”

“Jrima, fire, whoosh.” Shimik clapped his hands.

“I believe he’s expressed our thoughts rather aptly.” Anaeda pointed back along their line of attack. “We can leave whenever you desire.”

“We’re not leaving. Not yet. There’s a rogue god who wants to unmake all of creation. He needs to be stopped. Care to come along?”

Anaeda Gryst frowned. “It’s not exactly within the purview of Stormwolf ’s directives from Prince Cyron.”

Pyrust smiled. “I doubt marching into Hell was either.”

“Good point.” Anaeda nodded. “You’re the cartographer, Jorim Anturasi. Lead, and we shall follow.”

4th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

River Dragon Inn, South Moriande

Imperial Nalenyr

Ciras nodded and shuttered the lamp, plunging the Inn’s cellar into darkness. He kept his voice to a whisper. “When I first arrived, I checked the ground floor. I saw nothing. A stone had blasted through a corner, but the street looked empty, too.”

“That’s all good, but we may have been betrayed. Ranai and some of the others tried to come with me. They knew where I’d be.”

“How is that possible?”

“An educated guess. A clerk somewhere made a note, and once into the bureaucracy…” Moraven snorted. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Master.” Ciras hesitated. “Master, you don’t think I’ve betrayed you, do you?”

“Because of Jogot Yirxan?” A hand found his upper arm and squeezed. “No. In fact, I hoped you would be here-at least at my side in the battle against Nelesquin.”

“Is that why you sent the boy to watch me?”

“Sometimes there are things we learn best when others watch and we teach-even if we don’t know we’re teaching. Dunos is a brave boy, and he would learn much from you. And you would learn from him, as I learned, teaching you.”

“You learned from me?”

“I did. You maintain the idealism of youth. Older heads would say that such idealism is impractical and must give way to pragmatism and compromise. But compromise that strips virtue and rewards vice is evil. I learned that from you.”

Ciras nodded, unseen. “You sent the boy to remind me who I was.”

“Who you are, Ciras.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Moraven squeezed his arm again. “I think it is time we show Nelesquin who we are.”

They crept up the stairs to the Inn’s ground floor. Tables and stools had been scattered haphazardly. They picked their way through the disarray and waited at the eastern door. The street outside remained dark and quiet, save for the occasional rattle of an arrow against cobblestones.

Ciras searched the opposite skyline for signs of the enemy. He saw nothing. Moraven shook his head, so they slipped through the doorway and padded quietly along the wooden sidewalk. At the corner, they darted across the street, heading southwest toward Quunkun.

The trap closed about them on the second block. Men slipped from the shadows bearing long tiger-spears. With twin barbed heads on either end of a curved shaft and wooden haft, they more closely resembled pitchforks than weapons. They’d been chosen more to mock Moraven than for their efficacy. Kwajiin warriors commanded each squad, and Virine archers appeared on rooftops. They nocked thickheaded, blunted arrows that would batter and stun.

Ciras and Moraven immediately drew their swords and stood back to back-two men and three swords facing a horde of misshapen creatures that would have sent the demons of the Fifth Hell running. Their kwajiin leaders rested hands on sword hilts, obviously eager to test themselves.

“You bear two swords, Master, so I expect you will kill twice as many as I do.”

“But I am older than you. Once you’ve dispatched your third, feel free to help me with mine.”

A tall, slender man in a dark cloak appeared and walked through the horde of tiger hunters. He clapped his hands, then paused and bowed respectfully.

“Master Soshir, welcome to imperial Moriande.”

The swordsman straightened from the first Wolf form. “You are most kind, Kaerinus. I remember your healing touch at last year’s festival. I have yet to decide if I should thank you or not.”