Michael Stackpole - The New World

Magic raked ragged claws over his flesh, and Cyron surrendered himself to it. He retreated to his matrix and watched it shift. He reached out, sending troops east, reorienting siege engines, searching for more lines. A cross the river, another matrix existed. Life pulsed along it, too. Thousands of lights burned on that side, massing at the Wolf Bridge, the Tiger Bridge, and the Bear Bridge.

“Our strength is in one place, they come at another.”

The last bit of the Wolf Bridge solidified. A howling horde of half humans poured across in a torrent so violent that some of Nelesquin’s troops were crushed to death against the bridge’s side rails. Broken bodies cartwheeled through the air, then splashed into the water.

Part of that force dashed north, following the city walls, but the majority struck west along the River Road. The broad avenue allowed them to spread out. A few bled off into side streets, but most charged forward, intent on securing the Tiger Bridge footing. Magic was putting that bridge together stone by stone, and another slavering mass of wildmen waited to sprint across.

The Empress’ Bodyguards hit the wildmen just after their leading edge had swept past Black Moon Road. The Voraxani blasted into the enemy on their metal mounts. Their charge carried halfway to the river before slowing. The warriors then cut west, bursting through the wildmen. They galloped another fifty yards, wheeled about, and charged again, breaking the wildmen and scattering them into the city.

But by then the Tiger Bridge had risen again from the depths of the Gold River.

Another horde raced north.

The bridges rose from the river as Qiro Anturasi painted them onto his map. I measured the distance to him. I could cross it in seconds and cut him down. The kwajiin might prove a minor inconvenience, but the cartographer would die.

Nelesquin eclipsed him. “I’ve not forgotten you, my friend. I know how you think. Cyron’s defenses might work if Qiro draws no more bridges.” He smiled. “I’ve felt it, too. He’s found his talent and mastered it. You might be right, but he won’t get a chance to finish what he’s started.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not carrying a sword. You can’t stop me.”

He gestured. Ciras’ sword rattled across the floor, then rose to his gold-sheathed hand. “If you do not mind, Master Dejote, this will do.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

“No.” Nelesquin chuckled and bared the blade. “Oh, very good. This one has tasted you before, Virisken.”

“Not when it was in your hand.”

Nelesquin cast the scabbard aside. “Use both of your swords. I’ll let you.”

“Draw the circle.”

Nelesquin nodded and blue flames encircled the center of the floor. He stepped through them and bowed respectfully.

I entered the circle and bowed in turn. I would not dishonor the art because I had no respect for the man. Yet he seemed completely unconcerned at facing me. One sword against my two would have been suicidal even for another Mystic. But Nelesquin was more than a Mystic swordsman. He had mastered magic.

I straightened and he came for me. He slashed wildly, more Turasynd-styled fighting than any civilized discipline. His robe fluttered, flashing, his blade whistled. I ducked, dropping to a knee. The draw-cut with my right hand should have taken his right leg off at the knee.

He leaped above the cut, whirling through a somersault at once majestic and graceful. He twisted in the air, then landed and drove back at me. He lunged, I parried. I had to whirl away, just escaping a slash at my back. I leaped above another slash that struck sparks from the floor.

Landing, I drew my other sword and aimed a cut at his head.

He ducked that one, but I knew he would. The sword in my right hand whipped forward. It caught Nelesquin’s sword arm at the elbow in a cut that would sever it cleanly.

Dunos’ head broke the water’s surface and he gasped. He sucked air in, quenching the fire in his lungs. Then he waited, listening, but all he heard was the echo of water in the sewer tunnel. He waited until he caught his breath, then sloshed forward.

He paused at the iron ladder set in the wall and looked up. He would have started climbing, but a flicker of color further on caught his eye. He stared at it. It grew larger, dancing through the air, then settled on his left hand.

“What are you doing here?”

The glowing green-and-black butterfly didn’t reply. It beat its wings softly, then launched itself deeper into the sewers. It flew on about ten feet, then hovered, waiting.

Dunos followed. He worked the oilskin cover free of his sword, then bared his dagger and tucked it into his left hand. A side from the squealing of rats, the dripping of water, and his own sloshing, things remained quiet. Above people were running to and fro. It was easy to imagine that some of the dripping was blood running from the streets.

But blood didn’t concern Dunos. War didn’t frighten him. What he dreaded most in the world was failing his master. Moraven Tolo had given him the sword. Moraven Tolo had led him in battle. He’d made Dunos Prince Iekariwynal’s bodyguard. He’d trusted Dunos and he’d made him a promise.

A promise I’ll help him keep.

The butterfly fluttered around another iron ladder, so Dunos mounted it. He climbed carefully. His left arm had never been much use in climbing, so he just kept it ready with the dagger, and the butterfly perched on his shoulder.

Dunos pushed a wooden grate off at the top and emerged into a tower garden. Tzaden vines had overgrown the place. Dunos didn’t care for tzaden — flower tea. His mother had all but drowned him in it after his arm withered, and the scent of the flowers made him a bit nauseous.

The butterfly flew to the tower. It disappeared through thick vines.

Dunos shrugged his shoulders, bared his sword, and headed into the shadowed precincts of Anturasikun.

The fight is over! That thought echoed in Ciras’ mind as Moraven Tolo struck. The younger swordsman watched dispassionately despite knowing the Prince’s forearm would fly across the room, taking the sword with it. Blood would gush and then, with another quick cut, Moraven Tolo would take Nelesquin’s head.

Ringing loudly, Moraven’s blade rebounded from Nelesquin’s arm. The slashed sleeve revealed a golden exoskeleton wrapping the Prince’s limbs. The blade had cut flesh, but the wound did not bleed.

That is not possible.

Nelesquin stepped back and tore away his rent sleeve. He probed the wound with a finger, then smiled. “You see, you cannot kill me.”

Moraven Tolo dropped into fourth Dragon, both blades at angles and forward. “I can blind you. I can take your tongue out, and I’m willing to bet there are other parts that aren’t shielded. Let’s end this.”

The two of them flew at each other, a golden bear battling a fearsome tiger. Blades blurred, the skirling of parries becoming a constant hiss broken only by the whistle of missed slashes or the clang of sword on sword. Bits of fabric floated free as near misses carved cloth instead of flesh.

Ciras watched slack-jawed. Warriors flowed from Wolf to Dragon, Tiger to Scorpion, Crane to Dog and back again. Blades licked as flame, missing by hair’s-breadths. It seemed impossible that they would miss, but somehow a warrior would flow around a crosscut blow or twist away from a slash. They’d become two beings of energy, mixing, twisting, and flowing around each other.

And then the pattern broke. Moraven spun down on his knees and thrust both swords forward. The blades plunged deep into Nelesquin’s guts and the points emerged from his back.

The Prince roared with fury and brought his sword down twice. The hilt cracked Moraven’s right arm, then his left, breaking his grip. Nelesquin’s sword flicked out once more in a slash that should have taken Moraven’s head off, but the Prince shifted at the last second. Instead it laid open Moraven’s right breast and shoulder.