Michael Stackpole - The New World

With the black moon returned to the earth, exhaustion seized Keles. He went to a knee. Magic still played around him but he could not muster the strength to work with it.

Qiro stood over him, a palsied hand trembling on his shoulder. The old man looked west, wonder on his face.

“It’s so beautiful, Keles. That is the way it should be.”

Then Qiro fell over and his grandson’s world went black.

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

First Year of the Restoration of the Imperial Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Quunkun, South Moriande

Imperial Nalenyr

The magic that pulsed through the city drove Ciras to his knees. Moraven Tolo sagged forward, his head down, almost as if bowing to Prince Nelesquin. Kaerinus staggered back, and Qiro Anturasi sagged against the wall, slowly slumping to the floor.

Those who did not know jaedun remained unaffected and even appeared shocked as the others recoiled. The magic echoed in Ciras’ head like a high, piercing shriek. He clawed his flesh-and-blood hand through his hair as if to brush the sound away, then a new sound invaded.

Laughter.

Nelesquin sat on the throne and looked at his right arm. His fingers came away red. He held his hand up, studying the blood, rubbing a thumb over his wet fingers, and he laughed. “I’m bleeding, Kaerinus! My soul has returned. I’m whole again.”

The big man stood, roaring. He pumped his left fist in the air and clearly sought to bring his right arm up, but it failed to move. Alarm registered on his face, but only the left half. The flesh of his right cheek remained immobile and began to blacken.

“What’s happening?”

Kaerinus pulled his cloak about himself. “The toxin in Prince Pyrust’s ring. You sealed the wound, but you did not neutralize the poison.”

“Fix it.”

“No, my lord.”

“What?”

Moraven lifted his head. “You thought the Empress had one spy in your vanyesh. She had more.”

“No. NO! ” Nelesquin plucked the sword from his right hand and raised it in his left, charging at the kneeling swordsman. “I will see you in Hell, Virisken!” He whipped the blade down.

Ciras caught it in his metal hand. “Not with my sword.” He tightened his grip and wrenched the blade to the left.

Nelesquin looked down, contempt registering on the left half of his face. “You are nothing.”

“Fitting last words.” Ciras slammed his fist into Nelesquin’s breastbone. The sternum snapped as the punch crushed the Prince’s heart. Ciras pulled back and jerked his sword from the dying man’s grasp.

Nelesquin wavered for a moment, then pitched over backward. Gold bones clanked on the ground, poking at odd angles through his robe. He lay there, staring sightlessly at a mural that depicted him as a god.

Before the Prince had even begun to collapse, Ciras rotated his wrist and transferred the vanyesh blade to his left hand. He reversed it, holding it tight along his forearm. The tip extended past his elbow. He raised his arm, catching the first kwajiin ’s cut easily, then jabbed metal fingers into the man’s throat.

Ciras spun and parried, then stabbed back with the vanyesh blade. Sparks flew as a blow glanced from Borosan’s handiwork. A stab ignited fire in his thigh. Another parry, a lunge, then a twist, narrowly avoiding a crosscut slash. The sword’s pommel crushed a face. A slash sent a head spinning. Before it bounced the second time, the last of the kwajiin clutched at a pulsing wound in his groin, then stumbled back, tripping over Nelesquin’s body.

Kaerinus knelt beside Moraven Tolo. Purple light played and the swordsman gasped. The vanyesh laid a hand on each broken arm. More magic flowed and the limbs straightened, but the hands clutched weakly at nothing.

Ciras slashed the chain binding Prince Jekusmirwyn to the throne. “You are free, Highness.”

The man still cowered. “Is he dead? Are you sure?”

“Poisoned. Heart crushed. He’s dead.”

Jekusmirwyn crawled forward and picked up a kwajiin sword. He tested its edge against his thumb. Apparently satisfied, he sawed away at Nelesquin’s neck. “I’ll take his head. Just to be sure.”

Ciras recovered his scabbard and slid the vanyesh blade home. He joined Kaerinus and Moraven. “How are you, Master?”

“I’ll be fine. I need time to recover.” Moraven smiled.

Ciras nodded and looked at his metal hand. “Master Gryst will be proud his work killed Prince Nelesquin.”

“As well he should be. He’s a wise and clever man.”

“One of several it has been my privilege to know.” Ciras hooked his metal hand beneath Moraven’s armpit and stood. “Come, Master, let’s find a way home again.”

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

First Year of the Restoration of the Imperial Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Zhangjian (The Place Between)

A glowing hand caught Nessagafel’s wrist, stopping the claws inches from Jorim’s face. The Viruk ripped his hand free, then backhanded the man who’d stopped him. He spun away from the blow, rebounding from the unseen wall.

Jorim stared disbelieving. “Prince Cyron?”

The Prince dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his left hand. He smiled. “I hardly expected to find you here, Master Anturasi.” He flexed his fingers. “Nice to have this back.”

Behind the Prince, Shimik dug furiously at the ground, trying to squeeze beneath the invisible wall. The others made no attempt to hide their surprise at Cyron’s appearance. His presence meant he was dead, and that betokened misfortune in the mortal realm.

Jorim gathered his legs beneath him and prepared for Nessagafel’s next attack, but the ancient god was not coming for him. Instead, he held his clawed hand up. He rotated it forward and back, as if mocking the wonder with which Cyron had studied his own hand.

The ring that had bound him had vanished.

Nessagafel’s laughter started low. He spun as it rose and stared straight at Talrisaal. “It was you. It wasn’t my children who bound me with that ring. It was you, the Viruk. You did it.”

Talrisaal nodded slowly. “You were bound with something that existed before you did. We bound you with Virukadeen.”

“Existed before I did? Hardly.” Nessagafel studied his talons. “It does not matter. Virukadeen has been returned to the world. I am free, now, to do as I will-as I have long intended.”

“No!” A ragged beast appeared from the darkness. A length of broken chain trailed from the collar around his neck. Grija vaulted the invisible wall, teeth bared. As he flew he took on his full aspect-at last strong and fearless.

His white fangs snapped shut.

On air.

Nessagafel caught him by the throat. Grija struggled, trying to bite, trying to scratch, but Nessagafel tightened his grip.

The wolf whimpered.

“Grija, poor Grija.” Nessagafel slowly shook his head. “You were my first child, so I shall do you the honor of letting you go first again.”

The ancient god stroked the wolf’s fur. It shimmered as his hand passed, then slowly evaporated. With each caress, more and more of Grija disappeared.

Worse yet, Jorim found it more difficult to recall Grija. Fresh memories dimmed. Old memories faded. Jorim found himself wondering how the wolf had gotten into Nessagafel’s hands and by the time he realized he didn’t know, the wolf had vanished and Jorim was uncertain what he’d been wondering about in the first place.

The ancient god turned to Jorim. “It was easy with him because I knew him so well. With you it will be more difficult, Wentoki, but you will be forgotten soon enough.”