The New World

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Ciras purposefully drove his mount in close grazing runs that carved up Turasynd and horse alike. He hated hurting the animals, but sowing havoc in the Turasynd ranks was more effective than simply killing them. The screams of a dying horse and the pleas of gutted comrades could take the fight out of even the most dedicated warrior.

  A huge Turasynd Black Eagle, sunlight flashing silver from the feathers covering his shoulders and arms, engaged Ciras. There was none of the nicety of civilized fighting. No challenges formal or otherwise, just a wild scream and a sword raised in fury.

  Ciras parried a blade high, then slashed down. His cut split ring mail and opened the inside of a man’s thigh. Bright blood splashed against the horse’s neck, then another Turasynd was upon him. Ciras leaned away from that cut and felt the sting of a flesh wound, then spitted the man. He ripped his blade free and the dying man spun from the saddle.

  One or two Black Eagles gave off traces of jaedun, but their lack of discipline doomed them. Ciras had practiced countering such assaults. Jogot Yirxan’s blade seemed eager to gorge on Turasynd blood, and Ciras allowed it to drink deeply.

  Ciras raced along the Turasynd flank toward the overturned wagon. The barbarians had gathered there, intent on plunder despite the battle continuing to rage. A number of the Voraxani put up a spirited defense, but it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

  Borosan pulled another wagon out of line as if to block the Turasynd advance. Wide-eyed, he leaped from the driver’s seat and into the back, quickly taking refuge behind the ancient shields that had been mounted on the wagon’s sides. Arrows rattled off them, and a half dozen Turasynd charged the wagon.

  One by one, a handful of the thanatons popped up from behind the shields on their spider legs. Panels slid back and crossbow bolts sped out. The volley swept Turasynd from their saddles, killing several.

  A wounded Black Eagle limped behind the overturned wagon. He sought sanctuary, hunkering down amid rectangular metal boxes. Small thanatons—the ones Borosan considered mousers—sprang away in response to the man’s guttural growl. His laughter followed the gyanrigot as they scuttled along the ground, but died abruptly as the first of the metal boxes unfolded itself. Legs unfurled and arms thrust, raising skeletal, gearwork warriors which towered over the Black Eagle. Before his expression could shift from triumph to terror, the nearest gyanrigot brought a clawed hand up. It closed around the man’s throat.

  He struggled, tearing at the metal hand, kicking at the body as the machine jerked him upright. He gurgled and his face purpled as booted toes scraped in the dust as the gyanrigot’s claw shifted and snapped his neck cleanly.

  More thanatons’ missiles dropped riders. Something metallic clicked behind Ciras. One of the mousers had leaped onto his mount’s rump and snapped its legs into little holes astride the tail. The upper half of the mouser’s dome twisted and a small dart shot out, glancing off a Turasynd’s nose guard.

  Ciras spun and cut the man from the saddle. Two more of the barbarians charged at him. The mouser shot one in the throat. While hardly lethal, the dart distracted the warrior enough that Ciras dispatched him with ease. The swordsman then turned in the saddle and parried the second man’s slash as they passed.

  He turned to engage the man again, but one of Borosan’s gyanrigot warriors had already struck. Barely modified from the blacksmith it had been in Tolwreen, its first hammerblow crushed the horse’s skull. The beast went down, pitching its rider headlong. The barbarian struggled drunkenly to his feet and was knocked aside by another Voraxani.

  He went down again, his face slashed open. The gyanrigot blacksmith finished the job, driving most of the man’s helmet deep into his skull. The Turasynd crumpled, blood and brains dripping from his killer’s hammer.

  The thanatons moved forward in concert, rolling up the Turasynd flank. Ciras and others ranged wider, cutting off retreat. They killed as many of the Black Eagles as they could.

  The rest they drove into the valley of the serpent-men. Whether it was better to die there, or be killed by a gyanrigot, Ciras could not be certain. In the end he decided it didn’t matter. But if forced to, he’d have chosen the serpents.

  Chapter Fifteen

  32nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Vallitsi, Helosunde

  Keles bounced once, then rolled to a stop in the small stone cell. Naked and aching, he braced for what he knew would come next. He pulled his knees up as the bucket of cold water hit him. He coughed and sputtered, refusing to relax until the door to his dungeon closed.

  The guardsmen, both wearing circular amulets, spat on him from the doorway. “We know how to deal with your type. We’d have done for you already, but we have orders. That’ll change soon, though. The night’s young, and your fate will be decided well before dawn.”

  The two men laughed gruffly, then slammed the door shut and locked it with a grinding click.

  Keles remained huddled on the floor, shivering. The cloak of darkness gave him some fleeting pleasure. He couldn’t see the burns and bruises covering him. Every day—twice today—his captors pulled him from his cell. They beat on him with split sticks and knotted cords. They hung him by his wrists until his arms had all but been pulled from their sockets. They hammered his kidneys with heavy fists.

  He couldn’t see it, but he had to be pissing blood.

  At first he didn’t understand why his captors were abusing him. He was from Nalenyr, and Nalenyr had long been Helosunde’s ally. Princess Jasai’s arrest suggested a shift in politics, but Helosundian politics should have had little bearing on his situation. He was an Anturasi, and that fact alone should have kept him safe.

  But Anturasi or not, his captors quickly learned what had happened at Tsatol Pelyn. Keles had worked magic there, and it did not matter that his magic had saved lives. It warped people. It was evil. He was a xingnadin, and perhaps more than just a practitioner of magic. He had to be a master of it—a xingnacai or even jaecaixingna: a Grandmaster. That made him the equal of the vanyesh and everyone knew the horrors that they spawned.

  Fear of magic prompted his captors to be creative, lest he strike at them. Because he was an Anturasi, they feared killing him outright; torturing him was simply erring on the side of caution. They also drugged the meager rations they gave him, hoping that between the beatings and narcotics, he would be unable to work his foul arts.

  If they only knew.

  Lying there on the cold stone floor, Keles drew his consciousness inward. He retreated from the pain and the cold. His teeth chattered. Cold water dripped from his nose. Hunger gnawed at his belly. Gooseflesh covered him, but all these seemed abstractions. They were part of his physical nature, but that was all.

  You have figured it out. You must do this now, while you still have some strength.

  He focused on the water and sought its true nature. It wanted to flow to the lowest point in the cell. He encouraged it. He gave it a little push, and then another, registering the tingle at the base of his brain. He was touching magic very lightly, but it was enough. The water that had puddled around him slowly flowed away.

  He next turned his attention to the stone under his cheek. It was just a slab of stone, hardly remarkable, but he sought inside it. He’d made this journey before and found the path easier with each repetition. He pushed into the stone’s past to a time when it rested in a dry riverbed, soaking up sunlight. Keles caught it at the moment of its greatest heat, and tickled that energy into the present.

  The stone warmed beneath his cheek.

  He lifted his head and pushed himself back as steam began to rise. The stone began to glow softly. He stared at his battered hands for a moment, then began to laugh.

  The laughter came softly. Though not yet that of a madman, it still carried enough menace that rats squealed and sought sanctuary in th
e walls. If his captors were listening they likely thought him unhinged—and their work completed.

  Keles could have healed his hands. It would have been a simple matter of returning them to their true nature. He had enough knowledge of anatomy to know how they should be, but that was not enough for him to invoke magic. To make a change, he needed to know his own true nature. And as much as he tried to identify it, he could not. Perhaps it was because he was changing.

  “It’s not healed hands I need.” He levered himself into a sitting position and shifted his shoulders. Stiffness had already begun to set in. Combating that problem didn’t require magic, so he didn’t even consider using it. He focused on the larger problem and sought solutions to win his freedom.

  After their capture they’d been transported to Vallitsi to await the pleasure of the Helosundian Council of Ministers. The Desei he’d transformed had willingly set their arms aside, but each morning they rose, clad again in their armor, weapons at hand. The Helosundians didn’t know what to make of that. The Desei weren’t hostile, so the Helosundians decided not to slaughter them.

  Tyressa and Rekarafi had remained with the column for three days, then disappeared just as they reached the capital. Neither of them had surrendered their weapons, so Keles had little fear for their safety. Even unarmed, they would be in no danger.

  At Vallitsi the beatings had begun, no doubt at the behest of Ieral Scoan. Keles was fairly certain the man was trying to reach an accommodation with Jasai that would give his patron an advantage over the other ministers. He tortured her with the idea that Keles was being beaten and offered to stop the beatings in exchange for her cooperation.

  Keles took the beatings simply because he had no realistic alternative. He tried to use magic to escape earlier, but it wasn’t working. When rats refused scraps, he guessed he was being drugged. Once he stopped eating, he could work magic again, and slowly set out to escape.

  And it has to be now.

  Overhearing a chance comment by one of his torturers made things urgent. The man admonished another not to strike Keles in the face and to refrain from breaking a leg. “He has to be presentable to the full Council.”

  While the other torturer had agreed, he’d countered with, “They’ll have their hands full trying Pyrust’s whore.”

  The guard’s remark meant the full Council had gathered in Vallitsi. Jasai was in serious trouble. Keles—tired, aching, and starving—had to act.

  Part of him remained detached and distant as he invoked magic. He used it to draw himself to his feet and steady his limbs. Taking a deep breath, he glanced back and slowly nodded. Now it begins.

  He touched the water and shifted its nature from fluid to vapor. The steam drifted through the dungeon and poured into the iron lock. Once vapor touched metal, the water condensed.

  Keles pushed his sense into the lock. He could have touched the iron and, as he had with the stone, recalled it to a time when it was very hot, but that would take too much of his strength. Instead he concentrated on the water, making it eat into the metal. The water coursed through worn spots and tiny fissures, spreading like rusty ivy through the bolt. In no time at all, the bolt parted.

  The door sagged, then the hinges, which had also rusted through, snapped. The dungeon door fell inward, then burst apart on impact. The door’s nails disintegrated into rusty stains. The din of planks rattling against the dungeon’s stone steps echoed loudly.

  A wave of exhaustion staggered him. Too sloppy. I have to be more careful. I don’t have that much strength.

  The door’s collapse brought shouts. Feet pounded along the corridor. The guardsmen’s shadows fell across Keles, eclipsing him. “What deviltry’s this?”

  One guard dropped a hand to his sword. Keles touched magic and caressed more of the water. A fluid stream stabbed up into the man’s nostrils. He sputtered and choked, his hands flailing. He tried to scream, but more water choked him. Eyes bulging, he shoved himself back, slamming the other guard into the wall, then dropped to his knees. His face darkened as he noisily tried to suck in air, then fainted.

  The other guard rebounded and went for his sword. Keles forced water into the wooden scabbard. The wood swelled, holding the sword fast. Confusion knotted the man’s brow, then gave way to rage. The guard pulled sword and scabbard free, then charged.

  Keles took one step forward and stamped down. An oaken plank levered up, smashing the guard in the knee. Screaming, the man crashed face-first into the floor. His sword bounced from nerveless fingers. It rolled to a rest in the puddle and slowly dissolved into an orange stain.

  Fatigue wrapped Keles in a leaden cloak. He wavered and caught himself with a hand. Pain arced up his arm, shocking him to clarity. He rested for a moment, then staggered forward, slowly picking his way up the steps. He stepped over the other guardsman and continued up the corridor.

  At the guard’s station he stripped a rough woolen blanket from a pallet. He pulled it tight around himself, scratching his raw flesh. Shivering, he worked his way up the next flight of stone steps.

  He stopped near ground level, peering through the narrow, barred window in the door. The guardroom doubled as a barracks. He couldn’t see any soldiers sleeping or sitting around the lone table. A fire still burned in a central pit, and a pot of broth bubbled there. Four bowls of steaming rice sat on the table. Whoever had been on duty had been recently called away.

  Probably to attend the Council. Lucky me.

  But why they had left did not matter. A key ring hung on a peg set in the wall. His freedom depended upon getting his hands on those keys.

  But how?

  Then he smiled. A leaky bucket of water sat by the fire pit. He concentrated and pushed. A stave cracked. The bucket emptied, and Keles channeled the water to the wall beneath the keys.

  Once the puddle had grown large enough, he shifted the water from fluid to solid. An icicle stabbed up and lifted the key ring from the peg. Caught at the pinnacle, the keys jangled discordantly.

  Another push and the ice cracked at the base. It fell toward the door. Two more times the water melted and froze, raising the keys, then dumped them in a jangle. Finally, the ice lifted them to the tiny window and Keles unlocked the door.

  Then, just as he emerged from the dungeon, the guardroom door opened.

  Water flowed into Keles’ outstretched hand and froze into a short dagger.

  The woman coming through the door glanced at him and smiled. “Your weapon is melting.”

  “Tyressa?” Keles’ weapon shattered against the floor. “What are you doing here?”

  “Have you forgotten Prince Cyron made your safety my responsibility?”

  “No.” He leaned heavily against the doorjamb. “We have to find Jasai and save her.”

  “Already done.” She crossed to him and scooped him up in her arms. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  “Put me down. I can walk.”

  “We need to run.” Tyressa toed the door open and slipped into the night. She cut down an alley heading east. Other shadows detached themselves from buildings and moved with her. A sliver of light revealed Grand Minister Rislet Peyt—an ally. Keles relaxed and Tyressa laughed gently.

  “My job was to find you after we’d freed our companions.”

  “Now you go back for Jasai, yes? I can help.”

  “No need.”

  Tyressa slowed, then set Keles down in a small courtyard near one of the city’s eastern gates. It stood open, and several wagons waited near it. The Desei from Tsatol Pelyn held the gate and, at Tyressa’s signal, headed out.

  “I don’t understand. Wagons? Supplies? How did you accomplish this?” Keles sagged against Tyressa’s shoulder.

  The clatter of hooves on cobblestones echoed through the night. Riders were coming fast. Tyressa lifted Keles into the back of a wagon, then turned and drew her sword. The Desei warriors spread out, sinking back into shadows, ready to attack if required.

  Riders came into view and Tyressa’s triumph
ant laugh signaled that no fighting would be necessary. Most of the riders swept past and out the gate, but one drew rein at the wagon. Tyressa plucked the woman from behind the rider and deposited her beside Keles.

  “Jasai?” Keles wanted to say more, but the lump in his throat choked him.

  “Yes, Keles.” The Princess leaned over and gave him a firm kiss.

  That brought a laugh from the rider. “You’re the Anturasi she was on about.”

  Jasai fell back as the wagon jerked and started through the gate. “He saved us at Tsatol Pelyn.”

  “You have my thanks, then.”

  “You’re welcome.” Keles peered hard at the rider. “Who are you?”

  “Prince Eiran, at your service.”

  “But you’re dead!”

  “The Council of Ministers certainly intended me to be.” The Prince laughed. “While they’re all having a banquet to celebrate my sister’s capture, we’ve gone and stolen her away. I doubt that will help their digestion.”

  Keles arched an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt that concerns you terribly.”

  “You’re right.” The Prince glanced back at the city and the open gate. “I’m more concerned about what they’ll do to get her back. I’m hoping we’ll get far enough away that we’ll never have to deal with the consequences.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  32nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Plains of Tsengui, Nalenyr

  Prince Pyrust recognized Virisken Soshir as a kindred spirit the very moment he laid eyes on the man. Though Soshir appeared unkempt and harried, having retreated from the fall of Tsatol Deraelkun accounted for his condition. Rumors casting him as an ancient Mystic returned to help the Empress destroy her enemy intrigued the Prince—as any military experience was quite welcome.