The New World

by Michael A. Stackpole

  He set the paper down and raked a hand through his hair, scratching where his scalp tingled. “This changes everything. Tonight, in darkness, have a work crew slip out and undercut the river’s north bank just west of the city. I want the river flooding the western approach. The increased flow means they won’t find a ford downstream. Send another team east. I want every bridge cut and every ferry on the north side of the river.”

  A clerk blew on a sheet of rice paper, bowed, and hurried from the room.

  “They’ll be building siege towers.” The image appeared in Cyron’s head. The towers would be solidly constructed, but out of material salvaged from the south. Beams from buildings, pieces of furniture, planking from floors or bits of wagons would be hammered together. At best, they’d have ramps that extended twenty-four feet, so the kwajiin could cross three hours before the river walls touched.

  “I want the range from the river wall to each siege engine paced off exactly. Get Borosan Gryst to measure the distances with his gyanrigot. I want ranging shots taken so we know where those stones will land.”

  Eiran frowned. “Wouldn’t barrels of oil be more effective? It would burn up the towers.”

  “I don’t want to burn the rest of my city. We’re not using fire. We will, however, need sand to put out fires. We will need work crews—they can use the sand piles to block streets. We want to channel the kwajiin into killing areas. Count Derael has worked out how best we can trap them. Get his charts and coordinate placement of ballistae, spring engines, and barricades.”

  Two clerks, one working logistics and the other on fire precautions, bowed and withdrew. As they passed through the doorway, a replacement for the first clerk appeared and dropped into place at a desk. As she did, heat poured through Cyron.

  His vision faded, yet he continued to see. Each of the clerks became a bright spot, a star in the night sky of his vision. Little white lines connected them with others, creating three-dimensional constellations, with himself in the middle. Energy pulsed from him to them, and from them out to the others. Stars shifted. People rearranged themselves, resources were re-ordered, and what had begun as a tangled skein of lines and points resolved itself into a flexible and resilient matrix binding North Moriande together.

  Cyron heard no sounds, but he knew he was speaking because energy pulsed out of him. Clerks rose and departed, sharing that energy with others. New clerks appeared and locked into place in the matrix. More orders were communicated and more people moved.

  Because the pattern appeared so clearly, Cyron changed his orders. He reemphasized some things, or set up redundant systems. He found bottlenecks and alleviated them. He ordered water to be brought in smaller casks to combat stations. He demanded carts be requisitioned so meals could be brought to soldiers at their posts.

  He reached out and the city seemed to fit him like a formal robe. There was so much there, but it all had to be perfect. He smoothed a wrinkle here, tightened a lace there, folded, and tucked. In the rush of things it took him a moment to realize he had his left arm back and was using it with the skill of a musician teasing notes from a necyl.

  I am whole again.

  He laughed and his joy poured through the matrix. A prince born of princes, it was assumed his talent had been for governance. He had done well in his post, but the thing he did best was organizing. His father had begun the program of exploration, but Cyron had formalized it, set goals, and encouraged it even before he’d reached the throne.

  I was a minister without a ministry, working at my talent without ever realizing it.

  He began to work faster. Clerks came, but before they had spoken or handed him a report, he knew their questions, had found solutions and communicated them. Some clerks looked at papers and found marginal notes they’d not seen before, then acted on them. Others suddenly remembered a fact he’d mentioned. Upon checking, they found a solution.

  The matrix pulsed with life—his life—and energized him in return. The sheer joy of seeing things work, of watching them unfold and simplify, provided him with the same deep satisfaction as hearing a bird sing, or watching a sunset.

  “Highness.”

  Eiran’s voice reached him. Cyron blinked, and the world returned. The room had emptied of clerks and the day had passed into twilight. “Where is everyone?”

  “They are off on the missions you gave them.” The Helosundian prince shook his head. “I was here for it all, but I never noticed time passing. I heard every word…”

  “You heard it? I was speaking?”

  Eiran hesitated. “I remember hearing, but that is the only way I can understand what has happened. You did not stop and there was no problem for which you could not find a solution. Some so elegant that we would never have thought of them ourselves. Organizing militia by neighborhoods and using those neighborhoods as rallying points was brilliant.”

  Cyron nodded. “That’s where they will run to when the line breaks. It was right.”

  “The whole thing was right, Highness.” Eiran jerked his head to the south. “With your plan in place, and you in command, Nelesquin’s invasion is finished before it begins.”

  Pravak Helos hated premonitions. He’d never been inclined to trust them back before the Turasynd expedition. Whenever he felt good about something, it always went wrong. And when he felt bad about it, it just went worse.

  The only things worthy of trust were his skill with swords and his strength. He’d come to the study of xingna through his mastery of the sword, though he’d never devoted himself to it fully like some of the others. He’d learned minor magics—things to keep his blades sharp or to heal small cuts. But he’d refused to be seduced by magic, as others had, keeping himself grounded with his continued study of the sword.

  The problem with premonitions was that they were irresistible. He’d come to awareness in midevening when something jolted him. It actually made him feel energized, which he took as a good sign. Then he decided it was a premonition. From there he had to follow his sense of things.

  Well, his sense, and the stones.

  There had been a dozen of them so far. Black pebbles—unremarkable save for their uniform smoothness. They reminded him of Nelesquin’s scrying stones, which Pravak had grown to hate more and more. They generated premonitions, and Nelesquin relied on them too heavily.

  Pravak slid his swords into the harness on his back and set out. He found the first stone in the corridor outside his chamber in Quunkun, and the next in the road. He followed them as he would a trail, knowing that someone leaving so obvious a set of clues intended him to follow. That raised the spectre of an ambush, but this did not concern the vanyesh. A side from Nelesquin, Qiro, and perhaps Qiro’s grandson, he feared nothing in Moriande.

  He sighed—or, rather, his shoulders slumped as if he were sighing. His lack of lungs had done nothing to strip away the habit. He had imagined Ciras Dejote would give him more of a fight, but the young man had not. If he truly was the reincarnation of Jogot Yirxan, the rebirth had been flawed. Now the swordsman was flawed—another useless enemy.

  Pravak was aware that Virisken Soshir lurked beyond the river, but wasn’t concerned about him. The man was, after all, mortal. Though they had never seriously come to blows in the past, Pravak had seen him fight. While Soshir was good, he was hardly invincible.

  The stones led Pravak across South Moriande and to Kojaikun. Here the vanyesh’s dread deepened, because he recognized what had awakened him. Many of the vanyesh harvested the magic from the city. The thaumston fibers he wore as a long queue dragged magic from the circles. Pravak’s new vitality meant he was drawing more power because no one else was harvesting it.

  The others are dead.

  That shook him. The vanyesh had hardly been immortal. Down through the eons, survivors had changed—abandoning their physical forms for constructs they’d created in Tolwreen. Many of his comrades had ridiculed him for having his skeleton wrapped in a silver/thaumston alloy upon which magic formulae could be inscri
bed, but he’d outlived those who doubted him.

  Even as he bent and picked up the final stone, he realized he was the last of those who had preserved Nelesquin’s legacy.

  The Grand Hall in Kojaikun had been transformed into barracks for the vanyesh. Not only was it spacious enough, and pleasingly decorated, but the Keru had used it as a place to train. Magic lingered there, making it a welcome sanctuary.

  Now a mausoleum.

  A Viruk waited in the center of the hall, armed with a Keru spear. Around him, the rest of the vanyesh lay scattered as if a child had destroyed them in a tantrum. The vanyesh sparkled in the wan lamplight, each one beyond repair.

  The Viruk grinned with a mouthful of ivory needles. “I would have killed you at Quunkun, but I thought you should see this.”

  “Is it your work?”

  The Viruk toed a hawk’s feather. “The Desei shadows. You killed their prince. The Mother of Shadows has avenged him.”

  “I am not afraid of you, Rekarafi. I have killed Viruk before.”

  “I know. I have heard the tales.” The Viruk slowly began to spin the spear. “Two at once, it’s been said.”

  “Both bigger than you.” Pravak dropped the stones, drew his swords, and let his tentacles snake out. “You are a fool to avenge them after so many years.”

  “It’s not them I seek to avenge.” Rekarafi opened a hand. “You slew a Keru of my acquaintance. I avenge her.”

  “Then you shall die just as quickly as she did.” Pravak darted forward, his tentacles whipping low back and forth. The moment the Viruk leaped above them, Pravak would cross his swords right through his midsection. The tactic had worked before and the Viruk didn’t give off a sense of jaedun, so he knew the fight was over before it began.

  Only Rekarafi never leaped. He lifted one foot, then the other, bringing each firmly down on a tentacle. He thrust the spear forward, catching the swords before they reached him, then snapped the spear’s butt end up. The iron cap just missed his pelvis, but caught his spine solidly and drove him back.

  The Viruk retreated, crouching. “The stones, do you know what they are?”

  Pravak slid into a tiger stance. “Scrying stones?”

  “No. Ghoal Nuan. Soulstones. They will weigh you down in the grave. You’ll remain in the Underworld forever.”

  Pravak laughed. His tentacles withdrew and wrapped around to armor his spine. Metal talons scraped on the stone. He inched forward, both swords raised. “If you put me in the grave.”

  He attacked, his blades a blur. The spear spun, battering the blades away, but Pravak moved with them. From the first form to the fourth, then the fifth and the ninth, following no pattern, but flowing from one moment to the next. The Viruk ducked and deflected, blocked and riposted, but always gave ground.

  Like a tiger’s claws, Pravak’s blades tore into whatever they touched. They clove through tables and shattered benches. Down from shredded bedding filled the air. Teapot shards crunched underfoot. Sparks flew as swords gouged the floor and further scattered bits and pieces of dead vanyesh.

  Faster and faster the swords flew. Pravak shifted from Tiger to Mantis, then Scorpion and back. Rekarafi remained on the defensive, retreating around the room. Occasionally the spear’s blade might score a rib, and the butt end slammed fully into his sternum once, but it did not stop the vanyesh’s offensive. But for everything he threw at the Viruk there was a counter, and the Viruk looked no closer to tiring than he was.

  Pravak lunged with both blades. Rekarafi brought the spear down and around in a parry that trapped the blades on the floor. The combatants snarled, faces close enough that Pravak could feel the Viruk’s moist breath.

  The Viruk laughed. “They may have been bigger than me, but they were not me.”

  Pravak whipped one tentacle around the Viruk’s arms, binding his elbows together. The other wrapped around an ankle and yanked. The Viruk started to go down, but Pravak caught him by the throat and lifted him from the ground.

  “But they were both as stupid and died just as easily.”

  He began to tighten his grip, intent on snapping the Viruk’s neck. Muscles bunched, thwarting him, so he redoubled his effort.

  What’s happening? It shouldn’t have taken this much effort. He’d broken iron posts in his grip. Something was very wrong.

  The Viruk spread his arms and the lifeless tentacle slid off easily. The other one slithered from his ankle. Pravak’s knees buckled. He dropped into a kneeling position, but only remained upright because the Viruk had grabbed his wrist and steadied him.

  I don’t understand. Pravak wanted to say the words, but the mechanism that allowed him to speak had failed.

  “You forgot something, Pravak Helos. You made yourself into a creature of magic.” Rekarafi tore the vanyesh’s hand off and flung it against the far wall. “The Viruk existed before magic. We discovered it, learned how to use it. How to contain it. We also learned to absorb it. I have absorbed it from you.”

  The metallic tinkling of his skeleton’s collapse sounded distant. Pravak tried to keep shock from his metal face. He would not wear a surprised expression to the grave.

  The Viruk plucked his skull from his spine and everything crashed to the floor around him. Rekarafi held it high and peered up at him. “Your head, I’ll take. I’ll place it at the highest point in the city, and you will live long enough to watch your dream die.”

  Ciras winced as a cadre of gyanrigot soldiers marched through the factory. The sight of gyanrigot smiths making soldiers still made his flesh crawl. No mercy in them, just efficiency. The same blows that shaped metal would break bone and spill blood. It might be necessary this time, and even the next, but what would happen when it wasn’t and someone used them anyway?

  He worked his way across the floor to a small bench. Borosan Gryst sat hunched over a drawing. He waited, hoping Borosan would notice him. When the inventor did not, Ciras remained quiet. He’d seen Borosan concentrate like that before. He had learned to respect it as much as Borosan had respected his training regimen.

  The crash of metal from deeper within the factory brought Borosan’s head up. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. “Ciras? Master Dejote?”

  Ciras nodded. “I wanted to speak with you. I have wronged you. I accused you of wanting to make me into a monster. Though I am half a man, I thought you wanted to take that away from me.”

  “No, Ciras, that was never what I wanted.”

  The swordsman raised his left hand. The arrow wound was still healing. “I know.”

  Borosan shook his head. “I didn’t think, Ciras. I have become consumed with my machines. I see the elegance and intricacy. When I make something move, it excites me. And your wound grieved me. I wanted to help so I…Well, I disregarded everything you ever said about gyanrigot. I know you hate them. They have no judgment, they can only follow orders.”

  Ciras nodded. “And all the command-slates in the world will never equal what a man knows in his heart and head.”

  “Well, actually, I am working on some small gyanrigot that can write in very tiny script on command-slates, so there are more orders…but, well, that isn’t really practical right now.”

  “And you are correct, Borosan. I hate gyanrigot because they have no judgment. They have not learned the things I have learned. They do not know to make the decisions I know to make. That’s not your fault. It is not a failing of your work; it is just the conditions of the machines.”

  Borosan nodded. “Perhaps someday.”

  “Perhaps indeed.” Ciras shook his head. “Someday, however, will not come soon enough to stop Nelesquin.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I know. This is why I’ve come to you.” Ciras threw his cloak back with his half arm. “Make your measurement. I have the judgment your machines lack. Right now, I am half a man. Make me a whole swordsman again, and we’ll live to see your someday.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  35th 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

  Quoraxan (The Fifth Hell)

  The demons of the Fifth Hell launched themselves at Jorim and Talrisaal. They filled the bowl and choked the air above the burning lake. All scaly skin and irregular ebon teeth, with blazing black eyes and talons that put a Viruk’s claws to shame, the demons came for the two magicians, undaunted by the sudden appearance of their wings.

  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.