Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
They passed swiftly through a series of valleys. Ciras recognized none of them. Forests of silver trees sprouted leaves that tarnished into dust before they could spiral to the ground. A carpet of red flowers looked innocent enough, but when one of the
thanatons
scurried into the valley ahead of the riders, serpentine warriors slithered from the ground, each with red blossoms atop antennae. They sought to wrestle the
thanaton
to a stop, but the
gyanrigot
pulled away and Voraxani arrows cut down the pursuit.
They skirted that valley, which made their journey longer. The valley curled around to the south and extended across their line of march. The riders increased their speed because the serpent-men didn’t move very quickly, but in doing so almost raced into disaster.
They crested a line of hills and started down into a wide and dusty bowl. Ciras rode in the lead and found the place refreshingly benign until, up ahead, he saw riders riding hard toward them. Before he could suggest they slow down, he recognized the lead rider as himself, growing larger as if he were riding into a mirror. Uncertain if it was a mirage or something more malevolent, Ciras drew his sword and touched a switch on his mount’s neck, snapping armor and spikes into place.
A heartbeat before the Voraxani ran into the mirror, Turasynd horsemen burst through the illusory curtain. They let fly with a volley of arrows. The missiles sped across the narrowing divide, intended to sweep the Empress’ riders from their mounts.
Arrows bounced from Ciras’ mount. Curved metal plates had slid out to protect his shins and thighs. The mount’s mane stiffened into a coarse line that then split like butterfly wings to either side of the neck. Missiles glanced from the mane or snapped harmlessly against the mount’s broad breast.
Blades and spikes bristled from the mount’s shoulders and flanks. Ciras crashed straight into the Turasynd riders. The shock of the collision shook him, but he remained firmly in the saddle. Blood spattered and horses reared. Crippled horses went down squealing and kicking, crushing hapless riders beneath them.
Ciras lashed out, stroking his sword through an armpit. Dark feathers flew, for these were Black Eagles. Hot red blood splashed against the sword’s guard, then sprayed as he cut at another Black Eagle. The scent of copper filled the air. Guiding his mount with pressure from his knees, Ciras parried, then stabbed and cut. Riders fell, and mechanical mounts stamped the remaining life from them.
He burst through the Turasynd line, and through the magic curtain beyond it. No more Turasynd lurked there, giving him some hope. Reining his mount about, he plunged back into the fray. There were more than enough Turasynd to kill—
perhaps even too many
.
The Turasynd had attacked in a slender line. Their formation flanked the Voraxani on both sides, reaching as far back as the wagons. The Empress’ warriors fought hard, but the Turasynd outnumbered them four to one. Turasynd cheered triumphantly as one of the wagons tipped, rolling over twice, casting its load all over the battlefield.
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 15
K
eles 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 the 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
.