Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
Ciras leaped back to invoke
jaedun
but couldn’t. The pain in his hand, the ache in his back, the pounding in his head, and the shock at seeing an elephant squeezing into the sally port made concentration impossible. He knocked another lunge aside, then kicked out, catching the warrior in the knee. It went sideways, breaking loudly, then an overhand cut clove the
kwajiin
’s skull in two.
From further down the street, one ballista shot, then another. The first slammed a ten-pound iron ball into the elephant’s chest, cracking the armor. The other launched nine iron-tipped spears, several of which took
kwajiin
right off their feet. Two of the spears struck the elephant, and—doubtless guided by Kojai’s hand—one punched through where the ball had hit.
The spear went deep and quivered. The elephant jerked. Its head snapped up, a tusk impaling a writhing
kwajiin
. The elephant froze in the sally port with the dying warrior wriggling helplessly.
Moriande’s warriors sent up a shout. More spring engines shot, and archers picked specific targets. The trapped
kwajiin
sought and killed warriors, but without reinforcements, they died quickly.
Other elephants pounded on the walls.
Won’t be long before this whole section comes down
.
Ciras broke the arrow and drew it from his hand. He filched a strip of fabric with a prayer on it from a Cyron shrine and bound the wound. He barely acknowledged the thanks of others as they scurried off to other posts. They invited him to join, but he declined.
Despite the pain and the victory, he’d not forgotten the winged beast flying over the city, skimming the clouds. He looked up and saw it circling to the west. Ciras knew in an instant where it was headed—Anturasikun—and he could make a good guess what its mission was.
For some reason Nelesquin wanted Keles Anturasi, and Ciras was not going to let them take his friend.
“We must get closer.” Nelesquin took another glance at the handful of augury stones, then tapped the
kasphana
driver on the shoulder with a riding crop. “I can see what is happening, but I need to hear, too.”
Kaerinus shook his head. “Get too close, and you can smell it.”
Nelesquin smiled, returning the stones to their pouch. “I had forgotten you never developed a taste for war.”
“I have just healed so many wounds that it no longer holds a thrill for me, Highness.”
“And you do that very well, Kaerinus.”
Stones flew over Moriande’s walls, crushing some of the
dari
, but already the main gate had been shattered. Smaller gates east and west had gone down as well, and the elephants were close to bringing down a major piece of the wall. To the east, the effort to use the wooden
dari
as siege ladders seemed to be working. They linked themselves together and clung to the wall like ivy, allowing warriors to swarm up.
Nelesquin spoke into the bag of stones. “It’s going better than you predicted.”
“Did you say something, Highness?”
“A private joke.” Nelesquin smiled broadly. “You see, my friends, warfare is what makes Men unique. Are the Viruk mighty warriors? Of course, there is no denying it. But they had stopped fighting wars well before True Men reached these shores. We were able to drive them back from their empire and establish our own. Yes, some have suggested the Viruk were tired of war and felt their age was passing, but this is the whining of those who do not understand how important warfare is. It kills the weak and rewards the strong. It makes us better.”
“Winning me my tower will make us
much
better, Prince Nelesquin.” Qiro studied the distant battle with sharp, pale eyes. “Your effort in the west falters.”
“Patience, Master Anturasi.” Nelesquin grasped the crop in both hands at the small of his back. “This war is a work of art. Savor it. It will bring you what you desire.”
The Prince nodded to himself as a
jarandaki
began its descent. “And once we have what we desire, there will be no stopping us.”
Chapter 38
I
threw myself from beneath the ram’s ax. Its blow pulverized cobblestones and crushed the shrine where I’d prayed. Stone shards ricocheted off my armor. Sparks exploded as a second blow just missed me, skittering low and taking off another warrior’s legs.
“Master, this way!”
I scrambled up and sprinted after Dunos. Another ram missed me, but blasted through the corner of a building. Roofing tiles cascaded, shattering, but I didn’t look back. The ground shook with every hoof fall. Fear was lending wings to my feet, but that still wasn’t going to win me this race.
Dunos darted left and I came hot on his heels. We cut left down a narrow street. One of the ram’s horns caught the edge of a roof, scattering more tiles. We ran beneath clotheslines hung with sheets. Rope snapped as the ram came on. I leaped over an abandoned bundle of clothes and ran past a crossing alley.
Only then, with the thunder of the ram’s pursuit faltering, did I dare glance back.
Red and blue rags hung from its horns and the ram pawed them from his eyes. He paused at the crossroads, ignoring the east and west alleys. They were too narrow to permit his passage and Dunos and I were still out in front of him.
Though this was a creature of metal, the trap we’d planned for the
xonarchii
worked perfectly against it. Ballistae hidden in each alley shot from close range. One spear skewered both thighs. The other entered at a hip and came out at the opposite shoulder. The ram jerked, then sagged against a building. The wall crumbled and the war machine disappeared within the rubble.
Dunos tugged at my sleeve. We ran east and the ballista crews reloaded. We fought our way through crowds of panicking people streaming north. People shouted questions, but I had no answers they wanted to hear. I pointed to the bridges and told them to move quickly.
They did, praying to Cyron or anyone else who might listen.
I wonder who Cyron is praying to right now?
Cyron might have planned on the walls coming down, but certainly not that quickly. No one could have. Nelesquin had managed in seconds what should have taken months.
My
xidantzu
company had assembled quickly.
Ranai pointed southeast. “We should fall back to Wentokikun and hold it.”
I shook my head. “We have to protect the innocent. Deshiel, get your archers to the rooftops. Kill what you can, but I want you to track the enemy. Bait them. Lead them into our traps. Ranai, get your people moving refugees to the bridges. Get them out of here.”
She frowned. “But, Master . . . ”
“I know, it doesn’t sound like a warrior’s job, but it must be done. Do you honestly think there won’t be enough bloodletting later? Clear the refugees, and you can fight to your heart’s content.”
She nodded and they both moved to relay orders to their people.
I looked down. “Dunos, go with Ranai.”
He shook his head adamantly. “You’d be dead if I hadn’t been at the gate. I stay with you.”
I had no time to argue, especially when he was right. “If we get separated, you head north, understand?”
Dunos’ bright smile managed to summon a twin to my face. “Head north; got it.”
I promised to see my people on the other side—and most of them assumed I was talking about the river. Smoke had already begun to rise near a small gate usually reserved for the Prince, so Dunos and I headed that way. Almost immediately, we ran into people streaming from that direction, many of them cut and bleeding. They’d been fending off sword blows with their bare arms, which spoke to their courage and the incompetence of the invaders.
Dunos and I entered a small circular courtyard centered on a fountain. Two men wearing the crest of the Free Ixunite Company had pinned a woman against the fountain. Her husband lay in a knot of his own entrails. Two wide-eyed toddlers cried silently, hidden in the shadow of an overturned wagon.
Jaedun
sizzled through me. I crossed to the fountain, hamstringing the first man, then harvesting his head. His accomplice turned, eyes wide. His gaze shifted from me to the stumps of his handless arms. That was the last thing he saw before he fainted in a pool of hot arterial blood.
A dozen Ixunites occupied the courtyard’s southern half. They gave up looting and came at us, swords bared. I spun into them, both blades flashing. Muscles tore and ligaments popped as razored steel slid through. Gasps and groans, curses running into gurgles. and screams warred with the clatter of metal, as swords dropped from nerveless fingers or in the grasp of severed hands.
Two of the men went for Dunos. There was no mistaking him for a man. He was a child, and a crippled one at that. They decided he would be easier to kill than I, proving they were, in fact, more stupid than they looked.
Dunos, though small and early in his formal training, had seen much combat. He dodged left, blocking one man with his companion. Dunos caught the first man’s overhand slash on his sword, then darted in. He stabbed his dagger into the first man’s groin. Blood gushed bright red. The man stumbled back. Dunos ducked low, sweeping a leg out. He caught the man’s heels, sending him over backward.
The other coward, watching his friend’s life spurt out, hesitated.
Dunos lunged, striking like a cobra. His sword slipped beneath the man’s breastplate and into his guts. The boy wrenched his sword hard, then yanked it out. The man coughed his last words into a bloody cloud, then flopped lifeless to the cobblestones.
Dunos’ second foe hit the ground about the same time as the last pieces of mine. The woman had crawled to where her children cowered. The tinkling of the fountain’s water covered most other immediate sounds, save for the ordered stamp of soldiers blocking all avenues of escape.
Count Linel Vroan entered the square, accompanied by two of the
gyanrigot
. They’d been constructed of wood and shaped like mantises. Though not as heavy as their metal counterparts, their footsteps still shook the ground. They flanked the leader of the Ixunite troops.
The tall man bowed. “Virisken Soshir, I remember you. Will you allow me to please my master, or will you force me to regretfully offer him your corpse?”
Prince Cyron snarled. He looked south from the heights of Shirikun. “How can they have breached the walls so quickly?”
Count Jarys Derael sat immobile in his wheeled chair. “Nelesquin has something new. We must hope to find vulnerabilities, or all is lost.”
Cyron raked fingers back through his hair. “My city. We can do nothing.”
“We have prepared well, Highness.”
“They are through the wall. There is a fire in the southeast. It could consume everything.”
“It is unlikely Nelesquin will let it rage. He wins nothing if it does.”
“But how can he . . . ” Cyron shook his head. “The
vanyesh
, yes. Perhaps they used their magic to bring the gates down.”
“If they are that bold and that foolish, then all is lost no matter what we do.” The count flicked a finger. “Please, we have a decision to make.”
Cyron turned the wheeled chair toward the massive map spread over the center of the tower’s floor. Cyron’s grandfather had credited his penchant for playing with toy soldiers as the source of his military acumen. Toys had been painted to represent the various units stationed throughout the city and placed appropriately on the map.
“Highness, we must assume that the units at the gates are gone or soon will be gone. Likely our second line of defense as well. We can already see people coming over the bridges.”
Cyron glanced back south. The nine bridges were choked with refugees. Here and there a cart was pitched over the side. Occasionally a body fell from the spans.
“Perhaps we should have evacuated everyone.”
The count’s voice came in a firm whisper. “We could not have anticipated Nelesquin’s weapons. He did not have them at Tsatol Deraelkun. He did not have them five days ago.”
Cyron shook his head. “But we knew he was coming.”
“It does not matter. It would have been wrong to evacuate everyone.”
“How can you say that?”
“Prince Cyron, I lived my entire life in a fortress. My sole reason for living has been to kill the enemy. Those who lived with me knew no quarter would be asked or given. Had Tsatol Deraelkun fallen, survivors would have been slaughtered. To assume it would be any less here is folly.”
The Prince frowned. “Because everyone is at risk, we shouldn’t make them safe?”
“No. We are at war. To allow any segment of the population to pretend it is
safe
is dangerous. It makes defending the nation a task for warriors alone. People come to regard them as they might gardeners or other servants. They allow themselves to become insulated from the reality facing them. Either a people is united behind a leader to guarantee the destruction of its enemies, or its effort is futile. If anyone is allowed to think he is exempted from involvement, the war is lost.”
Cyron regarded the sharp-eyed man trapped in a dying body. “There are a lot of children out there.”
“And we shall mourn every single dead child. Our job is to determine how we can best prevent the enemy from killing them.”
Cyron nodded and turned back to the window. He gazed out at the city. He saw it less as a collection of stones piled one on the other than as a web. To the south, strands were fraying and snapping. The city took on a glow—at least the parts of it his forces still controlled—and the disease that was Nelesquin’s invasion darkened the edges.
The bridges over the Gold River, the high arches with their blue
gyanrigot
lights, they glowed the strongest.
“People produce that glow.”
“Did you say something, Highness?”
“Thinking out loud.” He returned to the map. “We have no choice. We recall our third and fourth lines across the river, then we cut all the bridges save one: the Dragon Bridge.”
Count Derael closed his eyes. “We will get as many people across as we can first, but you are right, this must be done.”