Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
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 48
T
he 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.
That gave Jorim an idea. He flew up to the mouth of the river and the demons came after him. Just as they reached his altitude, he ripped a hole into Wandao. The river gushed, bringing with it a storm of the copper ants. Wet and angry, they poured over the demons, biting flesh and gnawing through wings. Thousands of demons fell to the fiery lake.
Jorim smiled. “We might get out of here.”
The Viruk shook his head. “This isn’t a lake. It’s a womb.”
Demons crawled from the lake like insects emerging from cocoons. Some now had copper mandibles. Other sported extra pairs of limbs. Some were even wreathed in flame. Whatever had killed them just made them stronger, and they were still intent on ripping the two companions apart.
A new flight of demons launched itself, then something odd happened. A volley of arrows arched up over the basin lip. Some demons, stuck through, spiraled down into the flames. Others fell to the ground and melted away.
More took to the air, but odd, winged creatures—apes of an emerald hue—soared up to engage them. The fleet among them flew high and hurled rocks, while the heavier ones soared up to meet the demons retreating from the stones. Demons and apes both fell, but far more of the demons.
Then below, ten-foot-long lizards poured into the basin. Sharp teeth filled their mouths. One lunged high enough to pluck a demon from the air. The lizards munched and demons screamed.
“If they don’t make it back into the lake, they’re not reborn!”
Jorim nodded to his companion. “That could be, but I’m not eating them.”
“Jorim!”
Jorim’s jaw dropped open, and it wasn’t just the giant hammer-headed ape cresting the basin, or the fact it had a demon clutched in a paw like a snack. The beast had been fitted with a bridle and he knew the driver saddled between its shoulder blades.
He swooped down immediately. “Nirati!” He avoided the ape’s slothful swipe at him, and landed on its spine. “How?”
“I knew you were in trouble. I came to help. Kunjiqui has a gate to the Underworld.” She beamed. “Here we are.”
In the wake of the lizards’ sweep rode a company of the oddest mounted archers Jorim had ever hoped to see. Blue-skinned men rode golden-antlered hinds. Leading them came a man riding in a chariot pulled by four of the hinds. He barked orders in some guttural tongue and the cavalry complied. Arrows flew, demons fell, and Talrisaal swooped down.
Jorim looked at the man. “Prince Pyrust?”
The charioteer nodded. “We can’t stay here. They
will
overwhelm us eventually.”
Nirati pointed off to an odd blue spot. “We came in through there. It will take us back to Kunjiqui.”
Jorim shook his head. “We can’t escape. We have to push on through the last Hells. Nessagafel, the first god, wishes to undo all of creation and remake everything. He’ll succeed unless we stop him.”
Pyrust ran a hand over his jaw. “Fight our way through the Hells so we can assault the Heavens and throw down a god?”
Talrisaal nodded. “As daunting as that sounds . . . ”
Pyrust laughed. “Not daunting, challenging. A worthy fight for a worthy reason. What have we got to lose? We’re already dead, and if we fail, we’ll be unmade with the rest of creation? Lead on.”
Chapter 49
K
aerinus’ expression made clear the fact that he was not bringing good news. If possible, it was even worse than word that the
vanyesh
had been destroyed. That had hit Nelesquin particularly hard because the
vanyesh
were crucial to generating more troops.
The Prince knotted his robe’s sash. “What is it now?” He held up a hand. “No, wait, I know it has to do with Qiro.”
“It does, sire, and your troops.”
Nelesquin shook his head. He took the small leather pouch from inside his sleeve, poured the scrying stones into his palm, then let them dribble through his fingers. They bounced across a tabletop. He read the pattern, the play of black and white stones, the angles at which they rested, and let go a large sigh.
“Not a complete disaster. Tell me.”
“I wish telling would suffice. You need to see it.”
“I have no desire to ride south at the moment.”
“No need. He brought a company here.” The magician led the way through the corridors of Quunkun. Pairs of Durrani warriors had been stationed every twenty feet to deal with intruders. They snapped to attention, hammering right fists to left shoulders as Nelesquin passed.