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  Chapter Thirty-one

  25th 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

  Moriande, Nalenyr

  This year, Moriande would host no Harvest Festival. Crops that could be taken early had been. Though premature, the harvest had been generous. Storehouses bulged with grain. Cattle, sheep, and swine had been slaughtered.

  And to the south, in the stubble-and chaff-ridden fields, Nelesquin and his vermin had taken up residence. They had taken their time setting up. Nelesquin always had liked a parade and spectacle. He put on quite a show for us, though few in Moriande truly understood their peril.

  His army did look impressive from atop South Gate. The kwajiin made up the bulk, but he also employed human regiments from the south and even Nalenyr’s western provinces. The Free Naleni Regiment fought beneath Count Linel Vroan’s banner, which surprised no one. Prince Cyron had exclaimed that the man was hardier than a cockroach. There wasn’t a warrior on the walls who hadn’t boasted he’d be the one to crush him.

  Nelesquin’s slow advance allowed us to complete most of our siege preparations. Pilings had been driven deep into the river and vast chains stretched between them to bar all passage. We’d also sown the known channels with stout spikes that would stave in hulls. Where channels were too wide for that, we’d scuttled a ship or two.

  Under Count Derael’s direction, the river’s edge had become fortified. Barricades covered both approaches to the nine bridges. The ferries had been cut off. Streets leading up from the river had also been blocked. He stationed soldiers at key points in case the vhangxi were infiltrated through the river.

  Children had all been issued nets and sticks, and been trained how to smash the winged toads. Derael suggested the best way to combat fear was to give people something to do. Only the helpless truly feel afraid. I marveled at little gangs of feral children marching in good order, patrolling their neighborhoods. I wished their parents would take soldiering as seriously.

  Our defensive plan had three components. The first and most important was the defense of the walls. Keeping Nelesquin’s troops outside the city would be best for all. We were prepared to defend them, but chances were the walls would be breached. We had to assume they would be.

  From the walls we would fall back to the towers. Three of the city’s nine provincial towers lay south of the Gold River. From west to east, they were Kojaikun, Quunkun, and Wentokikun. Initially it was assumed that we would surrender the Dragon Tower only after every defender had been slain, but Prince Cyron demurred. He’d already evacuated the animals from his sanctuary to the north end, housing them in the gardens adjacent to Shirikun. While we were expected to defend his palace, the plan was simply to bleed the enemy and buy time so people could escape north across the bridges.

  After the towers, we’d hold the bridges’ southern ends, then get driven back to the north ends. We already had catapults, ballistae, and trebuchets ranged and sighted for sweeping the long archways. If Nelesquin’s troops got that far, the slaughter would be horrible.

  “Master, I should like to say…”

  I turned and smiled. Ciras Dejote stood before me in a full suit of armor. A flame had been painted on the breastplate in yellow and orange. The armor’s lacings likewise alternated those two colors. He wore a pair of swords, one long, one short, and a fierce armored mask hung by its lacings from his shoulder.

  I clapped him on the shoulders. “Ciras, I am no longer your master. You traveled to Voraxan and came back with the Empress’ loyal retainers. It was an act that shall be sung of for a long time.”

  “Only if we win, Master. If not, we shall be sung of as the vanyesh are now.”

  I nodded. “Then we cannot let that happen.”

  “Master Tolo-I do not know if I call you that or Master Soshir…” Ciras frowned and slid the long sword, scabbard and all, from his sash. “This blade belonged to Jogot Yirxan. There is some indication that I may be him, reborn. Using the sword, out there in Ixyll, I had visions. And one of them was…”

  I held up a hand, then extended it. He laid the blade’s hilt in my palm and it was as if ice encased me. My vision blurred and night came on fast. I knew I was me-Virisken Soshir-but my body felt alien. It was as if I were wearing a costume, pretending to be someone I was not.

  Nelesquin’s camp in far Ixyll had been laid waste. My brother’s body stretched out in front of me. I tangled fingers in his hair and lifted his severed head. I held it high, laughing. He had thought to oppose me. He had thought himself my better.

  I spat in his face, then kicked his head into the darkness.

  I don’t know how I knew he was there. A sense? Jaedun, perhaps. I think it may have even been deliberate on his part, a tiny sound, just a hint of warning. Not that it availed me much, because his sword-the sword connecting me with Ciras-connected the two of us. It bit through me, carving into my left side from spine to breastbone.

  My hand fell from the sword. I found myself on my knees. The scar ached as it had not in a long time.

  “Master, are you…?”

  “I’m fine, Ciras.” I got to my feet, steadying myself against the wall. “You had a vision of almost cutting me in half.”

  Ciras could not meet my gaze. “It dishonors me.”

  “It should not, no more than the scar does me. Jogot and I had been as brothers-truer brothers than Nelesquin and I had ever been, or so I thought. When he joined the vanyesh I felt betrayed. I did not realize why he had gone.”

  I looked past him, north, to Shirikun, where the Empress had taken up residence. “When first I saw her again she looked for something. She wanted to believe she could trust me, but I had broken her trust before.”

  Ciras shook his head. “You never would have done that.”

  “I am afraid I would have.” I pointed to the sword. “I saw Nelesquin as my rival for Imperial power, not hers. I’d struck him down, just as I would strike down anyone who stood between me and the throne. She knew that. She sent you to kill me. You did.”

  The blood had drained from Ciras’ face. “But in a most cowardly way, Master. I struck you from behind.”

  I shook my head. “Not cowardly. Prudent. Your vision ended after you struck me down?”

  “Yes.”

  I reached out and tipped his chin up, exposing his throat. “I was a very dangerous man then, Ciras. You paid dearly for your fidelity to the Empress.” I hesitated. “There was just enough life in me to take your head.”

  Ciras swallowed hard. “This explains many things. If you demand satisfaction of me, Master…”

  I let his chin fall again. “Do not be silly. I know better than to want to tangle with you.”

  He blinked.

  “If you wish me to say it, I will. I fear you, Ciras Dejote.” I laughed and he joined me, albeit slowly.

  “Fear me? I would think you hate me.”

  “Hate you? No. You acted bravely for the Empire. And that’s good to remember, now that we’re here, fighting a war we thought we had fought eons ago.”

  Ciras leaned on the wall and peered south. “You could challenge Nelesquin to combat in the circle and be done with it.”

  I shook my head. “He’d not accept.”

  “He fears you would kill him.”

  “Nelesquin fears nothing, which has always been a problem.” I shrugged. “I have had many more years of practice at this point, but he has his magic. It would probably be an even fight.”

  “Then why refuse the challenge?”

  “His war is with the Empress. Killing me is for later.” I chuckled and patted Ciras on the shoulder. “I’m glad to see you ready to fight. They will come tonight, just after the sun has gone down.”

  “We will show them no mercy.”

  “Exactly. You’re already a hero, Ciras Dejote. Today you’ll become a legend.”

  The ass
ault came even later than I expected. I’d forgotten Nelesquin favored a short nap after his evening meal. I sat with my back against the wall, sharing a bowl of rice and some warm soup with Dunos, wondering what Nelesquin supped on. He’d always enjoyed the finer things. It surprised me that he’d limited his extravagances to the gold gauntlets I’d caught glimpses of.

  When their drums began pounding, and some of their odd creatures started hooting, I sent Dunos off with our bowls. He protested being sent away, but I also gave him a message for Count Derael. That errand mollified him somewhat. He promised he’d return soon with an answer.

  Trumpets answered on our side. Torches flared along the walls. Warriors-veterans and conscripts alike-donned circle talismans or drew ashen circles around their eyes to ward off magic. I couldn’t feel the tingle of jaedun, but the vanyesh were out there, somewhere. I couldn’t fault anyone taking precautions.

  Melodies shifted. Our catapults launched oil-filled flaming urns. They streaked through the sky and exploded against the ground. None found a living target, but the burning pools cast enough light for us to see the enemy.

  The xonarchii loomed forward and hurled boulders in high arcs. Several eclipsed the stars. Two or three landed well shy of the city. Others struck sparks from the stone and bounced off, gouging the walls.

  One sailed completely over and collapsed a hovel into a pile of shattered kindling.

  It had been hurled by the largest of the xonarchii. A massive beast, it had been painted with black stripes over its blue flesh, like a tiger-Nelesquin’s way of mocking me. It did make for a terrifying display. The driver turned the beast and it disappeared into the shadows to retrieve another rock.

  I glanced at Penxir Aerant. “Three hundred yards.”

  “Three and a half.” The giant twirled an arrow. “Next throw if it comes to the same spot. The one after if it does not.”

  “Perfect.”

  A loud clacking filled the street below. I smiled. The Derael spikes were working as intended.

  No one who had been at Tsatol Deraelkun could forget the giant moles. Count Derael named them danborii after one of the Rat god’s more odious aspects. He’d made ready to give them the welcome they surely merited.

  Every nine feet along the entire length of the wall we’d dug postholes another nine feet deep. Each hole had a bamboo shaft in it and an old man or woman holding it. Above the hole we positioned the same sort of pilings we’d used to stop the river, with three yards of hooked-iron spike on the downward end. They’d been hoisted into position with a pulley and angle-frame. When the sentinel felt the bamboo shift, he or she clapped two shorter lengths of bamboo together and a wall warden cut the Derael spike loose.

  The piling shot down into the posthole. The iron spike pierced the danbor ’s skull, pinning it in the tunnel. As the beasts thrashed out their deaths, the muffled thumps made us smile. Soldiers sighted back along what they imagined was the tunnel’s line. Archers nocked arrows, ready to feather anyone trying to dig his way free.

  The xonarchii returned to hurl more stones. Penxir drew his great recurve bow and held it. Firelight danced over the razored edge of the broadhead. He waited, his muscles never quivering, the arrow rock still.

  The tiger-striped xonarch turned.

  Penxir released.

  The arrow spun out into the night. It was ridiculous to think that so small a missile could hurt such a massive creature. Yes, warriors had suggested that driving an arrow through an eye might get into the creature’s brain, but the head was as wide as most wagons were long. A cloth-yard shaft would completely disappear into the thing’s skull before it had a chance of hitting the brain.

  But then, as we’d discovered before, finding the monster’s brain wasn’t the only way to stop it. Penxir’s arrow passed through the rider’s armpit. There was no mistaking the dark spray of arterial blood. The arrow poked out the other side, completely transfixing the kwajiin. He fell back and to the side, to hang by one foot from a stirrup.

  The beast yelped and swiped a hand at the control sticks. It missed. The xonarch rolled onto its back, then over, staining itself with the driver’s pulped remains. On its feet again, it tore off across the ground, going low and fast, barking out furious challenges.

  I smiled. “Nice shot.”

  He shook his head. “Next time I will not kill a driver. I will kill one of the creatures. It will be the perfect shot.”

  “You’ll get the chance tonight.”

  “I know.” He nodded toward a spot further down the wall. “It will be from there.”

  “Go.”

  As he departed, Dunos reappeared. “The count thanks you. If you feel plans are in error, he bids you send me to him with new information.”

  “There’s no mistake.”

  Dunos drew my old sword. “Then I am ready.”

  The determination in his voice made me smile. I guided him to a crenel. “Watch what arrogance will make a man do.”

  The enemy’s drumming shifted tempo, announcing a new attack. Troops marched forward through the darkness. They had to see the walls and the fires. They doubtless breathed prayers to Wentoki or Kojai or even Grija, hoping the gods would see them through the fight. Officers shouted orders and encouragement, but many wanted to run.

  I knew because I could remember that far back.

  As the enemy reached the edge of the firelight, their ordered formations melted into screaming masses. Men bearing long ladders, swords, and bows raced forward, yelling fiercely to scare those they faced. Men in their midst bore standards identifying troops from Moryth and the other of the Five Princes or Erumvirine or even western Nalenyr.

  Nelesquin, having lost any advantage of surprise, sent our own people against us. “He’ll let us destroy our brothers, Dunos, to learn what we have in store for his kwajiin.”

  “Teach him a lesson, then, Master.”

  I snapped a fan open and raised it. Trumpets blasted. I brought my hand down sharply and nines of small siege engines launched their missiles. The ballistae lofted clouds of arrows. They cut swaths through the charging soldiers. Some men died pierced by three or four, which then held them upright-bloody, twitching scarecrows guarding fields of carrion.

  Catapults hurled earthenware globes. These had not been filled with fire. I would have gladly immolated kwajiin, but men, no. Instead we used other things. These vessels shattered, scattering caltrops. They always landed with a spike pointing upward, and that spike punched through sandals with ease. Soldiers screamed and limped back, or sat and pulled the spikes from their feet.

  Elsewhere along the line, tightly wrapped bales of smoldering vaear — root arced through the air. So effective at settling the stomach when brewed as a weak tea, vaear — root burst into flame as it flew. The riverine breeze sent the thick smoke south and east, choking the battlefield. When inhaled it induced vomiting and dizziness in some, blindness in others. The truly unfortunate saw horrible visions. Coughing men staggered and fell, some clawing at their eyes.

  Most retched and wept.

  Our archers stepped up to display their skills. They shot anyone who came into range-putting arrows through their limbs. That was by Count Derael’s order. A dead man is simply dead. A wounded man has friends who hear his screams. He must be rescued and a wounded man eats as much as a hearty one but doesn’t fight.

  Nelesquin’s drums beat a retreat. Men abandoned their ladders. They formed chains, dragging themselves and their compatriots south. Soon enough, all that remained on the battlefield slithered, crawled, or begged to die.

  “Have we won?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  The drums changed their beat. “Now he comes in earnest.”

  TheNewWorld

  Chapter Thirty-two

  25th 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

  Moria
nde, Nalenyr

  Ciras relished the tight press of the battle mask against his face. The mask’s long white fangs jutted down and blood stained the corners of his mouth. He knew well the effect of such a fearsome visage, yet Ciras wished he could go into battle without it.

  The mask hid him from the enemy. He wanted them to know whom they faced. He wanted to be feared not for what he wore, but for his skills in combat. He was worthy of their fear.

  He sat astride his mount with the other Voraxani. He’d not yet hit the switch that would extend the armor and spikes. While there was no pretending that he was on a real horse, he didn’t want to be part of a war machine. The other champions of the Empress seemed to have no trouble with it, but it still didn’t feel right to him.

  At the further end of the plaza, crews operated their ballistae. They drew the arms back and locked the pusher plates in place. Some they loaded with stone or cast-iron balls. Others took sheaves of arrows with broadheads fully a handspan long. At a signal from the wall, lanyards were yanked, missiles flew into the darkness, and the whole process began again.

  The ballistae crews fought earnestly and hard but he could not think of them as being his equal. They dealt death, but did so anonymously. They did not see their enemies die.

  That made them no more honorable than the gyanrigot soldiers lined up in the plaza. The machines could not care. They could not grieve. They could not consider mercy, nor could they beg for it. They knew no fear. They just killed until destroyed themselves-inexorable, implacable harvesters of souls.

  Courage and discipline were vital. The automatons were slaves to their commands. Some took that for perfect discipline, and some mistook their lack of fear for courage, but it was the antithesis of courage. Courage was to face down the very fears the gyanrigot could not even recognize. Courage was to fight on in spite of looming disaster.

  Trumpets blared, calling the Voraxani to alert. Guards stationed at the western sally port hauled away on thick ropes. Crossbars swung up. Sweaty, loincloth-clad men turned capstans. The gate swung outward.

  With Vlay Laedhze in the lead, the Voraxani poured onto the battlefield.