Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
More important, he had left her some of his creatures. As he worked with Qiro to create lands that were conducive to breeding fierce warriors and terrifying weapons, some creations were not quite what he wanted. Nelesquin and her grandfather had simply wiped those lands away and started over, but Nirati had collected the orphaned strays, like Takwee, and made a home for them. Because it gave her so much pleasure, Nelesquin had taken to giving her larger and larger populations of creatures to house in what he called the Land of Lost Toys.
Hopeful, she had gone there, seeking to replicate the Durrani. She concentrated on the things she knew. Proto-Durrani—small, brutish men with blue skin and heavy muscles—took well to riding deer with golden horns. They used their mounts to herd other creatures, including the giant and quite docile hammer-headed rock-throwers.
A whole race of emerald-furred apes with bats’ wings flew down from the mountains. They called themselves the Nighfor. They imitated the formations Nirati put her troops through. Within four or five generations, they understood commands and had become very loyal. They couldn’t use bows, but spears suited them, and they were very good at dropping rocks on things.
Other creatures, like her long, reptilian wolves, also developed a rudimentary intelligence. They seemed to flock by instinct and sprinted quickly. They had a nasty bite and were happy to hunt as long as the day was sunny and warm.
In fact, all of her troops were happy to do whatever she required of them. She’d found shrines built in her honor, with flowers and sacrificial offerings. She became as devoted to them as they were to her. As their eldest died and were laid to rest, she would come to ease their passing and promised loved ones they would be reunited in the Underworld.
All the creatures would indeed lay siege to the Underworld at her command. The problem was, she didn’t know
how
to command. While she could breed creatures as well as Nelesquin, she had no clue as to what generals did. Like every other young girl of Nalenyr, she’d watched plenty of military parades and learned all about the Keru when she was younger. Parades and drills were useful for establishing discipline, but did nothing to teach creatures how to attack and use strategy or tactics. As for killing . . . Nirati really didn’t like the idea of killing much.
Her army was made up of innocent creatures who would do whatever she might ask—
but there are just some things that should not be asked
.
Nirati found herself firmly stuck between two unacceptable alternatives. She could let Jorim remain trapped in the Underworld, or she could lead inexperienced and insufficiently trained creatures into a war that she had no skill to execute. Either would be a disaster, but doing nothing would not work either.
“I need a general.” Nirati frowned as she stared out at the silver ocean into which the land’s azure river poured. A wave crashed and flowed up the beach to wash her feet. As it retreated, the sand buried her to the ankles. She twiddled her toes, laughing at the sensation, then remembered something.
Her grandfather, exhausted and quite insane, had shaped a small army of mud. He’d placed his little warriors in boats and sent them off. They were meant to free Keles from the Desei capital. He’d even shaped a leader for them, taking a single hair from Nirati’s head to complete the creation.
Nirati smiled and dropped to her knees, piling up handfuls of wet sand. Takwee and her two Nighfor bodyguards fell in and helped. They heaped wet sand into an oblong six feet in length and three high.
Nirati plucked Takwee from atop it and patted it all smooth. She began by generally outlining the shape of a tall, well-muscled man. She’d studied a little bit of sculpting in her long quest to discover her talent, but took heart in the fact that her grandfather’s mud soldiers had been quite crude. She worked on the details, right on down to individual finger-and toenails.
She saved his face for last. She sought in vain for any image of the Emperor Taichun—the man who had created the Empire. The few surviving pictures had been idealized and melded easily in her mind with images of Jorim. She knew of other generals from stories, but had no clear images of them. She could conjure up an image of Prince Araylis, but she remembered that he’d died with his head split in two and didn’t think he’d be very useful that way.
Nirati knelt and closed her eyes. She laid her hands on the empty face. Instead of trying to imagine a specific person, she concentrated on the traits a great general ought to possess. A strong jawline, certainly. High cheekbones, strong brow, and high forehead. A nose with a bump, perhaps having once been broken. And eyes, set not too deeply.
As she cut the eyebrows in with a fingernail, her entire body tingled. She focused on her need, her desire, for a warrior who would lead her army and save her brother. It had to work.
Then a huge wave hit. It caught her in the back, breaking on her. The water knocked her sprawling on top of her sand general, then the undertow plucked her away. Nirati tumbled down the beach. She clawed at the sand. It melted from between her fingers. A second wave drove her into the sand. Grit ground beneath her teeth. She sputtered, then inhaled water. She started coughing and the retreating wave sucked her into the silver waters.
She struck toward the surface, but the boiling water rolled her over and over. Hair wrapped her face and throat. Her lungs burned. She coughed. Precious air bubbled out. She thrust a hand toward the surface. She felt air, but also felt herself slowly sinking.
Then a hand closed on her wrist. Her savior dragged her from the depths and held her dangling childlike. Nirati coughed some more, sucked in air, then vomited all over herself. She gasped and struggled as he lowered her into the water, washing her off before hauling her free again.
Finally, she swept hair from her face. She recognized the man holding her aloft. His face—it had the strengths she’d sculpted, and much more. The eyes, a green of a deeper hue than Nighfor fur, glowed intensely. His gaze flicked from her face to the two charging apes.
The beasts stopped abruptly, snarled, and retreated up the beach.
He set her down, then looked at his left hand. He flexed it, studied it, and flicked his thumb against the ring on the fourth finger. He smiled, quite pleased. “I’ve lost my beard, but regained two fingers. It’s a bargain I’ll take.”
Nirati covered herself with a gown of seaweed. “Welcome to Anturasixan, Prince Pyrust.”
Chapter 37
I
dropped to a knee before one of the shrines to Cyron and tossed a beggar a silver coin. From within his dirty robes, he produced a small wedge of incense and lit it. The self-appointed priest of Cyron began mumbling a prayer, making up in fervency what it lacked in coherence.
The shell-shaped shrine was like nine thousand others scattered throughout Moriande. It had the requisite picture that looked a lot like the Prince and a couple of toy soldiers standing vigil. My priest had a small finger bone purported to be from Cyron’s lost arm. This hardly made the shrine unique—if only a ninth of the enshrined bones had actually come from Cyron, the man’s left hand would have once sprouted at least eighty-one fingers.
I’d seen no harm in offering a prayer for Cyron’s well-being. The Prince’s directives gave people a purpose. That purpose gave them hope. My hope was that the prayers would help us to keep Nelesquin out of the city.
Kneeling there, I felt their approach before I heard it. Vibrations rose through the ground. The finger bone danced, which the beggar-priest took as a sign of divine favor. We stood at the same time—he to pray more loudly and me to race up the wall.
Metal hooves and the thunder they made had me wishing my priest would pray just that much harder.
Giant metal beast-men, reminiscent of the
gyanrigot
but much bigger and more ornate, charged from Nelesquin’s camp. The lead rank of nine ram-headed men bore double-bitted broadaxes. Ranks of elephantine warriors flanked them, trunks trumpeting, and steel spikes capping ivory tusks. Tigers and wolves, bears, bulls, and lions raced north. Some were gold, others bronze, and some looked like wood and bone.
I’d never seen anything like them. I’d never even imagined war machines so large. My mouth went dry. Pirates, Viruk, Turasynd, and even the
vanyesh
. I’d killed them all.
But here, these things . . .
“What will we do, Master?”
Dunos’ question brought me back to reality. “We fight, boy. Get down there. Clear the courtyard.”
“But the fighting will be up here.”
“Not for long. Go.”
I ignored his grumbles and plucked the fan from my sash. I snapped it open and gave the signal.
Our trumpets blared louder than the elephants. Hammers struck. Catapults and trebuchets lofted missiles that grazed the low-hanging clouds. Smaller stones just rattled off the metal creatures, but a large stone hit a bull in full charge, crushing its skull, dropping the metal beast. A following bull leaped over his comrade’s shell and kept coming.
A ram sprinted for the city’s gates. I expected it to lower its head and slam into them, but it stopped short. Shrugging off a hail of arrows, the ram hammered the gate with its ax. The heavy blow spun me around and dropped me to a knee. Wooden splinters shot through the courtyard. Men reeled away, stuck through with lethal fragments, and a big hunk of wood knocked Dunos down.
A tower crew levered a small ballista around and wedged it up. They had no real chance to aim, but the machines were thick at the gate, so they simply shot. Their iron-tipped spear pierced a ram, entering at the left shoulder, lancing down. The ram froze, tottered, then collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs.
More chopped at the gates. Others pounded the walls. Mortar cracked, stones shifted, and men fell. Below, in the courtyard, men loaded their ballistae and trained them on the gates. More splinters flew, then a hinge screamed.
I sped down the stairs. Stone cracked and iron bolts snapped. A piece of metal shot past my head and ricocheted off another man’s battle mask. He went down hard.
A heartbeat later, half the gate went down harder.
Time slowed. The crossbeam securing that half of the gate splintered, ripping the brackets from the other half. The door landed heavily, pulping an archer. His red-fletched arrows clicked and bounced over the cobblestones. The other door, tortured by incessant pounding, surrendered to the rams.
Nelesquin’s monsters framed themselves in the gateway. Ballistae loosed their bolts. Coiled cords groaned and torsion bars clacked. The missiles reached their targets in an eyeblink. One spear skewered the lead ram’s thigh and another took it through the gut. That ram went down, its forehooves covering its stomach before it sagged to the side. The third bolt stuck another ram through the hip.
It limped back, but two more entered.
And there I stood, alone, swords drawn, the faint scent of incense filling my head.
Ciras Dejote stood on the walls aghast as the war machines charged. The elephants drove directly at his position. He immediately recognized them.
Gyanrigot!
All my skill, all my discipline, is nothing against one of these
.
Beyond them, coming hard in their wake,
kwajiin
and human warriors screamed out challenges.
Penxir Aerant drew an arrow and let fly. It glanced off the lead elephant’s broad head, leaving a bright scar in the dull iron.
Ciras grabbed the archer’s sleeve. “You can’t do anything against them.”
The taller man pulled his arm free. “Not at that range, but they will get closer.”
He drew again and shot, this time driving a shaft through the same elephant’s breastbone. The mechanical beast stumbled and went down. The tusks carved deep furrows through the earth. Another elephant stumbled over the first. It hit hard, gouging up dirt, and rose slowly, giving the archer an easy third shot.
But Penxir never took it. Two
kwajiin
arrows crossed in his throat. Hot blood splashed over Ciras’ battle mask, blinding him. He reeled back, swiping at his eyes. Another arrow pierced his left hand and clanked off his battle mask. Pain shot up his arm, then something hit the wall hard.
Ciras went flying.
He hit one of the mole-catchers’ frames, partially breaking his fall. Twisting in the air, he landed on his back and smacked his head. His helmet bounced away. His battle mask hung askew. He tore it off.
High in the sky, one of the winged monsters sailed over the wall. Of more immediate concern, however, was the sally port gate. The first blow from an elephant’s club had dented both halves and cracked the bar holding them shut. A second blasted both from their hinges. The metal doors whirled into the courtyard. One cut a man in half. The other exploded water barrels intended for firefighting.
Ciras tried to get up, but slipped in the new-made mud. Someone further back screamed, “Stay down!” Durrani warriors swelled through the sally port, their war cries fearsome, only to be answered by the staccato clacking of spring engines.
The oldest of siege machines and the least sophisticated, the spring engines consisted of a stout post sunk into the earth. A man’s height remained aboveground, and the top had a V-notch a handspan across. A plank had been bound to the post at the bottom with thick cable, then bent back and secured. A sheaf of arrows had been stuffed in the notch. When the trigger cord was cut, the plank sprang up and struck the arrows hard on the end.
A cloud of arrows passed above Ciras. The first
kwajiin
fell back as the arrows passed through them. Those behind had arrows sticking in armor or flesh. Some paused to snap the arrows off. Others kept coming.
The spring engine’s design did little for range or accuracy, but it sped reloading. Ciras rolled clear as the wood clacked again and again.
Kwajiin
warriors groaned and cursed, but too few died.
Ciras gained his feet and drew his
vanyesh
blade in the same motion. Remaining low, he scythed through a blue-skinned warrior’s legs. Another
kwajiin
, this one with an arrow through the meaty part of his shoulder, slashed wildly. The swordsman parried the attack wide, then snapped his left elbow into the warrior’s face. Bones cracked. The enemy staggered back, blood pouring through his fingers. Ciras’ lunge took him through the throat.