Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
But by then the Tiger Bridge had risen again from the depths of the Gold River.
Another horde raced north.
The bridges rose from the river as Qiro Anturasi painted them onto his map. I measured the distance to him. I could cross it in seconds and cut him down. The
kwajiin
might prove a minor inconvenience, but the cartographer would die.
Nelesquin eclipsed him. “I’ve not forgotten you, my friend. I know how you think. Cyron’s defenses might work if Qiro draws no more bridges.” He smiled. “I’ve felt it, too. He’s found his talent and mastered it. You might be right, but he won’t get a chance to finish what he’s started.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not carrying a sword. You can’t stop me.”
He gestured. Ciras’ sword rattled across the floor, then rose to his gold-sheathed hand. “If you do not mind, Master Dejote, this will do.”
“Would it matter if I did?”
“No.” Nelesquin chuckled and bared the blade. “Oh, very good. This one has tasted you before, Virisken.”
“Not when it was in your hand.”
Nelesquin cast the scabbard aside. “Use both of your swords. I’ll let you.”
“Draw the circle.”
Nelesquin nodded and blue flames encircled the center of the floor. He stepped through them and bowed respectfully.
I entered the circle and bowed in turn. I would not dishonor the art because I had no respect for the man. Yet he seemed completely unconcerned at facing me. One sword against my two would have been suicidal even for another Mystic. But Nelesquin was more than a Mystic swordsman. He had mastered magic.
I straightened and he came for me. He slashed wildly, more Turasynd-styled fighting than any civilized discipline. His robe fluttered, flashing, his blade whistled. I ducked, dropping to a knee. The draw-cut with my right hand should have taken his right leg off at the knee.
He leaped above the cut, whirling through a somersault at once majestic and graceful. He twisted in the air, then landed and drove back at me. He lunged, I parried. I had to whirl away, just escaping a slash at my back. I leaped above another slash that struck sparks from the floor.
Landing, I drew my other sword and aimed a cut at his head.
He ducked that one, but I knew he would. The sword in my right hand whipped forward. It caught Nelesquin’s sword arm at the elbow in a cut that would sever it cleanly.
Dunos’ head broke the water’s surface and he gasped. He sucked air in, quenching the fire in his lungs. Then he waited, listening, but all he heard was the echo of water in the sewer tunnel. He waited until he caught his breath, then sloshed forward.
He paused at the iron ladder set in the wall and looked up. He would have started climbing, but a flicker of color further on caught his eye. He stared at it. It grew larger, dancing through the air, then settled on his left hand.
“What are you doing here?”
The glowing green-and-black butterfly didn’t reply. It beat its wings softly, then launched itself deeper into the sewers. It flew on about ten feet, then hovered, waiting.
Dunos followed. He worked the oilskin cover free of his sword, then bared his dagger and tucked it into his left hand. A side from the squealing of rats, the dripping of water, and his own sloshing, things remained quiet. Above people were running to and fro. It was easy to imagine that some of the dripping was blood running from the streets.
But blood didn’t concern Dunos. War didn’t frighten him. What he dreaded most in the world was failing his master. Moraven Tolo had given him the sword. Moraven Tolo had led him in battle. He’d made Dunos Prince Iekariwynal’s bodyguard. He’d trusted Dunos and he’d made him a promise.
A promise I’ll help him keep
.
The butterfly fluttered around another iron ladder, so Dunos mounted it. He climbed carefully. His left arm had never been much use in climbing, so he just kept it ready with the dagger, and the butterfly perched on his shoulder.
Dunos pushed a wooden grate off at the top and emerged into a tower garden.
Tzaden
vines had overgrown the place. Dunos didn’t care for
tzaden
-flower tea. His mother had all but drowned him in it after his arm withered, and the scent of the flowers made him a bit nauseous.
The butterfly flew to the tower. It disappeared through thick vines.
Dunos shrugged his shoulders, bared his sword, and headed into the shadowed precincts of Anturasikun.
The fight is over!
That thought echoed in Ciras’ mind as Moraven Tolo struck. The younger swordsman watched dispassionately despite knowing the Prince’s forearm would fly across the room, taking the sword with it. Blood would gush and then, with another quick cut, Moraven Tolo would take Nelesquin’s head.
Ringing loudly, Moraven’s blade rebounded from Nelesquin’s arm. The slashed sleeve revealed a golden exoskeleton wrapping the Prince’s limbs. The blade had cut flesh, but the wound did not bleed.
That is not possible
.
Nelesquin stepped back and tore away his rent sleeve. He probed the wound with a finger, then smiled. “You see, you cannot kill me.”
Moraven Tolo dropped into fourth Dragon, both blades at angles and forward. “I can blind you. I can take your tongue out, and I’m willing to bet there are other parts that aren’t shielded. Let’s end this.”
The two of them flew at each other, a golden bear battling a fearsome tiger. Blades blurred, the skirling of parries becoming a constant hiss broken only by the whistle of missed slashes or the clang of sword on sword. Bits of fabric floated free as near misses carved cloth instead of flesh.
Ciras watched slack-jawed. Warriors flowed from Wolf to Dragon, Tiger to Scorpion, Crane to Dog and back again. Blades licked as flame, missing by hair’s-breadths. It seemed impossible that they would miss, but somehow a warrior would flow around a crosscut blow or twist away from a slash. They’d become two beings of energy, mixing, twisting, and flowing around each other.
And then the pattern broke. Moraven spun down on his knees and thrust both swords forward. The blades plunged deep into Nelesquin’s guts and the points emerged from his back.
The Prince roared with fury and brought his sword down twice. The hilt cracked Moraven’s right arm, then his left, breaking his grip. Nelesquin’s sword flicked out once more in a slash that should have taken Moraven’s head off, but the Prince shifted at the last second. Instead it laid open Moraven’s right breast and shoulder.
“You are most tiresome, Virisken!” Nelesquin plucked one sword from his belly and cast it aside. He followed with the second. “That is a fault of your birth. Tainted blood. And you dared think you could be Emperor? You’re a fool. You always have been.”
Moraven raised a broken arm to staunch his bleeding. “I killed you before.”
“Yes, yes. Crow about the last battle. You’ve not won this time.” Nelesquin retreated to his throne and sagged back, leaving Moraven alone in the circle of flame. “I should kill you now, but I want to watch her face when you die. You’ll end up in Hell together, along with your Prince Cyron. Actually, he should be there by now, and the last hope of Moriande goes with him.”
There he stood, Prince Cyron. One-armed though he was, a tower of strength in a hive of chaos. Clerks ran in, ministers, too, bearing reports. The Prince didn’t even deign to look at them. Some he touched, some he just waved at, then issued orders like divine pronouncements. The same clerks turned and fled, hastening to follow orders they couldn’t even be certain they’d heard.
Prince Eiran sat beside Cyron. The Helosundian took the papers, read them quickly, and sorted them into piles. He probably didn’t even recognize it in himself, but he was understanding what each paper said based on Cyron’s understanding. He had truly learned well from the Naleni Prince and was capable of mastering the same art as Cyron.
It really didn’t matter.
Minister Pelut Vniel moved through the chaos unnoticed and unchallenged. He, too, had mastered arts, and one was the art of
belonging
. No matter where he found himself, he could make others believe he belonged. No one would question him.
No one would stop him.
He reached Cyron’s side. “Highness, do you remember the knife you sent me?”
Cyron’s eyes blinked.
Pelut Vniel drove the knife straight into Cyron’s heart.
And twisted.
The butterfly had led him on a bit of a chase through the tower. It ended in a room that Dunos entered through a four-foot-high passage. The room’s far side had a semicircular lattice of gold bars cutting it roughly in half. Beyond the bars lay many treasures. Chests of spices filled the air with exotic aromas that made it easy to forget about
tzaden
flowers and sewers. Exotic weapons were stacked here and there amid chests of gold coins. Dunos imagined the butterfly might have brought him there so he could choose a better weapon, but that was a waste of time.
He’d never give up the sword Master Tolo had given him.
The butterfly alighted on the gold bars, but a buzzing sound beyond it focused Dunos on the human skull mounted on a pedestal. The skull had been covered in gold and set with gems. Dunos guessed it might have been pretty. He didn’t like the empty eye sockets, didn’t want anything to do with it, but the skull buzzed.
He came right up to the bars. The buzzing resolved itself into words. “You are most tiresome, Virisken! That is a fault of your birth. Tainted blood. And you dared think you could be Emperor? You’re a fool. You always have been.”
Dunos snarled. “He’s not a fool. My master is not a fool!”
The skull didn’t answer him. It just stared at him, the bared teeth a contemptuous grin.
Anger boiling over, Dunos raised his withered left fist high and brought it down as hard as he could. The skull cracked, then bounced off the pedestal. It spun slowly, the jaw falling free, then hit the floor. It exploded, spilling the black and white stones filling it all over the floor.
Dunos looked around, then nodded. “No more stupid buzzing.” Then he shivered.
There
was
no more buzzing, but he seemed to remember that, when he hit it, the skull screamed.
Chapter 55
T
he trek across the last of Chong-to was accomplished with a minimum of effort and few losses. Warring bands crippled their enemies, then held them in thrall, enjoying their pain. It was hardly conduct that would win release, but this new consolidation of power occupied the bands enough that they let Jorim’s army travel unmolested.
Jorim passed first through the shimmering veil that separated the First Hell from Zhangjian. The Place Between served as an entryway to the realms of the supernatural. It lay parallel to the physical world, and was everything it was not. Dark and empty, without form or substance, it proved unsettling for everyone. Something supported their feet, but no one could tell what it was. Shimik tried to dig in it but didn’t get very far. Riders had to dismount to lead reluctant beasts, and the Nighfor found it too disorienting even to attempt to fly.
The gateway to the Heavens awaited in the distance and this made Jorim suspicious. “There is no reason for the perception of distance, save that someone wishes us to feel far from our goal.”
Talrisaal nodded. “Nessagafel.”
Pyrust did not let the plane’s featurelessness daunt him. He formed his army up, using the Naleni and Amentzutl troops as his center, with the hart-cavalry split on each wing, and the lizards flanking them. The Nighfor waited in reserve, along with the hammer-headed apes.
Something glimmered ahead in the darkness. Jorim started to run, but reached it in two steps. Crumpled in a bloody robe decorated with bats on the wing, Tsiwen lay largely still. Pinpoint wounds from ant bites covered her visible flesh. Her throat and face had been raked with thorns. Her robe covered her belly, but she’d clearly been disemboweled.
Jorim dropped to a knee and felt her throat for a pulse. The gesture was ridiculous. Tsiwen had no more need for a pulse than she did a physical form. Talrisaal appeared on her other side.
Jorim looked up. “You wanted to know why Nessagafel didn’t know I’d escaped him? She took my place. I can’t imagine . . . ”
“Magic works here. I can help her.”
“Please, do.” Jorim caressed her cheek. “We’d not have gotten even this far save that she fooled him.”
“But not for long enough, Wentoki.”
A young man materialized past Talrisaal. He was the child Nessagafel had been, now grown. He stood naked save for a black ring around his little finger. “You have been quite audacious, my son. I have not had time to fully assess the damage you’ve done. But it matters not, since I will unmake all of this. When I start over, I’ll bring you back and make a special Hell just for you.”
He raised one hand and Tsiwen twitched. Her eyes jerked open. She flew upright, limp as a puppet, her intestines tangling in her legs. With every finger Nessagafel flexed she danced—at times clumsy, others seductively, all the while her head lolling and jaw bouncing open.
“I told you I gave you compassion because I did not need it. I lied.” His other hand came up and Nirati appeared, hanging by invisible strings. “I gave it to you to cripple you.”
Bones cracked. Nessagafel doubled in size. He sprouted a second pair of arms and raised those hands as well, bringing Nauana and Anaeda Gryst into his dancing troupe. The ancient god laughed, his fingers flicking. The women capered through farcical dances, then dashed against the ground like discarded toys.
“That is it, isn’t it? You’re just a child.”
Nessagafel’s head came up. “This, from you? You clothe yourself in flesh and play among mortals. You are the child wishing he could fight alongside his toy soldiers. All you ever sought to do was imitate me, but you never could. You never allowed yourself to set compassion aside. You hoped it would make you superior when you clearly were not.”
“I’ll set it aside now.”
“You, fight me? Here? Now?” Nessagafel’s puppets disappeared. “You are a man. I am a god.”
“But you are limited.” Jorim stood. “By the ring. By your fear.”