Chapter Twenty-eight
17th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Ixyll
To Ciras and Borosan the evidence seemed clear: their journey into the heart of Ixyll had brought them very close to the point where the great battle between the Empress’ forces and the Turasynd must have taken place. How they knew neither could say exactly, but they both agreed with their conclusion.
And their agreement, while satisfying on one level, left neither of them entirely happy.
Ciras felt a sense of dislocation. He turned to Borosan as they rode up a track along one of the foothills of a jagged line of mountains. “It feels as if everything is just a little bit off. I look at it and it seems to shift.”
The inventor nodded. “It’s akin to looking through a pane of glass. It’s refraction; everything shifts a bit.”
“But we aren’t looking through glass.”
“You’re right.” Borosan frowned and, despite his fatigue and the reddish dust on his face, he looked almost childlike as he concentrated. “I think the magic here is ingrained so deeply that it bleeds up, like heat from the rocks. We’ve seen heat mirages of water, and I think the magic here affects our senses the same way. It doesn’t stop us from seeing things, just from seeing them immediately.”
Ciras nodded, not quite certain he understood, but he had a glimmering of what his companion was saying. The swordsman pointed to a rock that he thought looked like a hooded monk in a robe. “Quickly, tell me what you see.”
Borosan looked, then shrugged. “A man in a cloak, huddled against the wind.”
“Close enough.” Ciras glanced again at the stone and a shiver ran down his spine. It had changed shape, twisting slightly, hunching its shoulders more. It did not move as he watched it, and he tried to convince himself he had not studied it closely enough the first time. But he knew that was wrong—his training had made him a keen observer, and his time with Borosan had only enhanced those skills.
Borosan smiled. “Of course, if magic is working here that way, I could have said it looked like the Lady of Jet and Jade, and you would have heard that it looked like whatever you thought it was. Or you might have thought it looked like something else, and my telling you what it looked like to me might have changed what you thought it looked like.”
Ciras held a hand up. “Enough. My head is on fire.” He hunched his shoulders for a moment, hoping just saying that would not make it come true.
Borosan smiled, but did not laugh. “I do have one worry here, and it’s not that our perceptions are being changed constantly. With so much magic here, I don’t wonder that it should be easy to use. I wonder if it becomes unconsciously simple to use.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Borosan sighed, then turned and pulled one of the round mousers from a saddlebag. He held it out to Ciras. “Please, I know you don’t like my gyanrigot, but hold it.”
Frowning, the Tirati warrior accepted the skull-sized ball. “Now what?”
“Stroke it. Pretend it has fur.”
Ciras raised an eyebrow. “Is it time for us to get out of the sun? We can find shade.”
“Just stroke it.”
Ciras pulled a glove off with his teeth, then stroked the bare metal shell with his fingertips. He stared, then did it again. “It feels like fur.”
“I know.”
Then the mouser purred.
Ciras tossed it back to Borosan and wiped both of his hands on his thighs. “What did you do to it?”
“I didn’t do anything to it.” Borosan returned it to the saddlebag. “I have been thinking about it, however, even dreaming about it. I think of it as a mouser since that’s what I built it to do. Out here, I think just thinking about something may manipulate the wild magic and make things come true.”
Ciras frowned. “That makes no sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” Borosan shrugged. “If you are a Mystic, you access magic and use it to make yourself a better warrior. What you are able to do is governed by your discipline and skills, but you can’t control all the magic, so some of it bleeds into the surroundings. The reason you can’t control it, however, is because you’ve been trained to be a swordsman, not a magician.”
Ciras said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “And you would say that magic can be controlled because you, with gyanri, are able to construct devices that channel captured magic into specific ends.”
“Exactly. And we know that magic can be controlled because we have someone like Kaerinus who can use it to heal.”
“And we have stories of the vanyesh who did other things with it.”
“Not just them, Ciras. We know the Viruk can use magic. Even Rekarafi could use it. He helped heal Tyressa.”
“But they are not human. You look around us and see what the vanyesh helped cause.”
The inventor frowned. “Do we know that they did?”
“The stories make it all clear.”
“Sure, but who wrote those stories?” Borosan reined back at the top of the hill. “The history says that aside from Kaerinus, no one returned from the battle. Given the nature of the Cataclysm, that’s no surprise. And yet, we have stories of the Sleeping Empress.”
“So you’re saying we don’t know the truth because the only folks who could have told the truth died here?”
“True—and look at the only evidence we have about the vanyesh. Kaerinus has let himself be imprisoned for ages, but he heals people. He’s hardly the monster the vanyesh were made out to be. Sure, the stories say he returned feebleminded, but how feebleminded can he be if he’s able to use magic to heal?”
Ciras sighed heavily. “You make me think troubling things, Master Gryst.” He really didn’t want to have to think about the vanyesh being anything other than monsters. He still had the vision of one striking his master from behind, and that fit his idea of a villain. But by the same token, he’d also had visions of the same vanyesh killing a lot of very skilled Turasynd.
He gave his horse a touch of the spur and Borosan rode up beside him. “Master Gryst, what you say about the people who wrote the stories is true, but I would counter that the stories are based on the actions of Prince Nelesquin and his vanyesh before the Cataclysm. They would have required some basis in fact if they were not to be dismissed when they were first related.”
“I agree.” Borosan smiled. “Perhaps, however, Nelesquin’s vanyesh were not the only vanyesh. Maybe others came out, fearing the Cataclysm, and tried to contain it.”
Ciras snorted. “They didn’t do a very good job.”
Borosan laughed. “Then again, they might have contained enough of it that all life was not destroyed.”
“I don’t like arguing with you. You riposte too well.”
The inventor smiled broadly, then bowed his head. “I shall take that as you meant it, not as it sounded.”
Ciras screwed his eyes shut as that comment ricocheted through his mind and would have said something in return, but when he opened his eyes again he spotted a dark opening at the base of a sheer mountain cliff. He would have sworn that it had not been there moments before, but the trail down the hill had also seemed not quite so straight, and another hill seemed to have shrunk enough to reveal the opening.
“Do you see that?”
Borosan nodded slowly. “We shouldn’t go anywhere near it.”
“It might be another grave complex.” Ciras settled his hand on the hilt of the vanyesh blade. “Every part of me screams that we should not go there.”
“And for some reason that’s not enough to make you ride away?”
The swordsman glanced at his companion. “Given the nature of how this opening was revealed to us, do you think we could get away if we wanted to?”
Borosan nodded slowly. “Anything powerful enough to hide or reveal that hole probably could have opened this hill and swallowed us alive.”
“I think we were meant to come here.” Ciras pointed down the hill. “In there, I believe we’ll learn what killed the giant and resealed the tomb.”
“And why they left you that sword?”
“Probably.” Ciras shivered. And if they intend I use it to finish the killing of my master, they will learn they have made a very bad choice.
It took them less time to reach the opening than Ciras had calculated, and it appeared to have grown during their journey. Somewhat narrow, the arched opening soared to a height of thirty feet. Just inside it, far enough to be hidden in shadows, stood two guardian figures, but any attempt to identify them failed.
The figures each stood twenty feet tall and, while quite humanoid in shape, lacked any definition. They had been shaped of mud that had hardened, and as Ciras rode past it was easy to pick out places where cracks had been patched. Artistically, they were not much more sophisticated than a child’s snowman, and they lacked any discernible features.
Riding between them, Ciras kept his hand on the vanyesh sword’s hilt. Borosan kept pace with him, his expression fluctuating between wonder and suspicion.
“What is it, Borosan?”
“Those statues were made of thaumston mud. Just one would be worth a fortune in Moriande.”
“Comforting to know.”
They rode forward another twenty yards, having gotten halfway into the tunnel. The reflected light pouring in through the opening revealed another opening further on, but they got little chance to study it as the light from outside began to shrink. In the moments before they were plunged into utter darkness, Ciras turned to watch the entrance iris shut.
“What now, Master Dejote?”
“We keep riding. Don’t look back.”
“Why not?”
“Because I believe the guardians are following us.”
Sitting as tall as he could in the saddle, Ciras gently spurred his mount forward. They rode for another dozen yards, the clopping of horse’s hooves echoing through the tunnel. Ciras strained to hear any sound of the guardian statues behind them, but he discerned nothing. So huge, and so silent. In an instant he knew what had killed the giant, why the monk-stone had shifted, and why he felt they’d been watched.
Up ahead, a series of torches ignited with a blue flame—the blue of the gyanrigot lamps he’d seen in Opaslynoti. Figures shambled forward, bearing the torches high in one hand, knuckling the ground with the other every four or five steps. As they grew closer and Ciras got a good look at them, he resisted the urge to order them out of his way.
The creatures had once been men—wildmen, the human stock that the Viruk had used as slaves. Shorter than True Men, with narrow chests and foreshortened limbs, they had almost enough body hair to be considered a pelt. These wore loincloths of leather and their bodies were covered, it appeared, in dust of the same stone used to shape the guardians.
More remarkably, however, was the fact that their heads were encased entirely in clay helmets, which clearly had been worked to an elaborate degree that seemingly defied their apparent skill levels. The helmets included a full face mask, and while the faces lacked much expression, they clearly had been created to resemble specific individuals. The dozen wildmen wore three different faces among them and though the torches’ blue light did little to reveal color, Ciras detected some differences.
As the circle of light grew, the wildmen stopped and dropped to their knees. Half the number, those not bearing the torches, shuffled forward, then bowed deeply. They muttered something repeatedly, but Ciras could not catch it.
He looked at Borosan, but the inventor just shrugged. “It sounds akin to what you said the night you exercised with that sword.”
That sent a shiver down Ciras’ spine. Despite his unease, he did hazard a glance behind and got another shock.
The guardians had indeed followed. Each had sunk to one knee and pressed one arm to the ground, while their free hands touched their left breasts. They even bowed their heads, but so tall were they that Ciras could see that the faces had taken on crude definition.
One of the wildmen stood and approached. “Masters our beg you guests our.”
The travelers exchanged glances. Ciras nodded. “Tell your masters we would be delighted.”
The wildman cocked his head like a dog.
“Let me try.” Borosan smiled. “Tell masters your happy guests us.”
The wildman bowed sharply, then froze, as did the other three wearing that same face. The quartet then bowed, and the other eight followed a heartbeat later. They rose to their feet and turned as one. The wildman who had been the spokesman waved them forward.
Ciras looked at Borosan. “Did you have to tell them we were happy?”
“Do you want them to think we are not?”
“Good point.” Ciras followed the wildmen slowly, and tried to see through the opening at the tunnel’s far end. Even as they grew closer, the images remained obscured, and it was not until they moved through something as heavy as a curtain, but invisible, that he got a look at their goal.
As nearly as Ciras could tell, the entire mountain had been hollowed out. Against the walls and working out to the center of the opening, mud dwellings had been constructed in a pattern that, at best, was haphazard. Some clung to walls like birds’ nests and others leaned heavily against their neighbors. Some even rose to three and four stories, with crude ladders leading from one level to another. All around the city, wildmen—men, women, and feral children—swarmed like lice over the buildings.
The building at the center, however, mocked the dwellings around it. There was no mistaking it for anything less than an Imperial citadel, with its thick walls and tall towers ending in pyramidal roofs. The roofs had even been tiled as Ciras recalled from murals, and representations of the gods lurked at each corner.
What surprised him about the fortress was that neither mud nor stone had been used to create it. It appeared to have been shaped of swords and spears, shields and armor. There was no mistaking the forms, which fit flawlessly together. All the things we have been hunting—most all of them anyway—are here. He saw weapons of Imperial and Turasynd manufacture. Here and there, motes of light played along sharp edges or over some detailed embossing, then trailed up over a web of filaments that rose to connect the citadel to the mountain surrounding it.
“Where are we, Borosan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Masters welcome bid.” The wildman spread his arms. “Name Tolwreen.”
Ciras shot Borosan a sharp glance. “That’s the name of Grija’s Eighth Hell, the one saved for magicians.”
Borosan nodded slowly. “The one, according to the stories, from which there is no escape.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
19th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Thyrenkun, Felarati
Deseirion
“Excuse me, did you say something?” Keles looked up from the table. A large sheet of rice paper was weighted with candleholders at the corners and on it Keles had been drafting a map of the new Felarati. He included sketches on separate sheets for other developments that could be overlaid to expand the city.
The woman to whom he had spoken laid her five-stringed necyl and its bow across her lap and cast her eyes down. She wore a robe of crimson with silver edging. Her crest, embroidered in silver and black on the sleeves and breasts, featured two doves nesting. A silver tie gathered her long black hair.
“I asked if there was another selection that would please you.”
“My lady, forgive me, but I get drawn into the things I am doing. In preparing a map, I can see the way things will be, and I become anxious.” He pointed beyond the table toward the balcony. “You’ve lived all your life here; you see the changes. Imagine this city transformed.”
She nodded, then smiled slowly. “It shall forever remind me of you.”
“You’re very kind.” Keles capped his bottle of ink and dried the brush on an ink-stained cloth. Much as Princess Jasai had predicted, Lady Inyr Vnonol had been introduced into his circle of acquaintances just over a week and a half ago and had quickly made demands on his time. She was clearly his to use in any capacity he desired.
He might have, too, were it not for two things. The first was his conversation with the Princess. It put him on his guard, and when Inyr moved into his circle, she’d been simple to spot as a spy.
The other thing that made him wary was really a tribute to the Desei Mother of Shadows. Save for her age and maturity, Inyr might as well have been Majiata Phoesel, his ex-fiancée. Inyr’s eyes were a slightly lighter shade of blue, but her hair, height, and form were identical to the woman he’d left behind in Moriande. In choosing her, the Desei thought they had found him the perfect mate. Somehow they had missed the way his relationship with Majiata had ended.
Or maybe they hadn’t. Inyr Vnonol did have a maturity that Majiata had lacked. Inyr, from the beginning, had been devoted to Keles. She seemed to want nothing more than to bask in his presence, and she evidenced no interest at all in his work. By contrast, Majiata would have been very interested—at least up to the point where she realized that anything he was willing to show her would be of no value to her family.
Keles turned from his table and smiled at her. “You play beautifully. Whenever I hear the necyl played, I shall be reminded of you.”
Her head came up and she smiled more fully. “But I understood the necyl is not often played in Nalenyr. Did not one of your princes outlaw it?”
And with good cause. “He thought it sounded like a cat being gutted. That’s not what he would have thought had he heard you playing it.” He would have thought it sounded like a cat being gutted slowly.
“Now you flatter me, Master Anturasi.” She shot him a gaze that did send a flutter through his stomach. “Toward what end, I wonder?”
Keles widened his eyes. “Oh, my lady, you do not think I mean to seduce you and despoil your honor? I could never do that. What sort of guest would I be to Prince Pyrust were I to use one of his citizens so?”
“I do not take offense, Master Anturasi.”
“Oh, but you should, my lady.” Keles turned his head so he could not see her. “You come here as a friend, knowing I am lonely and far from home. You play for me, seeking to make me feel better and . . . The truth is, my lady, that a part of me may indeed have been trying to seduce you. A dark, dishonorable part. I’m sorry. You are kind when you say you take no offense, but I know you must be shocked.”
“Truly, Master Anturasi, I understand.” She set her instrument aside and rose from her knees. “I can see the pain you are in. The longing: for home, for friends, for confidants, for a kind touch . . .”
He held a hand up to stop her. “No, Lady Inyr, you mustn’t. It’s all true what you say. You have defined my weakness perfectly. And you, a true friend, would help me.”
“I wish to be more than your friend, Master Anturasi.” The warmth and underlying hunger in her voice would have made him succumb, were he not well aware she was a spy in his household. “I, too, feel loneliness, the need for the touch of a friend . . .”
“No, my lady. No.” Keles shook his head, still refusing to look at her. “You are a sympathetic soul. You empathize with me, but at your peril. Your Prince has told me I will be sent home at the end of six months, perhaps sooner. I would be weak and use you, but you deserve more, so much more.”
She said nothing, letting the rustle of her silk robe speak for her. She reached out and touched his hand. “Perhaps, Master Anturasi, I would be permitted to leave with you.”
A Desei spy in Anturasikun? Even if I were madly in love with her, that would not be possible.
Keles jerked his hand back. “Don’t say that, my lady.”
“Would it be so horrible?”
“For you, yes. To be ripped from your home and settled in an alien city where you would be viewed with suspicion or pity or both? To have no life save for existing in Anturasikun? I remember the day I met you, in the gardens here. I could never see you captive in my family’s tower. Though I might desire it, it would kill you.
“No, you best go now. Hurry, my lady, before my resolve evaporates. Go now, quickly, I beg of you.”
“As you wish, Master Anturasi.” She walked swiftly to the door, slid it open, and stepped through, but paused a moment to look back before closing it. The moment it closed again, he glanced to the corner where she had been sitting and saw her necyl and bow still there.
And now she has a reason to return.
He devoutly wished she would not. He’d not slept well, having had another dream about his sister in some faraway paradise. She seemed happy enough, but spoke only nonsense about the Sleeping Empress. Something about the dream made it feel more like a nightmare, and he feared his sister was in some sort of danger.
A light rap came at the door, and that surprised him, for while he’d expected her to come back, he’d not expected her return so quickly. He turned toward the door, but before he could offer permission to enter, the door slid back. Princess Jasai entered and shut it behind her.
Keles slipped from his chair to his knees and bowed. “Greetings, Princess Jasai.”
“And you, Master Anturasi. I have come to see the plans you have prepared.” The Princess kept her voice loud for the benefit of the ears on the other side of the room’s thin walls. “Has there been much progress?”
Keles answered in kind. “I’m delighted to show you what I have done.”
Jasai rose and crossed to his table. She shot a glance at the necyl, then shook her head.
Keles smiled and returned to his chair. Jasai joined him at the table. She smelled of roses, for she had a bhotcai whose skill was sufficient to grow the flowers year-round—even through the fierce Desei winter. Keles had never really cared one way or the other for roses, but the scent suited her perfectly—beautiful, but thorny.
“As you can see, Highness, the new residences are fairly far along. All that delays them is the need for building stones, which are slow to come from the quarries.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Jasai lowered her voice. “It is as you guessed. The strongest among the people are being culled from the work gangs. I don’t know yet where they are going.”
“He won’t hint?”
She shook her head. “I’ve not seen him for three days.” She raised her voice again. “I meant to compliment you on how the building debris has been used to create berms for separating fields.”
“It preserves rich earth, Highness, and allows us to segregate fields for flooding in years of drought.” He glanced at her, again softening his voice. “If he has departed, vigilance will slacken.”
“Save for that woman. She gave me a very satisfied smile as she passed me. Did you enjoy her?”
Keles shook his head. “Nor do I have any intention of it.”
Jasai smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Good.”
“Let me show you these new sketches, Highness.” Keles shifted paper about, knowing his papers would be examined while he was out of the room to see if the two of them communicated in some manner that had been undetected. He’d already examined the paper closely and found one set of tiny marks on it. He was certain all the paper stock was inventoried, and if any of it was found missing, the Desei would grow suspicious.
Jasai did not move her hand and Keles didn’t mind at all. In fact, he liked it. He and Jasai had much in common. They were prisoners both of Prince Pyrust and of their bloodlines. They wanted to escape and knew it would be difficult. They also had nations they loved that were the focus of her husband’s plans, and anything they could do to forestall those plans would be wonderful.
Keles had also become aware that Jasai would willingly accept him into her bed to forge their alliance more tightly. The differences between what she was willing to do and what Inyr wanted were vast, however. Jasai would be acting of her own free will and clearly doing what was in her best interest. Since her interest was tied so closely with his, it would be to his benefit as well. Inyr, on the other hand, was an agent of the state, and what she did would only be of benefit to the state. There his interests and hers diverged sharply, which was more than sufficient reason for him to stay away from her.
But though the Princess would have made herself available to him, Keles did not avail himself of her charms. Her pregnancy didn’t concern him—his mother had explained the mysteries of pregnancy to all of her children in sufficient detail that they knew what was safe and what was not. As a skilled botanist, she also concocted many potions and tinctures to prevent or enhance fertility, or even to rid someone of its consequences.
He’d found one of Jasai’s thorns when he’d commented that it would be easy enough for her to lose Pyrust’s child if she hated him so. She’d turned on him, icy blue eyes ablaze, and fought to keep her voice down. “This child is not just his, it is mine as well. He wants an heir with a claim to the Dog Throne, and now I have an heir with a claim to the Hawk Throne. Just because I hate him, it does not mean I hate my child. If love and hate are but faces on the same coin, then the hate goes to him, and the love to my child. You will not speak of this again, Master Anturasi.”
He had apologized and she had accepted it, but things had remained icy for a couple of days. She never apologized for her reaction, and he knew she never would. She had, however, realized his comment had not been a malicious one, just something innocently helpful. He did take care after that, however, to hold his tongue until he had worked through the various ramifications of what he was going to say.
“If you look here, Highness, I have laid out a new pattern for the garden. While I am a cartographer, my mother worked with flowers and plants, so I appreciate her art. Each bed would represent one of the nine, and the flowers would blossom in the national colors.”
“Yes, but it would be a bad omen were one nation or another to become overgrown with weeds, would it not?” She squeezed his shoulder, then whispered to him, “I believe the Desei are going to attack Helosunde, and there is nothing I can do to prevent it. Even if the Council of Ministers knew it was coming, I doubt there is anything they could or even would do to stop it.”
“The ministers?” Keles frowned. “They are functionaries, nothing more.”
She laughed lightly. “You are lucky if you can believe that, Keles. Because of your grandfather and the power he wielded, the bureaucracy could do very little to interfere with your life.
“In my nation, however, the ministers were able to take power. While they have done things like elect my brother as the Prince, they chose him because he was weak. When the last prince died, the nation passed to their stewardship, and they had grown tired of being the power behind the throne. Instead of hiding behind a prince, they cloak themselves in patriotic pieties and claim what they do is for the benefit of Helosunde. And, yet, nothing they have done has won back a single inch of Helosunde.”
“They would have done better to elect you, Princess.”
She nodded, her blonde hair a shower of gold over her shoulders. “They dared not, for I would have been too strong for them.”
Keles looked up at her and smiled. He had no doubt she was right about the ministers. She’s strong-willed enough to be a match for my grandfather!
“You know, if we try to escape and fail, they will kill us.”
She nodded. “There is no guarantee they won’t kill us at any time my husband desires, or his Mother of Shadows decides we have outlived our usefulness.” Jasai ran a hand over her stomach. “My child will be born in the month of the Rat. After that, my life is worthless.”
Keles grinned ruefully. “I don’t think I’ve got even that long.”
“And our chances to escape end even sooner. Once I begin to show, my ability to escape dwindles.”
“I know, but I’ve been thinking.” He tapped his plans of the city. “The Black River will flood sometime in the next six weeks. We make it out of here by then, or we’re never getting away.”
Chapter Thirty
21st day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
The Plains before Moryne
(Helosunde) Deseirion
Clad in black armor, with a golden hawk emblazoned on his breastplate, standing on a hill and flanked by two banners that proclaimed his presence, Prince Pyrust watched the battle unfold on the plains below. To the southwest, far in the distance, he could see the grey smudge that marked Moryne—the city that had once been Helosunde’s capital. The cream of Helosundian martial glory—save those troops in service to the Naleni throne—had arrayed themselves in a formation across his line of march and advanced.
Their intent, it seemed, was to drive his line’s center backward until they could overrun his hill, taking him, his banners, and freeing themselves from the Desei yoke forever. He had no doubt many of them dreamed of pushing further, taking Felarati and making Deseirion their plaything. If he lost this battle, he would die. His country would die and his people would suffer.
And that cannot be allowed to happen.
A casual glance at the battlefield, however, would have suggested that that was exactly what would happen. Until four days previous, his Fire Hawk battalion had been the garrison in Moryne. Following his orders, they gathered up all the grain they could find transport for and began a retreat toward Meleswin. Helosundian rebels, having long since learned of the horrible harvest in Deseirion, accepted the rumors that food riots were the reason for recalling the troops and bringing their rice north. They decided they could strike a fierce blow against their conqueror by attacking the Fire Hawks and preventing the rice from leaving Helosunde.
Pyrust had expected a lot of opposition, but the number of troops arrayed against him had surprised him. He’d been able to move two entire regiments southwest from Meleswin—including the Fire Hawks, though he kept the Iron Hawks and Silver Hawks in reserve behind the hill. For all intents and purposes it looked as if he had just under a thousand troops at his command.
The rebels had amassed a force roughly three times that size. Pyrust recognized a number of banners in the rabble—primarily because the originals were displayed in Felarati. The reconstituted units might have laid claim to Helosundian tradition, but many of the soldiers had clearly come to battle with little training and weaponry more suited to agriculture than warfare. One whole battalion held in reserve appeared to be unarmed, but by the time they came to the fight, there would be ample arms to be recovered from the battlefield.
He had no idea who commanded the enemy force, and the absence of a clear command post buoyed his spirits. It appeared as if the Helosundians had been roughly divided into three parts—right, left, and center—each under its own commander. The center, which was set to engage his best troops, had more of the seasoned warriors. Despite their inexperience, the wings could easily encircle his force and, once it had done that, turn his flanks and win the day.
He shook his head. He hoped it was one of the Council of Ministers that sought to fight the battle against him. Bureaucrats repeatedly governed their actions in accord with Urmyr’s Books of Wisdom, but they seemed to have forgotten he’d once been a general for Emperor Taichun. He’d written another treatise based on his experiences on the battlefield titled The Dance of War, and Pyrust found his teachings of great comfort.
A battle is won before the first arrow flies or the first sword cuts.
The Helosundians had come northeast expecting to ambush one battalion, so when morning dawned and they discovered that the Desei were not moving on, but had drawn up in a battle line and had been reinforced, they scrambled to prepare for battle. In their hasty pursuit, they had not brought much with them by way of provisions, thinking they would soon liberate the rice and feast. The Fire Hawks had always pushed on faster than the Helosundians, forcing them to march longer than they had any desire to do. As a result, they came to the battle tired and hungry.
His troops, on the other hand, were for the most part rested, well fed, and well trained. He did not doubt that each of them felt fear when they looked at the mob surging toward them. There would be jokes, about how each only had to kill three of the dogs and he could retire for the day, but each knew these Helosundian Dogs would take a fair amount of killing.
He’d arrayed his troops with the Golden Hawks to the fore. The Mountain Hawks and Fire Hawks were positioned to the right and left respectively, drawn back, with their flanks overlapping the Golden Hawk rear. The Shadow Hawks were right behind the Golden Hawks.
Pyrust snapped open a black fan with a large red ball emblazoned on it. He raised it above his head, flashing the symbol, then turned it edge on to the troops, and brought his hand straight down.
Commanders in the Shadow Hawks shouted orders. The Golden Hawks spread their rear ranks and the Shadow Hawks ran forward. They nocked arrows, drew, and loosed, rank after rank, into the Helosunde center. Each arrow found a mark, and while a few stuck in shields or skipped off armor, most sank to the fletching into flesh, and men fell screaming.
The Helosundian archers replied, but it was a whisper to what had been a shout. Some of his Hawks did fall when arrows found gaps in armor, but many of the Helosundian bows lacked the power they needed to penetrate armor. My men are not peahens to be stuck so easily.
The Shadow Hawks loosed another four volleys, thinning the ranks of the Helosundian center, then stopped and retreated. He didn’t know if the leaders on the other side understood the significance of five volleys, but five months hence it would be the month of the Dog, Helosunde’s month, and he had chosen to honor them that way.
Honor them before he slaughtered them.
Pyrust waited as his wounded and dead were evacuated. The other side closed ranks, squeezing the center. This he had expected, for what general would not do that? The Helosundian center had been its strength, but now it had become its weakness. The trained troops moved forward to fill in the front line, while the back ranks on the wings flowed toward the middle to take up the empty space.
Which moves them further from the battle than they want to be if they are to be effective.
He raised his fan again, displaying the red ball. He flipped it front and back, showing both sides, then brought it down to wave at the Helosundian lines. Orders were shouted below and the Shadow Hawks, in disarray, shifted behind the Fire Hawks on the right. The Golden Hawks moved forward, opening a gap between them and their supporting units. Their advance slowed as the Golden Hawks realized they had no support, then they began to retreat.
The Helosundians charged.
Barely fifty yards separated the two forces, but the Golden Hawk retreat stretched that distance. The Fire Hawks and Mountain Hawks started to pull back, too, shortening the Desei lines. Both Helosundian wings charged faster, trying to make sure they would all engage the Desei at the same time, but their flank companies never could quite catch up.
When the Golden Hawk flanks again touched the other units, orders were snapped and the retreat stopped. His soldiers tightened their ranks and set their spears. The Helosundians came on, slowing not out of fear but out of exhaustion. Batting aside spears, men smashed into the Desei line. Swords battered shields, clubs smashed limbs, swords stabbed deep, and screaming men rose into the air impaled on spears.
Pyrust lofted his fan into the air, letting it spin end over end. It slowed, then began to fall again, whirling down like a maple seed. The Helosundians, mistaking this gesture for one of surrender, shouted with great hope.
False hope.
Black arrows arced out from the Shadow Hawks, cutting down the ranks pressing the Desei center. The archers shot again and again, as fast as they could draw and release. Their arrows reached deep into the Helosundian formation and the standard-bearers for the Emerald Dog battalion repeatedly died as they fought to keep their unit’s standard from touching the ground.
From behind Pyrust came the rumble of thunder—though he was certain no one in the battle heard it. To the right and left of his hill came the Silver and Iron Hawks. Quartets of horses pulled massive war chariots, with two archers on risers behind the drivers. Sword blades four feet in length had been welded to each axle. They spun and glittered in the morning sunlight as the chariots came around the hill and into the battle.
Arrows ate into the Helosundian flanks, then the chariots grazed past. The blades cut men down horribly and their screams sparked panic in their fellows. Each man on the flank knew he was next, and few willingly faced death. Many fought to get deeper into the formation, which destroyed any pretense of discipline or order. Others just broke and ran—and this tactic was rewarded by an arrow in the back.
Chaos reigned among the Helosundians. Their back ranks turned and ran. The flanks buckled, which allowed his wings to push forward, inverting the battle line. While there were valiant and fierce warriors among the Dogs, they were rebels and did not merit honorable treatment. If they managed to kill his warriors in even combat, squads of Shadow Hawks would order the others back and shoot them.
And, curiously enough, he found no valiant warriors among the Helosundian leaders.
Pyrust watched the rebel force disintegrate, then retrieved his fan, raised it, and snapped it closed. His order slowly filtered through the troops, and they returned to camp, save those set out as pickets, those designated to dispatch the grievously wounded, and those sent to look for prisoners who might have information or be good for ransom.
He studied the field, then shook his head. As Urmyr has said in The Dance of War, with an understanding of weakness and strength, an army can strike like a millstone cast at an egg. The Helosundian force had been smashed and its yolk lay red and writhing on what once had been a green field.
“Yours is a great victory, Highness.”
Pyrust tucked his fan into his left gauntlet. “So it would seem, Mother of Shadows. Then again, a millstone should crush an egg, should it not? We shall see how things go when we meet another millstone.”
The crone pointed south toward Nalenyr. “The millstone waiting you there is small and brittle. Prince Eiran commands a Naleni force made up of westron troops. They will not stop you.”
“Do they know we are coming?”
“Not yet. Your Black Hawks and Stone Hawks have cut the road south, so refugees will flee toward Vallitsi. They will have things to tell the Council of Ministers.”
Pyrust nodded. “News from home?”
“All is well, though work slows because of those being drawn into the military. No alarm has gone out. The Hyreothi ambassador thought to send a message, but his courier died.” The assassin’s eyes narrowed. “I do have more news from the south, Highness.”
“Yes?”
“The reason the westrons are under Helosundian command is because Count Turcol of Jomir is dead. He was riding with Prince Cyron when bandits ambushed the royal party. All of the westrons died and Cyron was grievously wounded.”
“Wounded? How badly?”
“Rumor has it he may lose his left hand.”
Pyrust looked down at his own left hand, his half hand. “That could be dangerous. Losing half my hand made me twice as smart as I’d been before.”
“Four times an idiot is still an idiot, Highness.”
“As is twice an idiot, Delasonsa.”
She bowed her head to him. “I did not mean it as an insult, Highness.”
“I know, but I also know you are too intelligent to dismiss Cyron so lightly. Those were not bandits. Was it Turcol who wanted him dead, or were the assassins sponsored by someone else?” Pyrust’s expression tightened. “They were not ours, were they?”
“No, Highness, else they would be dead now. So would the Prince have been. The agent I have in position believes Turcol hatched the plan on his own. But this does not preclude others choosing the same tactic, Highness—even yourself.”
The Desei Prince firmly shook his head. “No. It shall not be an assassin of mine who kills Cyron at this time. I reserve that option for one of my troops, or myself.” He smiled, imagining the look of surprise on Cyron’s face when he pinned him to the throne with his sword.
“I shall let that be known, Highness.”
“Very good.” Pyrust pointed back toward the battlefield. “There will be survivors. See what they know. Save nine of the most hearty. Blind three, cut the ears off three, and cut the tongues out of three. Send one of each on to Moryne, Vallitsi, and Solie. Let them show their brothers what the fate shall be of all who resist us. Worse will come to their families.”
“Your will shall be done, Master.”
“And, Delasonsa, let them know that those who choose to fight for the honor of Princess Jasai shall be welcomed as brothers, feted as champions, and showered with glory as heroes.”
The crone raised an eyebrow. “Linking their fate with hers, Highness, might not be the most wise course. You will make them think they are men.”
“You’re doubtlessly right, but they shall be the millstone I cast south, and south again. Better I learn how to fight whatever I face over their bodies than those of my Hawks.”
The Mother of Shadows remained still for a moment, then nodded. “There will be war enough to consume them all.”
“And dead enough to choke Grija.” Pyrust raised his head. “And with a proper knowledge of weakness and strength, we shall not be among them.”