Chapter Forty-nine
1st day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Tsatol Pelyn, Deseirion
Dawn brought the first group of refugees to the ruins of Tsatol Pelyn, west of Felarati. The sun came up slowly, shrouded by the black smoke that rose from the city. The smoke began to settle, covering the landscape, but it could not hide the thin line of survivors escaping to the west. Throughout the next several days the survivors continued to swell the population at the ancient Imperial outpost.
Keles found it rather ironic that their flight took them to Tsatol Pelyn, as it had been his first planned way station on the escape route from Felarati. He’d chosen it because of the tributary of the Black River that provided water. Shepherds regularly grazed flocks in the area, and those flocks had suddenly been converted into food for the hungry refugees.
Had he just been with the Princess, and if they’d had horses, he would have struck further west, then turned south. The refugees destroyed any plans for escape, however. They looked to the Princess and Grand Minister and Keles for salvation and leadership. Part of Keles would have been willing to abandon them because they were from the nation whose leader intended his permanent imprisonment, but he knew that wasn’t their fault.
They are every bit as much prisoners of their birth as I am.
Princess Jasai would not have left no matter the inducement. Despite her feelings about her husband, she accepted the responsibility the people had thrust upon her. She offered comfort and encouragement where she could. More important, she put pressure on the Grand Minister, forcing him to follow her example and get his hands dirty.
Because of his dream, Keles knew the invaders had come for him. His grandfather had sent them to find him in Felarati and that meant Keles really had spoken to his sister in that dream. He’d never before been able to reach her that way and could only get glimmers of his grandfather and brother—letting him know they existed and little more. He couldn’t understand this new and strong contact with his sister, and it unsettled him.
The new refugees did bring information from Felarati and it gave the others a bit of hope. The soldiers who had been doing the searching had repeatedly been referred to as “the Eyeless Ones,” which quickly got shortened to blinds. The half-handed blinds were searching the city, and it seemed the smoke confused them. Keles suggested they were tracking him by scent.
They tested the theory by collecting his urine and clothes and depositing them at various points on the plains between Tsatol Pelyn and Felarati. Scouts reported that the blinds functioned very much like ants. They continued their scouting patterns until they hit something with his scent. Then they headed straight back to the city. In their wake came more soldiers, and a new search pattern spread out from that point.
The inevitability of his discovery escaped no one. Keles had offered to head away and draw the invaders off, but since there was no guarantee that the others would be able to escape, that plan foundered. It mattered little because the refugees had other plans.
Keles didn’t see what they were doing at first, but when he did, it made a curious sort of sense. People came up to him, begged his pardon, and asked if he thought moving stones from one part of a midden to another would strengthen their position. Others would ask if clearing debris from what once had been a moat would be a good idea. Still others asked if digging a canal to flood that moat would work.
Keles stood at the fortress’ highest point and watched the people work. They had been terrified the night of the attack, and exhausted by their flight. Yet despite their exhaustion or age, they began to work, shifting rocks, digging, making mud for mortar, fetching water for workers.
Jasai joined him and stroked his back with a hand. “They had been reshaping Felarati for you, and now they will rebuild Tsatol Pelyn.”
“They’re working for you, Princess.” He took one of her hands in his and turned it over. Her palms had cracked and dirt lay caked beneath her nails. “They follow your example, and that’s forced the ministry clerks to do the same. Some take to it, and some are plotting revenge.”
Jasai shook her head as she looked east. Fifteen miles separated them from Felarati, but already the inky stain of invader search parties spread over the dusty landscape. “Any idea how many?”
“Tyressa could tell you; I can’t.” Keles sighed. “You and she should get away from here. The people would understand, and we’d sell ourselves dearly to make certain you did survive.”
“The people would lose heart if I left.”
“No, they’d love you even more for the chance to make sure you and your child live.”
She turned and faced him. “What about you, Keles? What would your motivation be? Would it be that you, too, love me? Or is it that you love my aunt and want to see her safe?”
Keles’ mouth dropped open. “Highness, I don’t think the answers to those questions really pertain.”
“Of course they do, Keles.” She laughed lightly. “I grew up learning that men are easy to control. Flatter them, stroke their egos—stroke other parts of them—and they can become yours. There are exceptions. My husband is one. I am not certain what he loves, but it is not me. You are another, but not for the same reasons. You are capable of love.
“I will admit, Keles, that I did try to make you fall in love with me. I needed your help to escape. Making you love me was the fastest way. Please don’t think harshly of me for this, but it’s the truth.”
Keles shook his head. “You needed me to escape, and I needed you.”
“But don’t let yourself think I don’t have feelings for you, because I do. In the months I have known you, I have come to admire and trust you—both of which are things I do not do lightly.” She smiled. “And, I will also admit, that I found your resistance to my charms rather frustrating. I knew we were partners in escape, but I did wonder why you did not accept the invitations I offered.”
He started to speak, but she pressed a finger to his lips.
“And then I saw your reaction when Tyressa appeared. I’ve seen men infatuated with the Keru before, but there we were, in a city under invasion—flames flaring, smoke swirling—and you looked as surprised and happy as it was possible to be. And I remember thinking, ‘Someday a man will look at me that way.’ ”
Keles nodded and looked down toward where Tyressa was levering a large stone block into place in a makeshift wall. “She was assigned to ensure that I didn’t get killed in Ixyll and there was, at first, some of the Keru thing there. I couldn’t help it, being raised in Moriande.”
Jasai nodded. “You know the Keru find it amusing, don’t you, all the little boys looking at them all moon-eyed with fantasies?”
“I’m glad, because if they found it annoying, there would be a lot of dead little boys.” Keles grinned. “On the trip, she took care of me. She spoke with me, she nursed me to health when I was sick. And, at the end, when one of your husband’s agents shot her and I thought she was dead . . .”
A tightness rising in his throat strangled his words.
Jasai stroked his arm.
He swallowed hard. “Back in Moriande, I’d been engaged to someone who saw me as a means to an end. When my grandfather sent me out to Ixyll, I was happy because it took me out of the capital and out of her sphere. I wasn’t even looking for anything, then Tyressa was there.”
“And you couldn’t let yourself imagine you had feelings for her because you knew the Keru never married, never had children?”
“Why open yourself to being hurt?”
“Because you don’t always get hurt.” Jasai smiled. “Being chosen to join the Keru is an honor for a Helosundian woman. She sacrifices a great deal to accept that honor. But she does not sacrifice everything, Keles. She does not remove her heart.”
He glanced down at Tyressa again. “She doesn’t have feelings for me.”
“Can you imagine duty alone being sufficient motivation to travel with a Viruk across a continent, to enter an enemy nation, penetrate the capital, and enter the Prince’s palace to steal a prisoner away from him?”
He smiled. “You know your aunt. She’d do that for sport.”
“True, but she didn’t. Not in this case.” Jasai nodded toward her. “She watches you while you sleep. People ask her if they can approach you. She may not know exactly what she’s feeling, but the others see it. I see it.”
“So you’re saying that she wouldn’t leave here either, even if it was the only hope you had for a future?”
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.” Jasai looked back east. “Of course, ‘future’ is a relative term. How long until they arrive?”
“At their rate of advance, a couple of days. Rekarafi thinks he can sneak through their lines with more urine and make them think I’ve gotten behind them. That might slow them up for a while. And by the time they get here, we’ll have makeshift fortifications. But unless a lot of the folks down there are Mystics in disguise, the battle isn’t going to last very long.”
“They will do all they can.”
“I know. They might win if Tsatol Pelyn were again what it once was.” He pointed toward the east, then around along the dim line of the moat. “This was a classic Imperial outpost. The garrison would have been a battalion, perhaps two, but it could have easily housed all the people we have. Down beneath us would be storerooms full of arms and supplies. The moat . . . Well, folks are pulling rocks out of it now, but are barely down a couple of feet. It would have been nine feet deep, eighteen across, and every bit of stone in there would have been part of the walls. The walls themselves would have been eighteen feet tall, with a tower rising to twice that. Main gate to the east, and there, to the northwest, a second, smaller sally port for cavalry. It was a beautiful thing, all gone to waste.”
She shook her head. “It’s not gone to waste, Keles. It may not protect people the way it once did, but it is giving them hope and purpose. How many people ever have that in life?”
“Too few, I imagine.”
She nodded, then kissed him on the cheek. “I think you should go talk to Tyressa.”
“What am I going to say to her?”
“By your own estimation we’ve got two days to live. I think she might like to know she’s more than a spear-carrier. Being Keru, doing your duty, these things are important, but they’re not the only important things in life. Given that we’ve got little of that left, focusing on the important things should come first.”
Keles descended from the tower ruins and found Tyressa helping to dig another large stone from the moat. “Tyressa, do you have a moment?”
She looked up, swiped her forearm over her forehead, smearing dirt, then nodded. She straightened up, her spine cracking. Smiling, she began to walk with him, but the moment they got out of earshot of the work crew she’d been with, she rested a hand on his shoulder.
“My niece has been talking to you, hasn’t she?”
He nodded.
“I take it you told her this sort of thing just isn’t going to happen?”
“I, ah.” Keles frowned. “I think maybe I’m confused.”
Tyressa turned him to face her, resting both hands on his shoulders. “She wants us to get away. She knows I won’t leave her, but I have my duty to you, so I’d be forced to go. She wants me out of here because I’m her blood kin, and she wants you out of here because of her feelings for you.”
“Now I’m really confused.”
“Keles, can’t you see she cares for you? You were her only hope for escape, and when things started going very badly, you came for her. There’s not a woman in the world who wouldn’t have fallen for you. You can be a rock in the midst of disaster, and you don’t even see it. The people here are taking heart just because you’re confident in their efforts. It’s just like you were at the pool in Dolosan. You didn’t hesitate to act.”
“Yes, but you know that was just me being naïve and foolish.”
“No, that was you being you, Keles. I’ve learned that.” She squeezed his shoulders. “She loves you and, from what I’ve seen, you love her. I’m pleased.”
“But she said . . .”
“She was lying to save you.”
Keles’ head began to spin. Jasai had him convinced that she didn’t love him and that Tyressa did. Tyressa was being just as convincing in the opposite direction. The possibilities inherent in who was lying to whom—including themselves—began to unfold in a legion of permutations that threatened to overwhelm him.
He reached up and grabbed Tyressa’s wrists. “Stop, please. I have to say something.”
The Keru nodded.
“I don’t know what Jasai feels. I know what she said. I don’t know what you feel. I know what she said you feel. I can’t do anything about her perceptions or yours. The only thing I know is what I feel, and given that I’m probably going to stop all feeling pretty soon, I need to say something.”
He swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you thought or felt or hoped all the time you were coming this way with Rekarafi. I can tell you what I was thinking. I thought you were dead. I saw you shot; I saw you fall back into the earth and disappear. My heart followed you right down into that hole.”
“Keles, I’m sorry . . .”
“Just wait, I’m not done. You were the only person who didn’t see me as a means to an end. You got to know me even though it wasn’t part of your job. I was able to share part of myself with you, and you did the same with me.” He closed his eyes for a second and saw her bloody body slipping away. “When you died—when I thought you were dead—a part of me died inside, too. I was happy when the man who shot you got eaten alive in Ixyll. I was happy to redesign Felarati for Prince Pyrust because I planned many avenues for the Keru and Naleni troops to pour through the city. Unable to express what I felt for you in any positive sense, I channeled it into hatred.”
He opened his eyes and looked up into hers. “You can assume that what I feel is just a grown-up version of the infatuation all boys have for the Keru. Or you can see it for love, because that’s what it is. And maybe it’s not something you want—I can understand that, too. Maybe everything was duty, and maybe you slipped a couple of times. I understand that, and I can live with it. I’ll probably die with it, but I want you to know that you’re more than just Keru, and I see you as more than that.”
Tyressa’s hands fell from his shoulders. She hugged her arms around her middle. She looked down for a moment, but when she brought her head up, tears had eroded the dust on her cheeks.
Keles lifted a hand to brush them away, but she shook her head and turned away from him.
He let his hand fall slowly. “I’m sorry I made you cry. I’ll get back to work. If I work hard enough, maybe, just maybe, that won’t be my last memory of you.”
Chapter Fifty
2nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Imperial Road North, Nalenyr
It pleased Prince Pyrust that his presence shocked Count Linel Vroan. The Naleni noble had been summoned to the Inn of Gentle Seasons by envoys, promising a Desei representative to negotiate Nalenyr’s fate. To whom else does he imagine I would have entrusted such important talks?
Pyrust smiled and stepped away from the fire. “Please, my lord, join me.”
Vroan bowed respectfully, then doffed his cloak and tossed it to a minor functionary. “You are very kind, Highness.”
“Words I do not hear often from the Naleni.”
The Inn’s common room had been cleared of all patrons and the host had been well compensated for the disruption of his trade. Pyrust’s aides had removed the furnishings, leaving only one small round table and two chairs near the fire. A platter with cheese, smoked sausage, and rice balls sat in the middle of the table, along with a pewter wine pitcher and two goblets.
Pyrust waited for his guest to sit, then joined him. He poured wine, but did not raise a toast. He watched the Naleni closely and found things in the man that he could like. He already knew Vroan was a fierce fighter and shrewd leader. He’d recovered from his surprise quickly, and apparently had assessed the situation to the point where he was beginning to feel comfortable.
“Count Vroan, I will not insult you. I know that your accepting what amounts to an invitation to treason is not easy. You have ever been a champion of Nalenyr, and I assume you act out of that motivation.”
“Thank you, Highness.” Vroan’s green eyes flicked warily toward the kitchen, whence a crashing had come. “I act in the best interests of my nation.”
“Have you entertained the notion that my rule may be best for it?”
The Naleni noble leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That has never been part of my consideration, Highness. I sought to oppose you, and hoped the invitation to negotiate would be one in which we could avoid hostilities. I had hoped you had stopped north of the Helos Mountains, but I can see this is not the case. May I ask how many troops you have with you?”
Pyrust sat back and took his cup in his half hand. He studied its dark depths. “I have six armies with me. Two are crack troops; two are Helosundian, one militia, the other well trained; and two are Desei militia. They are better trained than you would imagine. I have three more armies in Helosunde, again militia, but well trained.”
The numbers staggered Vroan. “And my troops in the mountains?”
“Helosundians have long garrisoned the posts your men were occupying. Because your people did not know I had convinced the Council of Ministers to ally themselves with me, your men were happy to welcome Helosundian warriors who were fleeing my conquest. We outnumbered your men and they were taken with a minimum of deaths. At the successful conclusion of our negotiations, I shall return them to you.”
“And my cooperation will be their ransom?”
Pyrust sipped his wine, then set the cup on the table again. “Though I have no obligation to explain my actions to you, I shall. I believe this will prompt you to understand the position you are in. I should state at the outset, however, that if your sole desire is to become the Naleni Prince, your ambition will be thwarted. While I live, that shall not be possible.”
“I see.” Vroan took up his cup, and only the ripple in the wine betrayed any nervousness.
“Prince Cyron has moved his best Helosundian mercenaries and house troops south toward the Virine border. You’ve been told this is because those units need time to retrain. I doubt you accepted this rationale, but you have done little to learn what his true motivation was.”
The Prince continued, ignoring Vroan’s confirming nod. “Erumvirine is under invasion. I know of this because an agent of Prince Jekusmirwyn brought to Felarati a message, which outlined the peril. I have every reason to believe the eastern half of Erumvirine has fallen, and I fear the capital has been taken as well. I further assume that Prince Cyron got a similar message and this is why he sent troops south.”
The evident shock on Vroan’s face told Pyrust all he needed to know about the man’s knowledge of the situation. And blaming the dissemination of information on the Virines hid just how much information Desei spies were providing the Prince. While Vroan doubtless had informants in his county and in the capital, his intelligence network probably did not extend much further.
“You are a military man, Count Vroan. Unlike Prince Cyron, you understand the importance of engaging an enemy well away from your own territory. I know you love your nation, as I love mine, so you will understand that I choose to fight this invasion in Erumvirine.”
Vroan nodded. “And Prince Cyron refused requests for your troops to transit through Nalenyr to the south.”
“Can you imagine a positive reply to such a request? Your Prince is a proud man, and were he half the warrior his brother was, I would have placed my troops under his command so we could stave off this threat. But since he is not, this is not possible.”
Vroan smiled. “You could place them under my command, Highness.”
“Don’t think that was not considered, my lord.” Pyrust kept his voice cool and sharp. “It was rejected because Cyron would see it as a rebellion, and that would trigger a civil war. You would spend more time fighting him than the invaders, in which case my troops would be wasted and the invasion would push through to Deseirion. This was deemed unacceptable.”
“Yes, of course.” Vroan drank a bit more wine, then brushed a drop from his lower lip with his thumb. “What is it that you expect of me?”
“Do you see the threat to Nalenyr? To all of us?”
“Assuming you’ve told me the truth, of course.”
“And you would agree it must be dealt with?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Pyrust stood and gathered his hands behind his back. “I will require you to swear fealty to me when I topple Cyron. I would have you move your troops south to help attack the invaders. I would further expect you to enlist other Naleni nobles, and even the citizenry, to this cause.”
Vroan sipped more wine, then looked up. “What do I get in return?”
“Did you not listen? The invaders will crush Nalenyr, and your holdings will go right along with everything else.”
“That I understand, Highness. But, as you said at the start, the invitation to treason is not one I accept lightly. Assuming we can stop the invaders if we work together, I should have some reward for my efforts. You might be able to accomplish your ends if I work with you, but your chances shrink if I oppose you.”
Pyrust smiled grudgingly. “You make an excellent point. As I noted before, you will not be Prince of Nalenyr. I can arrange, however, for you to administer Nalenyr and the international trade the nation conducts. If circumstances dictate that border realignment take place, I could carve a province out of the western halves of Nalenyr and Erumvirine that would be yours.”
“But would be part of your Desei Empire?”
“My ambition to be Emperor has been well known, but only necessity has forced me to reach for that prize.” Pyrust leaned forward on the table. “You would be part of my Empire, yes.”
“Then in the spirit of empire, I should ask the Emperor a favor—a favor I shall return. “
“What would that be?”
Vroan smiled. “I have a daughter who was recently widowed. You have but one wife. A Naleni wife would help you in so many ways.”
Pyrust stood and laughed. “Very well played, my lord. I knew you were quick of wit, and this you must have just thought of, for you could not have anticipated this turn of events. Tell me, had you thought of offering her to Cyron?”
Vroan shook his head. “She loathes him for killing her husband.”
“Ah, I see.” Pyrust nodded. “Consider it done, if your favor is of equal value.”
“It is of greater, my lord.” Vroan picked up a small cheese cube. “You won’t have to lay siege to Moriande. By the time you reach the capital, Prince Cyron will be dead.”
“The injuries he already has?”
“Another, more grievous.” Vroan bit the cheese in half. “Fatal.”
Pyrust frowned. “He’s to be assassinated?”
“Yes. Does this not please you?”
The Prince crossed his arms over his chest. “It does simplify things a great deal.”
Vroan set the half-eaten piece of cheese back on the table. “But you are disappointed.”
“I am.” Pyrust smiled slightly. “I had wanted to kill him myself.”
Vroan returned the smile. “I understand the sentiment. I would love to throttle him.”
“No, a thrust to the heart. Simple and quick but slow enough for him to look at the sword, then to look up at me.” Pyrust closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “That is how I saw it in a dream. That one, I see, was not of the future.”
“No, perhaps not.” Vroan drank again. “Nerot Scior has hired the assassin. Blame can be fixed to him, and you arrive to avenge the murder of a brother Prince. I side with you, the dissidents are pacified, and we force the invaders from Erumvirine. Once you take Kelewan, I would imagine the Five Princes will join or fall as you desire.”
“I hope the gods accept and bless your plan.”
“Grija certainly will.”
A thrill ran down Pyrust’s spine. Why did he mention Grija? “I hope so, even though our negotiation here has prevented many from entering his realm.”
The Naleni set his empty cup on the table and stood. “Delayed, my lord, not prevented. We all enter his realm eventually.”
“A point well taken.” Pyrust narrowed his eyes. “It would have been interesting to fight you. I would have met you at Tsaxun with twelve thousand.”
“And I would have defended with five. You might have prevailed, but there would have been no one left to bury the dead.” Vroan bowed deeply and held it, then came up slowly. “It is better to fight at your side.”
Pyrust bowed low, matching the depth, but cheating a bit on the duration. “You are quite right, my lord. This choice is an ill omen for the invaders. Please give my best wishes to your daughter.”
“I will. Would you have me meet you in Moriande with my house troops?”
“A regiment would be appropriate.”
“And if Scior comes to me for sanctuary?”
“Treason is punishable by death.” Pyrust nodded. “I’ll want his head to display from the gate of Wentokikun.”
“As you desire. Moriande, within the week.”
The Naleni noble withdrew and Pyrust refilled his own wine goblet. He glanced at the empty kitchen doorway, then drank. When he lowered his cup again, the Mother of Shadows filled the doorway.
She glanced at the Inn’s door. “For one come so reluctantly to treason, he seems very comfortable with it.”
“You didn’t know they were going to assassinate Prince Cyron?”
She shrugged. “There has never been a time when someone or other was not going to kill him. We do not know if they will be effective this time or not. His cabal has failed once already.”
“I recall.” Pyrust frowned. “He can’t be trusted, clearly. If he would plot to kill Cyron, he would certainly do the same to me. Still, he’ll be valuable in the field against the invaders. We’ll wait to see how successful he is. I want someone in position to kill him in the wake of his greatest glory.”
“You could let him liberate Kelewan.”
“His glory should not be that great. He has committed treason. He’ll win a battle, then die.”
“Yes, my lord.” She bowed her head solemnly, then looked up. “Something else troubles you.”
“Yes, the party we have not heard from. Twice the westrons will have hired assassins to kill Cyron. They cannot do that without compliance by a minister.”
“The ministers are ever operating against their Princes.”
“True, but we need them in the coming war.” Pyrust drained his cup. “If they are not with us, the effort will founder and we all shall die. And the difficulty with the ministers is that they won’t mind, just as long as it is all done in an orderly manner.”
Chapter Fifty-one
2nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Nemehyan, Caxyan
Though the Witch-King’s continued absence worried Jorim a little, he really didn’t mind the solitude. His ordeal had exhausted him to the point where something as simple as wandering into the rain forest to harvest fruit left him staggering back to the chambers. For every two hours awake and active, he required six hours of sleep, and that sleep was far from restful.
Accepting the fact that he was a god took a lot of adjustment—even though Nauana’s unwavering conviction had certainly pointed him in the right direction. It struck Jorim as rather ironic that he’d not been at all devout earlier in life. While he had worshipped Wentiko, it was more because the Dragon was the state deity of Nalenyr than due to any true belief.
In fact, his grandfather had been part of the movement away from religion. Qiro had stressed veneration of ancestors—clearly because he wanted that tradition continued after he passed away. Actually, he saw himself as a god, so none of us had to leave our home to worship. Perhaps that had been the root of his problem with Qiro: here he was a god incarnate, dealing with a human who believed himself a god.
But, as fascinating an idea as that was, Jorim knew that wasn’t the whole of the truth. Qiro brooked no insubordination because he had a need to be dominant. Jorim had no idea what he might have been afraid of, but that need to make all acknowledge him as supreme was one of the consistent notes in the man’s life. When his son and grandsons rebelled, he sent them all off on expeditions meant to kill them.
But Keles is not dead. Jorim concentrated and tried to reach his brother. He would have known if Keles had died, and he did get a dim sense of him, but there was no contact. Keles was concentrating on something else, and all Jorim got were fleeting glimpses of nightmare images. He tried to send a calming message to his brother, but had no idea if it got through before the contact faded.
Dreams interrupted Jorim’s sleep, and he awoke multiple times, his head bursting with images. Some of them seemed hauntingly familiar, and others had obviously been drawn from stories he’d heard about the Heavens and Hells. He recognized gods and goddesses, but they would shift in his vision. Sisvoc, the beautiful goddess of love, would flow from being a woman wearing a robe with eagle embroidery to an Amentzutl woman in a loincloth and gold pectoral, each of them worked with eagle symbology. And then she would change again and again into other shapes he barely recognized, but could guess at belonging to the Viruk, Ansatl, and Soth.
Most disturbing of all were dreams that paralleled stories about the gods. He’d always listened to them as mythology, but now he was living them, remembering them. He would live through bits and pieces of stories that had been lost or—more likely—edited out to tailor the story to whatever moral the teacher wished to emphasize.
In some cases, the omissions reversed the lessons that might have been learned. The omissions also limited the gods, because the gods drew life from the nature of their people’s beliefs. If the gods were reduced to one aspect and revered for that aspect only, they would slowly grow into that shape. Tetcomchoa and Wentiko, because they had worshippers from two cultures that revered them for a multitude of aspects and virtues, became more than simple abstracts.
And what must it be like to be Grija, worshipped and hated because he would sort good from bad, consigning the evil to his Hells and sending the good on to the Heavens? Jorim shivered. The gods may well have created the mortal races, but they found themselves in the same trap as parents who produce children, then become dependent upon those children for sustenance in their later years. They become powerless to govern their own beings, and are at the mercy of whatever charity their children give them. If a family were to tell its patriarch that he would only be fed if he wore a mask and sang songs before supper, the old man would become a masked singer.
Are the gods in their dotage?
That idea scared him. It seemed unfair that here he had discovered he was a god, then had to contend with the fact that he was already failing. Moreover, he had the inherent sense to know that his mortal body limited his ability to wield divine powers. While he might well have been able to destroy the Mozoyan force, his body had paid a price. He could die using the powers that were his, and Jorim had neither the knowledge to be able to catalogue those powers, nor the experience to figure out how much he could use them without perishing.
Jorim spent the next couple of days recovering his strength and enduring the dreams. He gradually grew stronger, and decided that waiting for the Witch-King to come back was an exercise in futility. He decided to return to Nemehyan to complete any training he still needed to do, then head back to Nalenyr to help oppose the rising of the tenth god.
Jorim packed up what little gear he’d brought with him, wrapped some fruit in leaves, and filled a waterskin. At the entrance to Maicana-netlyan he shifted the balance of rock from solid to fluid and let it seal the entrance. He had no doubt the Witch-King would be able to reverse the magic to get back in, and secretly suspected the man had more than one way into his sanctuary anyway.
He set out for the camp where he’d left his maicana guides. He reached it without incident but found it deserted. There were ample signs that the men had been there, but the fire’s ashes were cold and had been flattened by rain. The rain also erased any footprints that might have given him clues as to what had happened there. It could have been nothing but . . .
He reached inside and viewed the site through the mai. The rain and time had almost restored the balance, and had he been six hours later, he never could have detected anything wrong. As it was he just got the barest ripple of trouble—Zoloa, the destructive aspect of the Jaguar god, was slipping away quietly.
There was a fight here. The Mozoyan must have . . .
Before he could complete that thought, something heavy and hard slammed against the back of his skull. Jorim pitched face-first into ashes. His mouth filled with them and his world collapsed to black.
As consciousness returned, pain wracked Jorim, ankles, shoulders, wrists, and head. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but his mouth and throat tasted of the bitter narcotic draft he’d been forced to drink. Fingers slid along his temple ripping away his blindfold, and a wave of nausea hit him as he opened his eyes.
Above him a cloud of skulls reached to the heavens, and the sky had taken on a burned brown color that he’d never seen before. His hands reached to the heavens, but he couldn’t move his arms, and his fingers felt bloated and stiff.
Then, from the right, a Mozoyan smacked him across the stomach with a stick. Jorim jerked and began to sway. The Mozoyan warrior somehow defied gravity because he stood with his feet on the skull cloud. Nothing made sense.
An angry cry from the distance focused his attention. He looked in that direction and saw crowds of people holding a mountain up with their feet. And then, out in the bay, the Stormwolf and other ships lay with their hulls in a sea-green slice of sky.
Reality slammed into Jorim more heavily than the stick. The Mozoyan caught me, brought me back to Nemehyan, and are attacking the city.
The cloud of skulls didn’t exist. After the last Mozoyan assault on the Amentzutl capital, the people had severed the heads of all the dead Mozoyan. They piled them into a tall pyramid. Jorim hung from a gibbet planted at its apex. His ankles had been bound together and to the crosstree. A sapling eight feet long had been bound to his wrists and he hung there upside down, slowly swaying with the breeze and beatings.
Around him, on the plains before the city, the Mozoyan horde surged forward. In the previous battle, the Mozoyan had been primitive creatures incapable of much thought or planning. This time they had arrayed themselves in formations and marched forward in good order. They maintained discipline until they reached the Amentzutl lines, then concentrated their attacks at one particular point.
The Mozoyan attacked with the same ferocity as their predecessors, but being heavier and stronger, they couldn’t be fended off easily with the thrust of a spear. While arrows and spears had killed many before, he now watched Mozoyan bristling with arrows leap across the defensive trench at the mountain’s base. Those who fell short impaled themselves on stakes, but more than one wrenched the stakes loose and clawed his way up the breastwork.
The Amentzutl and Naleni troops responded. Flags waved, trumpets blared, and troops shifted from one point to another. Black clouds of Naleni arrows rained down, momentarily breaking a Mozoyan charge. Brave archers mounted the breastwork, picking specific targets, and drove arrows through shallow Mozoyan skulls. Amentzutl warriors wielded their obsidian-edged war clubs in vast arcs, lopping off limbs and flaying the Mozoyan. The dead reeled back, drawn away by their comrades, and more surged forward.
And then, when the battle was fully engaged at one point in the line, Mozoyan formations would split and drive at another point. More flags would wave, calling reserves forward. The Amentzutl opposed the crush of Mozoyan, but quickly enough the last of the reserves had been called up.
And the edge of the Mozoyan formation has not been dulled.
High atop a pyramid, two Naleni trumpeters blew a retreat. Warriors began to pull back, starting with the edges of their semicircular formation. The warriors in the middle then withdrew through them and the first Mozoyan caught volley after volley of arrows. Yet still they pressed on, and the archers pulled back to the causeway that snaked up the mountain’s face to Nemehyan.
The causeway would have been the perfect place to defend against Mozoyan, but their ability to leap forced the Amentzutl and Naleni to pull back. The Mozoyan surged up the causeway, but the warriors stopped them, and only, very slowly, gave up more ground.
Then, from the city itself, a volley of fire arrows rained down. Some struck Mozoyan, but more hit their intended target. They struck the trench the Mozoyan had breached and ignited whatever fluid had been poured into it. The flames licked up, consuming Mozoyan. The rear ranks halted, though those closest were pushed in by their fellows. Those on the other side still thrust forward toward the causeway, but without the crush of numbers, the causeway assault slowed.
Then a drumming began at the skull pyramid’s base. A slender Mozoyan, closer to a man than anything he’d seen so far, with grey-scaled skin that flashed with rainbow hues as the sun caught it, appeared at his left side. He held out his right hand, then hooked his fingers, letting Jorim see his talons. He slapped his hand down over Jorim’s stomach, right below his navel, then dragged his claws down to Jorim’s breastbone. The quartet of furrows bled freely and little rivulets of blood flowed down to drip onto the skulls.
The cuts burned, but Jorim ignored the pain. The bloody-handed Mozoyan priest—Jorim sensed the creature could be nothing else—reached down and grabbed a skull onto which his blood had dripped. Obscene and blasphemous-sounding words slithered from his mouth and the skull began to glow. The priest tossed it down to a waiting warrior at the pyramid’s base, then that Mozoyan leaped with all speed through formations to the front lines.
Fear pulsed through Jorim because, as weak as he was, he sensed the play of the mai in what the priest was doing. It wasn’t magic the way he’d learned it. There was no gentle balancing of elements. This magic twisted things, and that should have required far more power than the priest could muster.
But he is drawing the power from my blood, a god’s blood.
Jorim shifted his senses to the realm of the mai and almost vomited. Each of the skulls—for a dozen had already headed toward the lines—burned with destruction. Zoloa stalked the battlefield and raked his claws through the Amentzutl ranks.
The first skull made it to the causeway. A Mozoyan clutched it tightly to his chest, then leaped forward. He soared over the front lines. Arrows flew, piercing him again and again, splashing more blood over the skull. The dark power it contained flared. And when the Mozoyan corpse landed, the skull exploded.
Amentzutl warriors pitched off the causeway and fell into the writhing grey mass that was the Mozoyan army. The lucky had been slain by the blast. The others were rent to pieces by claws and teeth. A defiant roar from the Mozoyan troops muffled any screams and Jorim chose to believe the men went bravely and silently to their deaths.
Destruction gained momentum. More skulls arced upward, some just thrown, others held tightly by suicidal Mozoyan warriors. As each of them exploded, bodies flew and blood splashed. Men retreated quickly. One Mozoyan leaped for the causeway, but an Amentzutl tackled him in midair. Together they fell into the Mozoyan army and the explosion opened a hole in their ranks.
But it quickly closed, and the Mozoyan surge pushed farther up the causeway.
People at the top began to throw stones and burning pots of oil. The projectiles flew into the Mozoyan ranks, but for every warrior killed, nine more took his place. The Amentzutl warriors retreated more quickly, but as they reached the causeway’s first switchback, they faced being flanked again. Skulls arced and burst, men screamed and fell, and the retreat quickened.
Jorim’s blood flowed and skulls enriched with it streamed away from the pyramid. He hoped that the whole pyramid might collapse, but it wouldn’t make any difference. The Mozoyan had momentum. Destruction had momentum. Nothing could stop them.
But perhaps the key is not to stop them.
Gritting his teeth, Jorim tried to pull his head up. He tensed his stomach muscles and blood flowed anew. The Mozoyan soldier slapped his stomach again with the stick and the priest raked his talons over Jorim’s chest. Fire blossomed anew in his body, his shoulders ached as the sapling dragged at his arms.
Jorim reached inside and touched the destruction within him. The Mozoyan intended that he die and they were using his death to hasten the deaths of all those who believed in him. Jorim had unconsciously been opposing them, but now he stopped. He touched the mai and tipped the balance in favor of the twist. More magic poured into the destruction, entering the world through his blood.
He pushed the mai out, feeding it into Zoloa’s aspect. The shadowy Jaguar god became more voracious. Its snarls encouraged the Mozoyan who had their spirit steeled by the other god’s silent calls. Jorim watched the shadow cat’s muscles bulge and its fangs grow longer.
Not enough.
He pushed harder, drawing all the mai he could into himself, and pulsed it out faster. Zoloa gorged on it and swelled. Swelled like a leech tapping an artery.
Zoloa tried to pull away, but Jorim clamped a hand—a dragon’s taloned claw—over the god’s muzzle. He made it drink, pumping more power into it, taking his own life, twisting and rebalancing it, forcing the Jaguar god to accept it.
Does a god have a limit as to how much magic it can control?
Its brave snarl having been reduced to a puling mew, the obese god of destruction burst. Havoc flooded out in a black cloud of mai that washed over the battlefield. Its power gouged the ground, then crested in a dark wave that lifted successive Mozoyan ranks. They curved up the inside of the wave, then dissolved in the foam that curled downward. Where it touched a skull, where it merged with his blood, the skull exploded, vaporizing Mozoyan.
The Mozoyan priest either sensed the magic or knew Jorim had something to do with his army’s destruction. He slashed down with his claws, opening Jorim’s throat. Blood gushed, splashing over the priest’s hand and leg. The blood burned and in a heartbeat turned the priest into a torch.
And then the wave hit the pyramid of skulls.
It snuffed out the priest.
It carried past and spread, killing everything in its wake from the plains below Nemehyan, outward for the next fifty miles. It spread in a cone leaving nothing alive, not an insect or plant, bird or fish, animal, Mozoyan, or man.
It did not even spare a god.