Chapter Forty
1st day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Uronek Hills, County of Faeut
Erumvirine
There are generals who look at war as a game. They study maps, not battlefields, and think of their warriors as toy soldiers. They think of casualties in terms of “acceptable losses” or “inevitable costs.” While they may be wise, they have their troops fight to shift colors on a map and, in their minds, all is reduced to dipping a brush in ink and painting.
I would give my opponent the grace of judging me and my troops based on the Virine troops he’d faced during the invasion. Doing that, however, would inevitably lead to the conclusion that he was stupid, precisely because he assumed I was stupid and that my men were incapable of fighting. He chose to underestimate us, which is as sure a sign of intellectual weakness as a military leader can display.
The first axiom in war is to assume the enemy is as clever as you are, if not more so. This forces you to look at all his actions and to ask yourself why you would be doing the same thing. If you can find no advantage to his action, then you may have discovered a mistake. If you can see a gain to exploiting that mistake, then you exploit it.
My difficulty lay in choosing which of his mistakes I would exploit.
Our withdrawal from Kelewan resulted in no serious pursuit. Once we had eluded the battalion he’d sent after us, we moved northwest through the central Virine plains toward the County of Faeut. We followed the Imperial Road, but I did send riders out to villages and towns advising them to evacuate north. My people found many of the villages already deserted, and these we put to the torch after hauling off anything of use.
We did leave one village intact, after a fashion. We put livestock into pens, then arranged every manner of trap we could think of in the houses. We poisoned the wells and prepared everything to burn. I left a squad there to observe what happened when the enemy reached it.
The refugees who preceded us raised the alarm, so local nobles met us on the road with whatever household warriors they could muster. They thought initially to oppose us, but when Captain Lumel introduced them to Prince Iekariwynal, they decided to join us. This swelled our number to over seven hundred, which was a decidedly useful force in the rugged hill country of County Faeut. Moreover it gave us guides and scouts who had an intimate knowledge of the battlefields we might use to engage the enemy.
Here was another mistake my enemy made. Because his army lived off the land, including the people, he had no locals to advise him. While the invaders advanced in good order, even the best maps could not account for places where spring runoff had collapsed part of the road, or where seasonal flooding turned a plain into an impassable marsh. The terrain forced his troops to stop where they needed to keep moving, and to take paths they knew nothing about.
Our campaign was not without surprises either, and the Prince turned out to be one of the pleasant variety. Though quite young, he did not lack for intelligence. He trusted Captain Lumel and struck up a friendship with Dunos. Dunos’ unwavering confidence in me became transferred to the Prince, and among our company, my word became law.
I divided my force into three battalions. Captain Lumel had his Jade Bears and had we ever arrayed ourselves for open battle, they would have held our center. Deshiel commanded the Steel Bear archers and two companies of local troops. Ranai commanded our heroes and whatever other locals came to fight.
Not all of my heroes led companies or even squads, for heroes do not always make good leaders. If they expect of others what they can do because of years of training, they willingly thrust their troops into situations where survival is impossible. I made it clear to all of my officers that our intent was to hurt the enemy as much as we could, and to allow them to do as little as possible in return. We would not duel with them, we would not engage them in any honorable pursuit. We would strike when they thought we could not, we would escape when they thought they had us trapped, and when they attacked from their right, we would strike from their left.
Urardsa attended all the briefings and watched the proceedings carefully. Many of the fighters found having a Gloon among them rather unnerving, but the fact that he never predicted doom was heartening. Even without suggestion, he would spend time peering off south toward the enemy host, then shake his head and turn away. My warriors’ confidence that he had seen doom for the enemy was worth ten warriors for every one I already had.
One night, when I woke in my tent, deep in a forest, I found him crouched in a corner, a ghostly presence that sent a chill through me. “What is it, Urardsa?”
The quartet of small eyes closed. “Your life is a tangled skein. I cannot find a clean line.”
“Should I be disturbed by this, or is it enough that you are?”
The Gloon smiled, then crawled closer. “Strands tangle, but yours are merging. Your future mirrors your past.”
“Those who forget their journeys are forever doomed to tread the same path.” I threw my blanket off and came up into a sitting position. “I know I have fought battles like this before. Perhaps even here, in Faeut.”
“You have been here before, many times.”
“Not just as Moraven Tolo. I have his memories, and they have been useful.” I wiped sleep sand from my eyes. “I am tempted to ask you if what you see is strong.”
The Gloon shook his head. “You will not ask. I will not tell.”
I smiled. “Battle is a place where possibilities shift too quickly for me to believe your predictions regardless.”
The Gloon laughed, not an altogether happy sound. “But you have told your people that a battle is won before the first arrow flies.”
“And it is. So it shall be tomorrow.”
What I had learned from the village helped greatly in planning the first significant fight. The vhangxi had been under slightly better control than at the graveyard, and the kwajiin made up more of the force pursuing us. Even so, the vhangxi tore the village apart. Many fell prey to our traps, and the kwajiin dispatched the most seriously wounded. The blue-skins did get ill from the water, though not as grievously as a man would have. Even when the village began to burn, they were not prone to panic and withdrew in good order.
In the troops themselves, we only noticed one flaw. The units seemed made up of clan groups, which did not mix and even seemed hostile to each other. The commander of the troops coming after us fought under a banner of a bloody skull, and all other troops chafed under being subordinate to his kinsmen.
We set our trap carefully to utilize all we had learned. We picked a point where a wooden bridge on the Imperial Road had been washed away and, in two days, cleared enough trees from a hillside track to make it appear as if woodsmen had created a road paralleling the gorge. It went east up and over two small hills, then through a ravine that angled back to the southeast. At the far end, the land dropped away into a deep cut that led down into the gorge roughly a thousand yards east of where the bridge had stood.
The thick forest, save where some discreet clearing had been done, allowed for a hundred feet of visibility. A sodden carpet of leaves and needles hid the ground, and the troops entering that southeast ravine might as well have been boxed up in a large coffin.
The kwajiin vanguard advanced under the bloody skull banner, and when they reached the gap in the road, they had no problem in deciding to head up the hill onto our track. They had already outstripped the rest of their force and posted two men on the road to inform the others. Ten minutes separated the vanguard from its main body—though when they twisted back into that ravine, the only thing that separated them from the bulk of their force was a steep wooded ridgeline paralleling the gorge.
The sun had reached its zenith by the time the vanguard started off on the detour. Once the last of them passed over the first hill, two archers killed the men they’d left behind, then we dragged the bodies into the gorge and let them float down among bridge debris. When the main body reached the bridge, the direction the vanguard had taken seemed obvious and, after some deliberation, they set off in pursuit.
The head of the vanguard stopped when the trail ended, and four blue-skins headed down into the ravine. Halfway down they fell into tiger traps, impaling themselves on sharpened sticks in six-foot-deep holes. To their credit they did not scream in pain, but they did implore others to help them. Those who did advance found themselves under attack by a handful of archers.
Then, from atop the ridgeline behind them, a full volley of arrows struck the vanguard. The kwajiin bolted up the sides of the ravine and a number of them encountered staked pits. Most of these were simply post holes with a single stake in the bottom and several pointing downward. The single stake punched through even the thickest boot, and the others prevented the warrior from pulling his foot free.
Kwajiin archers shot back in both directions, but had no real targets. They advanced as best they could, squeezing through on a serpentine path that took them up the ridge. They crested it and started down the other side. Suddenly arrows shot up at them from below. They shot back and charged downhill.
Their own rear guard, who had likewise been shot at by Deshiel’s men on the ridge, fought fiercely. The kwajiin archers shot at each other and while they did not kill many of their own, the fight left the vanguard among their own rear guard, exhausted and without an enemy in sight.
And by that time Deshiel’s men had withdrawn further southeast, then north, crossing the gorge over a narrow, makeshift bridge created by two felled trees.
The hardest work we had done in preparing lay not in creating the road but in creating the surprises along it. The kwajiin walked four abreast, and on my signal, ropes were pulled that released stake-studded logs. They swung down out of the trees and swept the road at waist height. The luckiest men were knocked from the road to tumble down into the gorge. Others were impaled, while the least lucky got stuck on the log and pulped against trees.
The wounded did scream now, and the blue-skins’ composure broke. Two of my best archers—one who might one day become a Mystic—shot the kwajiin leader. Their arrows might have killed him, save he moved so swiftly—preternaturally so—that he took them in his right arm and flank instead of breastbone and stomach. His wounding made the others cautious, and the only people we shot after that were those seeking to help wounded comrades.
Well before darkness fell, my entire force had melted away and was miles ahead of the kwajiin.
That evening I assembled my leaders, this time including the Virine nobles who had brought troops but who I had not allowed to lead them. I praised the leaders for their troops’ performance—citing cases of bravery which had been communicated to me. I singled Deshiel out for special praise, since he had deployed his people between two enemy forces and had withdrawn them with no more harm than a sprained ankle.
Lord Pathan Golti—a small, sallow man who, though a good archer, hadn’t the temperament needed to be in Deshiel’s force—stood up to protest what had happened. “You have let them get away. We could have feathered the lot and avenged Kelewan.”
I watched him for a moment, and I’m certain many thought my hand would stray to one of my swords. “Would that have gotten Kelewan back? Would that raise your Prince or your nation again? Would that raise all the dead?”
“Of course not, but it is a matter of national pride.”
I spat at his feet. “National pride is the province of those who have a nation, my lord. You do not.”
The man looked stricken. “You have no right to speak to me thus.”
“If you wish to resolve this as a matter of honor, Lord Golti, draw a circle.” I pointed outside the circle of firelight and back in the direction of the battle. “The troops we faced today are but a fraction of those the kwajiin have in Erumvirine. For all we know, they’ve likewise invaded Nalenyr and the Five Princes. We do not fight for what is lost because we are not strong enough to regain it. We fight to prevent more from being lost—and this we might well be able to do.”
I stared at him hard enough that he took a step back. “Every time one of them thinks of leaving the road, he will remember the screams of the men who had their legs trapped. He will remember their flesh rent and bloody, and he will hesitate. Every time one of them sees the stump of a fresh-felled tree, or wood chips or leaves which are wet where others are dry, they will imagine a trap. If we knock down another bridge, they will fear another slaughter.”
Golti met my stare. “But they will not be dead.”
“We don’t have to kill them; we just have to guarantee they will not fight. Every day they must eat and sleep and drink, but if they have no food, no water, and no rest, they cannot fight. And all that they seek to threaten will be free. And we shall be alive to enjoy it.”
I gave him a cold smile. “But rest assured, Lord Golti, there will come a day when we will meet them in combat. If that is the day you desire, I will keep you alive until then, and place you in the front line so you can kill to your heart’s content.”
The man stood straighter. “I won’t shrink from that assignment. I am not a coward.”
“None of you are. Nor are any of them.” I folded my arms over my chest. “But by the time we face them in open combat, they will know hunger, thirst, fatigue, and fear. They will come to the battle knowing they will lose. That will be our victory.”
Chapter Forty-one
3rd day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Tolwreen, Ixyll
Ciras Dejote had to keep reminding himself that the vanyesh were evil, because once they had honored him in the Prince’s Hall, they all turned out to be terribly nice. Intellectually he knew they were malignant creatures who had clung to life awaiting the return of Prince Nelesquin. Nelesquin would again raise them to glory, restoring them bodily, and would lead them back to Erumvirine, where they would remake the Empire and rule over a jaedunki.
Besides, they made a very good case for the need for an empire run by sorcerers. They traced their history back to Taichun and said he’d intended the mages to rule over the Empire. Not only was it in keeping with the social system of the Viruk, but it made sense. Since mages could work miracles, they needed to be supported by the people and feel an obligation to them. Taichun had created the bureaucracy to administer things so mages would not be bothered by the trivial. They could spend their time refining their art so they would be ready when they were to be called upon to act.
Pravak took great pains to explain this history when he invited Ciras to visit him. The vanyesh’s chambers were, as to be expected, oversized and generously appointed. Though Pravak was nothing more than a gilded skeleton, he had thick carpets in his rooms, plush and heavily upholstered furniture and tapestries that, while having no images Ciras could discern, displayed an interesting weave of colors.
The giant wore thick leather bracers to protect his furnishing from the edges of his forearms. Lounging back on a daybed, he held his right hand up and watched, bemused, as the tiny gyanrigot Borosan had fashioned for him as a gift leaped from finger to finger and back again.
“It is rather like a kitten, despite looking very much like a spider.” Pravak’s metal mask twisted into a smile. “I had forgotten the simple pleasure of watching such creatures cavort. We brought no cats with us on the campaign, and those that somehow made it into the city ended up in some wildman’s belly.”
Ciras sat in a large chair, feeling as if he were five years old and listening to his mother’s brother explain about trade with the mainland. “Here you’ve fed us both mutton and beef, yet I see no creatures ranging about.”
Pravak lifted a finger to point up at the mountain, and the little mouser promptly pounced on the tip. “There are mountain meadows. We have your horses there as well. Some of us are good at bhotri, so keeping the grasses growing year-round is not difficult. The sheep produce a lot of wool—again a by-product of magic—and the wildmen have become adept at spinning and weaving. They are not much for pictures, but they love color.”
“So Tolwreen is self-sufficient.”
“Largely. We do get some things in trade, but for a long time we were isolated.” The vanyesh let the mouser climb up along his arm and begin to play with his knotted-filament hair. “Likely about the time your father was born we had a visit from the east and were finally able to put into place the beginnings of our master’s plan. A Naleni explorer became our agent. Kero Anturasi, I believe.”
“Qiro?”
“That was it. Do you know him?”
Ciras heard no guile in the question, so smiled. “Just of him. He is famous the world over for exploring. I have heard no mention of Tolwreen, however.”
“Our master would not have permitted it. Knowing the correct order of the universe, our master has been very careful in his plans. You may not realize it, but you are a part of things. We expect more like you to come to Tolwreen in the next months or years. Many will be trained, as will you, and when all is ready, we will be summoned.”
“But I have been trained.”
“Indeed, you have, but you need more.” Pravak’s hands came together with the muffled clash of cymbals. “People come to the vanyesh in two ways. You and I were warriors first, who have touched jaedun. Others have recognized our value. They will show you what Emperor Taichun taught his most trusted companions: how to wield magic. Jaedun of the sword is a portal to working jaedun in life.”
Ciras managed to suppress a shiver. “And the others?”
“Oh, they were apprenticed to masters of magic and have learned to manipulate jaedun directly. We try to train them in more practical ways, like jaedunserr, but they resist it. Their magics can be powerful, and will help us once we take control again, but it will be warrior-sorcerers such as you and me that will make our Master’s dream possible. He needs heroes, and we are they.”
Ciras smiled, masking his true thoughts. The vanyesh seemed to define heroes as those who used magic in service to Nelesquin. Ciras saw heroes as those who served the common good, shielding the unfortunate from evil and ambition, not keeping them down so the ambitious might soar. They make heroes a part of their evil.
Ciras let his expression become wistful. “I wonder if I will be worthy to return to Tirat as its lord.”
The vanyesh giant laughed. “If that is all your ambition wishes, I can guarantee it. You, my friend, are capable of so much, I should think that anything you desire will be yours.”
“You are too kind.”
“No, just aware of how generous our master is.” Pravak nodded solemnly. “And soon you shall see that for yourself.”
From the moment they had been told that the vanyesh still considered Nelesquin their master, both Ciras and Borosan knew they had to escape. Their mission had been to find the Empress Cyrsa and awaken her to conditions in the Empire. That her enemy still lived and was plotting to destroy what she had left behind made their mission all the more urgent. Moreover, the vanyesh and their mastery of magic would be something the Nine would be hard-pressed to defeat.
So, they set about gathering food and water against any opportunity to escape. Ciras learned which tunnels led up to the meadows, and while he hated being predictable, he knew they would need their horses. Ciras even located and set about repairing their tack, noting to any of the vanyesh who asked, that to neglect even the most simple thing was to abandon the discipline that made him worthy of the honor they had bestowed upon him.
The most difficult part of escaping had been finding an opportunity. When they explored, either together or singly, wildmen watched them constantly. They didn’t think the wildmen were spying on them, but just found them a curiosity. And when wildmen were not dogging their footsteps, one of the vanyesh would find them and offer his hospitality. Some still took food and drink, though none seemed to enjoy it, and the two of them were offered enough food that they concluded the vanyesh were living vicariously through them.
Finally, as planting season began, they received a visit from one of the vanyesh who told them that they must remain in their chambers until summoned forth again. While there was no punishment noted or even implied, their acquiescence seemed assumed. Their visitor did assure them that all would be explained shortly, but that for the moment they needed to remain hidden.
As the vanyesh departed, having taken with him the gift of a tiny mouser, Borosan swept spare parts into a leather satchel with his arm. “I think we go now.”
Ciras nodded. As much as he wanted to know why they were being restricted, he figured there would be no better chance to get away. “If we are caught, we say we decided the best way to be unseen was to go outside the city and tend our horses.”
Borosan looped the satchel over his shoulder, then pulled another device from a similar leather bag. A foot long, not quite so wide, and edged with wood, the flat tablet had a surface made of the silver-white metal. Odd characters etched themselves into the surface, then the inventor nodded.
“I’ve given out a dozen of the mousers. A number of them are converging in a subterranean room. The Prince’s Hall, I would bet.”
“Welcoming another of the vanyesh?”
“Better than Nelesquin.”
Ciras gathered up his swords and two satchels laden with dried meat and waterskins. He followed Borosan and his large thanaton into the silver ball. His companion selected a blank key and used a thaumston stylus to etch a word on it. He slid it into the slot as the door closed and then the door opened again. They emerged in the northwestern quadrant, near the tunnel leading up to the horse meadow.
Ciras looked around. “No wildmen.”
“Fewer chances of our passing being revealed.” Borosan settled the satchels over the large thanaton’s broad back, then took Ciras’ burdens from him. “Just in case you need to deal with something.”
The swordsman nodded and led the way. He moved quietly and soon got used to the ticking of the thanaton’s metal feet on the stone. The tunnel meandered somewhat, but had been carved wide and tall enough that, had they wanted to, they could have easily ridden their horses two abreast through it. Though quite steep, it leveled out as it reached the meadow.
Ciras held a hand up and Borosan sank back into the shadows of the chamber that served as a tack room. Two silhouettes lounged in the shade near the tunnel’s mouth. Men, obviously, and they both wore swords. Even though they were in silhouette, Ciras could see enough of their clothing to know they weren’t from the Nine.
They’re Turasynd.
The idea that the vanyesh were talking with the Turasynd reminded him of a tale Borosan said the Gloon had related. Prince Nelesquin had betrayed Empress Cyrsa by entering into negotiations with a Turasynd god-priest. Fury pulsed through him as he realized the vanyesh were compounding their earlier treason.
“What are we going to do, Ciras?”
The swordsman slipped into the tack room. “Gather two saddles, six bridles, and be ready to move. I’m going to deal with these two. Quickly. If we’re discovered, we will be pursued.”
Ciras moved back into the tunnel, stepping to the center. He kept his gait easy—eager yet casual. He let his hands dangle open at his sides.
He was a dozen steps away from them before they noticed him. They came instantly alert, and his stomach tightened. Their hands went to the hilts of their swords, then they relaxed. They exchanged glances and laughed. He forced himself to laugh, too, then reached inside and, for the first time, invoked jaedun.
His vision changed. Though he saw no more color or less, he somehow saw more clearly. Each man seemed to glow—and the one on the right more so than his companion. He is more dangerous. As Ciras closed, he raised his left hand in greeting, broadening his smile, and they aped his expression.
His right foot touched down and he began to pivot toward the dangerous man. Ciras drew the vanyesh blade in a smooth motion. Even before his foe’s right hand had touched the hilt of his own sword, the draw-cut opened his throat to the spine. Blood gushed and the man gurgled as he fell back.
Ciras continued his spin and brought his blade down and around in a parry. He batted the other Turasynd’s lunge wide, then snapped his sword up high. It fell in a slash that clove the Turasynd from crown to jaw, and dropped him like a bag of rocks.
Ciras completed his turn as the second swordsman’s blade clattered to the ground. He crouched and waited, listening for anything in the echo of the sword’s fall. He heard nothing. Finally, without sheathing his sword, he made his way to the second man’s side and yanked open his leather jerkin.
Black feathers covered the man’s chest. Taken from black eagles, they’d been inserted into the man’s skin, and then he’d willfully entered a place of wild magic. There he’d undergone rituals that Ciras could only imagine, which fused the feathers to his flesh and completed his initiation into the Black Eagle Society.
He quickly checked the other man and found he’d been similarly fletched. This was not the first time he’d seen a Black Eagle. His master had dueled one to entertain Prince Cyron during the last Harvest Festival in Moriande. The Turasynd had been good, and had borne a blade of similar antiquity to the vanyesh blade.
Ciras thought for a moment. He could not directly connect these two with the man in Moriande, but their presence certainly indicated the Black Eagle Society was flourishing. He couldn’t recall if the Turasynd god-priest had been a Black Eagle or not, but it really didn’t matter. He didn’t even know if the Turasynd had another god-priest to lead them, but that didn’t matter either.
I have to assume there is a new one and he is a Black Eagle or allied with them. He sighed. And he or his envoys are in the Prince’s Hall, negotiating an alliance with the vanyesh.
Borosan came up with the thanaton laden with tack. “That was quick work.”
“It had to be. The same must be true of our escape.” Ciras grabbed a bridle and headed out toward the horses. “Ancient enemies are renewing alliances. It won’t be good for us, or the Nine. Let’s hope, my friend, that the Sleeping Empress has spent her time dreaming up a way to deal with them.”
Chapter Forty-two
5th day, Planting Season, 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
Keles knew he was dreaming. He looked from the window of his room and down toward the Black River. There, slowly drifting up the river in the darkness, a fleet of small ships grew to enormous proportions. They began to disgorge warriors and other creatures that slipped into the shadowed city.
Fires and screams followed in their wake.
More important than the havoc was the image on the largest ship’s mainsail. It bore his grandfather’s face. As he watched, his eyes came alive and turned to look at him. His mouth moved and in his voice the words “I’m coming for you, Keles” echoed in his head.
“Grandfather, how can you be here? It’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible for me, Keles. You must know that by now.” A look of anger passed over his face, then the sail fell as if torn loose in a gale. It hit the deck and burst into flames.
Keles sat bolt-upright in bed, bathed in sweat. He tossed back the blanket, pulled on trousers, and stepped into his boots. He reached for a robe and slipped it on, fastening the sash as he opened the door to his chambers. He ran to the library where he worked, and shivered when he found that the warriors who had stood guard throughout the palace—grizzled veterans as long on scars as they were short on hair—had all abandoned their posts.
He bolted inside and crossed to the balcony. Throwing open the doors, he stepped out and looked south toward the river. There, lit by fires rising in factories and the dwellings on the river’s north bank, lurked a fleet of black ships. The flagship appeared as it did in his dream, save that the mainsail did not bear his grandfather’s image. It had been marked with a white line-image that very few in Felarati would have recognized.
Very few outside Anturasikun would know it. The sail bore the outline of the world as his grandfather had painted it on the wall of his sanctum. Only there is a new continent off the southeast coast.
This confirmed that the fleet had come from his grandfather and he certainly didn’t view it as his salvation. His grandfather had sent him off to survey Ixyll on a mission that would most surely have killed him. That Qiro had found him in Felarati would compound his grandfather’s anger. His absence from Ixyll meant Keles had defied his grandfather, and Keles had no desire to face the old man’s wrath in person or by proxy.
The cartographer watched, transfixed, as the black ships grounded themselves on the riverbanks and troops poured forth. Each ship disgorged an improbable number. Huge and tiny creatures leaped out. The smallest swarmed over buildings, while the largest stalked through streets.
The invaders kept coming, and the defenders had no chance to oppose them. Even if crack troops had been available to defend the capital, the onslaught would have been overwhelming. Already refugees began streaming from their homes, fleeing west from the invaders.
Now is the time we can escape! He dashed back into the library, opened a chest, and dug down through carefully stacked paper and rolled maps. He uncovered the two leather satchels he’d hidden there and had slowly filled with supplies. The waterskins were flaccid, but he could fill them later. The other two bags contained dried meat and cheese, tea and uncooked rice, as well as a small pot. He’d meant to get some rope, but hadn’t managed it yet. This will have to do.
The smallest of the invaders leaped the palace walls and bounced into the library. Two of them, looking like harmless monkeys until each flashed a mouthful of sharp teeth, leaped for him and grabbed his arms. They started screeching so sharply their cries rose to silence, then bit him when he fought being dragged toward the balcony.
“Ouch!” Keles grabbed the wrists of the one on his right arm and whipped the creature around. He smashed its head against the stone wall, then flung its limp body away. The other’s screeching shifted to hooting and its fangs snapped shut, just missing his hand. Keles cracked it over the head with a bronze candlestick, crushing its skull.
Brandishing the candlestick, he ran from the library and took the stairs up two at a time. Two levels up the corridor remained deserted, but the door to the Princess’ apartments stood open. He ran in, and then toward her balcony. He saw Jasai with her back against the railing, her hair platinum in the moonlight, and fear etched on her face.
With a dagger in hand Lady Inyr approached Jasai. She held the blade low, poised for a gutting thrust. She moved easily enough to make clear she knew her business well.
Keles hurled the candlestick. Inyr twisted far more quickly than he would have thought possible. The candlestick passed between her and the Princess, striking sparks from the balustrade before falling to the garden below. Inyr swept forward in its wake, grabbed Jasai’s hair and yanked her head back as she pressed the dagger to the Princess’ throat.
Keles held his hands up. “Don’t do it, Inyr. The Prince would not be pleased.”
The woman sneered at him contemptuously. “Idiot, I do this with the Prince’s approval. If you two were to take the chance to flee, I was to kill her. You are to remain his captive, as you are too valuable to lose.”
“But she’s carrying his child.”
“He can find another broodmare; an Anturasi is far too rare.” Inyr smiled at Jasai. “You played a good game and kept me from him. I’ll be punished for my failure, but praised for my attention to duty now.”
“Don’t, Inyr.” Keles let his shoulder bags slip to the floor as he stepped onto the balcony. He knew he couldn’t reach her fast enough to stop her from slitting Jasai’s throat, but he had to try something. “Let her live, I’ll remain here forever. You’ll just have to get us to safety—which means away from here.”
“So you can escape later?” The assassin slowly shook her head. “I’m not a fool.”
“Then you should realize that if we don’t go immediately, we’re all going to die.”
She stared at him and laughed. “I’m not going to die.”
Her defiant expression never had a chance to fade. Long dark fingers shot over her forehead and clamped down over her face. Her head twisted sharply to the right and her neck cracked audibly. The clang of her dagger hitting the balcony floor covered the soft thump of her body falling beside it.
Jasai sank to her knees and scrambled for the dagger with both hands as the Viruk grabbed the balustrade and vaulted over it. He landed in a crouch, his talons clicking against the stone. His left hand closed over Jasai’s, engulfing them and the dagger.
The Viruk smiled, his ivory teeth a ghostly presence in the moonlight. “If she is yours, Keles Anturasi, I will bring her, but we have to travel fast.”
“Rekarafi?” Keles’ mouth hung open. “How did you . . . ?”
“I followed you from Moriande to Solaeth. Tracking you here was nothing.”
Jasai, still shaken, tried to pull her hands free. “Who is this?”
“A Viruk friend of mine who’s earning a pile of white stones.” Keles gathered up his gear. “This is Princess Jasai, Pyrust’s wife. She’s coming. We’ll take the stairs inside.”
Rekarafi released Jasai’s hands, then pointed down to the garden. “Meet me. Be quick.”
“Outside the library, right.” As the Viruk slid over the railing and disappeared again, Keles grabbed Jasai’s hand and pulled her back into her chambers. “We have to go, fast. Felarati is under attack.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter. With the defenses the way they are, two beggars with three good legs and a crutch between them could have kicked the city to pieces.” Keles hurried her down the stairs and batted one of the black-furred monkey creatures out of the way. The two of them ran to the library, then out and down steps leading to the garden below.
Keles stopped short and gaped. Jasai tore her hand from his and ran forward. They both shouted, “Tyressa!” but their tones differed as much as their reactions did. The cartographer remained frozen in place while Jasai flew to the tall Keru and embraced her.
Keles watched the two of them hug. His mouth gaped in joy and disbelief. It was Tyressa, she’d survived. Survived and come all this way.
He shook his head to clear it. “You’re alive?”
Tyressa released the younger woman, hurried to Keles. She stared at him for a heartbeat or two, then grabbed him and hugged him tightly. He hugged her back, reassured by her warmth and scent that she truly was alive.
“How is it possible?”
She released him and laughed. “What, Keles? That I’m alive, or I know Jasai?”
“Alive; both.”
Rekarafi growled and sniffed the air. “They’re of the same blood, Keles. And now we have to move or we shall die.”
“Right, right.”
They ran to the garden’s west wall. The Viruk boosted Keles to the top and he leaped down easily. Tyressa came next and tossed him her spear before she leaped to the ground. Lastly, Rekarafi reached the top of the wall with Jasai in his arms.
“Careful, she’s pregnant.”
The Viruk sniffed again. “I know.” He leaped down effortlessly, then they all started running west. Quickly, they merged with a throng of terrified citizens. Mothers clasped wailing infants to their breast, while toddlers screamed for lost parents. Tired old men and women ushered along grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Keles and his group passed through them quickly, more by dint of the fact that they were in their prime than that they had the Princess or a Viruk with them—though neither fact went without notice.
The crowd’s progress slowed, then stopped, but Keles forced his way through to the front. The road had been blocked with two overturned wagons, and men with spears and swords kept the crowd at bay. Across the road lay the walled compound of the Ministry of National Unity. Guards patrolled the walls, and a couple of bleeding corpses provided stark evidence of how serious they were about not giving anyone sanctuary.
Keles pointed at one of the guards. “I’m Keles Anturasi. I want to talk to Grand Minister Rislet Peyt immediately.”
The man sneered at him. “You’re the fifth Anturasi we’ve had here tonight. Go away.”
Jasai stepped up beside Keles. She pointed to the man standing in the first guard’s shadow. “I am Princess Jasai. Slay him.”
A sword cleared scabbard, but the first man dropped to his knees and bowed low. “Forgive me, Princess, I did not see you.”
“You should have opened your eyes.” She nodded to the man with the drawn sword. “Bring me Rislet Peyt, or his head, whichever is most convenient.” She stepped forward, resting her foot on the bowing man’s head. “Hurry.”
Keles looked from her to a smiling Tyressa. “Sister?”
“Niece, but I taught her a great deal.”
“I see.”
Rislet Peyt appeared on a balcony overlooking the intersection. “I regret I cannot receive you, Princess. The omens are inauspicious.”
“I understand that, Grand Minister.” Jasai raised her voice and chin at the same time. “I just wanted to thank you for the lend of your personal troops. If you survive the invasion, I shall return them to you, and praise their efforts to my husband.”
“You can’t take them.”
“You’ll have to come down here and stop me.” She shifted her foot, hooked it beneath the bowing man’s shoulder, and toed him back onto his heels. “Right these wagons, load those who can’t walk, and get your people out here. We’re going west and getting out of the city. Now!”
“Yes, Highness.”
“No! Do not move,” Rislet countermanded.
Jasai pointed back toward the fires in the east. “I guarantee you will die here if you don’t move. By the invaders or my hand, your choice. The Grand Minister cannot save himself, and he certainly can’t harm anyone who joins me.”
“Yes, Highness.” The man stood and issued orders. Guards left their posts and could not be lured back no matter the curses or rewards Peyt offered. They opened the gates and once the wagons were on their wheels again, they hitched teams of horses to them. A bunch of the guards drifted off into the darkness, but quickly returned with their own families.
Once the way had been cleared, most of the people continued on toward Westgate. A few did enter the ministry compound, but quickly abandoned it again when Peyt and his senior officials hustled out and joined the throng.
Tyressa grabbed Jasai by the wrist. “We have to go.”
“I know, just a minute more.” Her voice dropped. “They’re taking heart from my presence. I have to give them that, because if I don’t, they won’t make it.”
A low rumbling thunder came from the east. It took Keles a minute to identify it as the tramping of booted feet. He ran quickly to the ministry compound and mounted the wall to give himself more perspective. He stared, barely believing what he saw.
Warriors were walking nine abreast, in ranks nine deep. They came down the road, working west, always west. At any crossroads, the first squad turned north, the second south. Odd and even they split and walked to the next intersection. There they turned back west, and at the next toward the middle again. Once they returned to that original intersection, then crossed it and the process began again.
Throughout the city, squads moved that way, searching, ever searching. Behind them, moving through the city in much the same way, other squads put the city to the torch. Block by block, Felarati burned.
And they’re searching for me. He had no doubt that his grandfather had sent the fleet, both to find him and to punish Felarati. To punish anyone who ever defied him.
Across the intersection, one of the monkey-things crouched like a furred gargoyle. It pointed a slender arm in his direction, then began hooting, punctuated with a screech. And back along the street, a company stopped. The squads that had already turned away spun about and rejoined the formation marching west. As one the soldiers drew their swords.
The stragglers screamed and began ducking into alleys and buildings. The invaders ignored them, but when the monkey’s hooting grew louder and faster, the soldiers began trotting. And when they charge, they will slaughter everyone in their way.
One of the ministry guards silenced the monkey with an arrow. For a moment the invaders faltered and then they started to run. Swords rose and fell. Peasants screamed and reeled away, clutching severed limbs or split faces. The invaders slew everyone in their path as if merely clearing foliage.
The press of refugees slowed them slightly, then the ministry guards countercharged. Their archers shot true and well, dropping the short, thick invaders. The spearmen ran them through and kept pushing, knocking front ranks into back. They looked as if they might succeed in forcing the invaders to retreat, but other companies came at a run, some directly and others fanning out to flank the defenders.
Rekarafi waved Keles down from the wall. “We have to go.”
The cartographer fled the compound and raced along the street, with the ministry warriors forming a rear guard for the column. He caught up with Tyressa and grabbed her arm.
“They’re looking for me. If I give up, they’ll let everyone else go.”
Tyressa shook her head. “Rekarafi and I did not cross half the world to give you up. Besides that, you’re wrong.” She pointed to the lurid flames spreading in the east. “If all they wanted was you, they would have made demands before they started burning things. They may want you, but whoever sent them also issued orders that Felarati must die.”
Keles nodded. My grandfather would do that. If he sent them to res-cue me, he would send them to punish Pyrust for being arrogant enough to take me prisoner.
Keles looked back and watched his work burn. “My grandfather did this.”
Tyressa looked at him with half-lidded eyes. “How is that possible? I don’t recognize the warriors or their insignia.”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand it.” Keles shook his head. “And unless we can figure it out, I don’t know how we can stop them.”