The New World (38 page)

Keles invited her to join them, but she never even acknowledged their presence. They moved on, yet as long as the melancholy notes echoed, they knew the girl still lived.

They reached the expanse of the River Road and stopped. Carts and boxes lay abandoned at the bridge’s approach. People, no more than eighteen of them, huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around their knees, crying. At first Ciras could not figure out why, then he looked beyond them.

The only thing left of the Dog Bridge was four sets of pillars rising from artificial islands in the river. The Bat and Eagle Bridges had been similarly destroyed.

Ciras straightened and flexed his left hand. It felt good. “My sword.”

Keles glanced at him. “There is no need.”

“The
kwajiin
will find us before we ever reach the Dragon Bridge. We might as well die fighting.”

“No. My mother has died today. I’ll not have you or Tyressa die.” He pointed to one of the
xunling
roots. “Go.”

The root left Ciras’ side and ran toward the empty bridge footing. At river’s edge, it leaped into the air, stretching its arms out. Even in his addled state, Ciras could see the creature would never make it, then rootlets shot out—slender filaments that reached the pilings ahead and back to the footing. The root thinned and reshaped itself, becoming a web that grew thicker with each heartbeat.

Keles addressed those who had given up hope. “If you wish to live, come now.”

Half of them roused themselves and followed him out onto the root web. At the next pillar another of the
xunling
leaped and bridged that gap. The first one contracted back into its original form, then created the next section of bridge.

They crossed the fourth section and reached the north bank unmolested. The refugees fell prostrate and thanked Keles. They begged to be of service, but he sent them on their way. Ciras watched them go, then followed Keles and lost himself in what was left of Moriande.

Chapter 41

F
inding the enemy was not difficult, but convincing them to stay away from the bridge was impossible. Though looting was prevalent, it seemed largely limited to the province of Men, not the
kwajiin
. The latter seemed more interested in combat than trophies.

The
kwajiin
leader, rather ironically, fought from within one of the
gyanrigot
tigers, looking the very incarnation of Chado. I wondered how long it would take for Nelesquin to resent that. The
kwajiin
deployed his lightly armored skirmishers to fan out through the city ahead of his war machines. They flushed some of our ambushers and exchanged arrows with Deshiel’s men.

When their advance slowed, the war machines came up to break through resistance. More heavily armored foot soldiers followed them up. Their advance north was steady and inexorable. The tigers were definitely the point of the spear, and it was driving straight at the Dragon Bridge.

We did what we could to slow them, but it was like cursing lightning, for all the good it did. Deshiel and his archers could stop the skirmishers, then Ranai or a unit of Mountain Dragons would push forward and try to flank the
kwajiin
tigers. The war machines would smash their way through a building or two, accidentally starting fires, which conscripts came up and fought with bucket lines. We could have attacked and easily slain them, but they’d been enslaved, and none of us wanted to see the city burn.

Our foot soldiers had to be careful, however, lest the other forces moving through the city flank them. We would hit, then fade back, hit again and fade, always retreating toward the bridge.

Dunos proved most helpful in that regard. He scrambled over rooftops and climbed the highest pinnacles to report on the crowds and how swiftly traffic flowed over the bridge. Many people were making it across, but more showed up. It became clear that many people would be trapped in the south side. There was nothing we could do to prevent it.

So I pulled my people back as well.

I read the dismay and disappointment in Dunos’ eyes. For him and so many others, war is a simple thing: kill or be killed. You have orders and you carry them out, trusting the decisions of your leaders. If an order required you to make the supreme sacrifice, you did so, contented, knowing you would be revered for your bravery.

Dunos had an excuse for believing that—he was but a child of ten years. Adults who believed it had never fought, or had never had to make a life-or-death choice—at least never one that affected them directly. A minister might quarantine a village so some fever would burn itself out, but he did so at a distance, never having to hear the moans of the dying or see the haunted faces of survivors. If you have not seen blood, you do not know war. If you do not know war, you cannot make the right decisions in war.

But then, having seen war was no guarantee you’d make the right decisions either.

We threaded our way through the city. The crowds thickened and we had to force our way to the bridge. I felt trapped by bodies pressing in around me. Any second an arrow would find me. A war machine would pluck me up and crush me like Master Jatan.

And, though I fought it, panic won. I shoved my way through the crowd. I was strong and they were weak. Heedless of protests, I reached the bridge and sent my people across. I ran after them and once safely behind the first line of ballistae, I turned, drawn by the screams rising from the south shore.

The
kwajiin
skirmishers appeared on the rooftops. They nocked arrows and shot, not even bothering to aim. People wailed and surged toward the Dragon Bridge, but Naleni guards had overturned wagons and set them on fire. Still people tried to climb around, and one man even tossed a young boy through the flames. The child landed, miraculously unburned, but broke a leg. Dunos darted out and dragged the child to safety.

Along the River Road, people scrambled over the wall and leaped into the river. At least one man made the mistake of standing when he topped the wall. Two
kwajiin
arrows lodged in his chest. Some people hit the water badly and never came up again. Bodies bobbed and floated eastward. Other people struck for the northern bank, swimming furiously. Many exhausted themselves, slowly sliding below the grey water.

Kwajiin
archers reached the River Road to the east. They set up in a simple line. If swimmers had made it to the middle of the river, they were safe, but those just setting out had a choice of drowning or dying with arrows in their backs.

Then the
gyanrigot
arrived. A mantis kicked aside the burning wagons. Two ballistae shot. They were not small machines. They’d been loaded with timbers as thick around as my thigh and capped with triangular steel points half a yard long. The first blew through the mantis’ chest, knocking the
gyanrigot
back several steps before it exploded like a crushed barrel.

The second shaft glanced off the mantis, then whirled into a human soldier. The blade decapitated one cleanly and the shaft broke nine more. A cheer rose from behind us. I helped reload the ballistae. We could kill another couple here, then the ballistae line behind us could kill a few more. The ballistae on the north shore could sweep that half, killing even more.

Even so, we couldn’t stop them all. If they came, they’d win through.

But they did not come. The
gyanrigot
melted back into the city and
kwajiin
warriors took up positions commanding the foot of the bridge.

The war for Moriande was half-over, and we had been soundly defeated.

The green light in Qiro’s tower suggested decay to Nelesquin. The conditions within the tower certainly agreed.
Tzaden
vines had broken through windows and proliferated wildly. The workshop was a shambles. The weight of vine and fruit had collapsed desks and drafting tables. Charts had been crumpled by grasping vines and curtained partitions had been ripped down.

Yet as Qiro preceded him into the jungle, it seemed he noticed none of the destruction. He drifted through it, irritated only by the occasional vine that tugged at his ankle. The plants shrank from his curses.

Nelesquin stopped at the chamber’s heart. “I will, of course, assign people to clean this up.”

Qiro spun. “No, under no circumstance shall anyone enter.”

Kaerinus, who had trailed in their wake, left off sniffing a
tzaden
flower. “Does this mean I should leave, my lord?”

Qiro nodded, but Nelesquin forestalled that command with a flick of his hand. “No, not yet. When you do go, you can tell Pravak we have found his left hand.” Nelesquin kicked the thing free of a tangle of vines, but more grew to trap it.

Kaerinus bent and retrieved the bones. “Most aggressive, these vines. They render your tower quite uninhabitable.”

Qiro laughed aloud. “That doesn’t matter. The tower is mine again.”

Nelesquin surveyed the wreckage. “It is not much of a prize, Master Anturasi.”

“If you believe that, you are a fool.” He walked to the far wall and sank a hand deep into the vines. “Behold the world.”

With seemingly no effort at all, Qiro pulled and a whole tapestry of vines fell away. They revealed a white wall with a map of the world drawn on it.

Nelesquin’s mouth went dry. As the son of the last Emperor, he had been privy to what was known of the world. While they had traded with the lands beyond Ixyll, little was known of their culture and nothing of their political structure. Fleets had sailed south and west, trading at islands or a few seaports, but those distant ports defined the edges of the known world.

“It’s beautiful.” Nelesquin walked toward it, his blue eyes shining. “That’s Aefret? It’s much larger than I could have imagined. And Tas al Aud, I didn’t think it was that far west.”

Qiro turned slowly, his fingers intertwined and pressed against his breastbone. “Yes, Prince Nelesquin. This is the world.
My
world. It is the place I have created. You see there, Anturasixan, my continent, wrought by my hand and my will.”

The cartographer pointed toward the top of the map and the blue line running above the Helos Mountains. “There is the Imperial canal connecting the Dark Sea with the ocean. No, not a canal, a river. Yes, a river. The River Nelesquin. There, my lord, I name it for you. I made it. I name it for you now.”

A chill ran up the Prince’s spine. “You are most kind, Master Anturasi.”

Qiro spread wide his arms and turned to the map again. “You have returned to me my tower. I am not ungrateful.”

“I am pleased that you are pleased. And you have given me a great gift.”

“What is that, Highness?”

“The world, of course.” Nelesquin smiled broadly as he studied the map. “We shall restore the Empire once the pretender is destroyed. And then, well, look at how much we have to conquer. Your name shall be exalted in all the lands, Master Anturasi. My legions will bring all this under control.”

Qiro turned, a thin smile on his lips. “But it is already under control. This is my world, Prince Nelesquin.”

“I understand that, Master Anturasi, but it shall be my
Empire
. Look there, where your knowledge of Aefret ends. I will push into those lands, and you will add them to your map. I will bring you more of the world.”

“You will bring me more of what is already mine?”

“Yes, Master Anturasi.” Nelesquin smiled indulgently. “And I have given an order that the gates of gold are to be ripped away. You are prisoner here no longer.”

“You are most kind, Prince Nelesquin.” Qiro gave him an odd smile, then returned to studying his map.

Nelesquin led Kaerinus out of the tower. He paused, catching his companion by the sleeve, fighting the fatigue washing over him. “He is too dangerous. He will have to be destroyed.”

Kaerinus nodded. “And you shall destroy him, my lord.”

“But not until I am whole. Hurry, Kaerinus, find what I need.” Nelesquin raised his head. “If I am to be Master of the World, I must be whole. The sooner I am, the sooner our new campaign begins.”

Keles hugged his arms around himself. “You have tried everything, Master Geselkir?”

The rotund man wiped sweat from his brow with a square of stained silk. “There is nothing more . . . ”

“Perhaps the Viruk ambassador. She healed me.”

The Prince’s physician shook his head. “I consulted her and even begged her to use magic, but she said that too much damage had been done. The sword split her spine and ruptured her bowels, poisoning her blood.”

“But the
xunling
root, it helped.”

“But a body can only take so much of it, Keles. It numbs because it is poison.” Geselkir patted Keles’ shoulder. “We have tried everything.”

Keles grabbed the man’s sleeve. “There must be something more.” Tears leaked from his eyes.

“You should say good-bye.”

Keles nodded, his throat thick. He swiped at tears, then entered the darkened chamber. Tyressa, her flesh as pale as her hair, lay on a bed. The only light came from a candle on the table next to her. The
xunling
roots stood sentinel against the walls. Rekarafi huddled in the far corner, his face hidden in shadows.

Keles approached the bed quietly and drew up a chair. Tyressa looked so innocent, so beautiful. Gone was the wariness and ferocity that had always been a part of her.

She’d been dressed in a black silk robe, embroidered in gold with the rampant hound crest in which all Keru were laid to rest. A white sheet covered her to just beneath her breasts. Her breathing came regularly, but shallow and rasping.

He took her hand in both of his and shuddered. Her flesh was so cold. He looked at his hands, now healed in part because of her ministrations, and held on more tightly. He closed his eyes, searching for a way to summon the magic to make her whole.

Her hand tightened on his, briefly. He looked at her. Her blue eyes fluttered open, but only halfway.

“No, Keles. Your magic won’t work.”

“Tyressa . . . ”