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.”
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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 de
parted, 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.