If I had it, I’d not be so impatient.
“Ciras.”
The swordsman spun to a stop, crouching in Fourth Scorpion, with his sword above his head, pointed forward. Sweat dripped down his face, but he did not wipe it away. It soaked into the beard he’d grown on the road and the breeze cooled his face. Slowly he opened his eyes and glanced up the hill toward Borosan.
The gyanridin closed his book and waved Ciras toward him. “Ciras, come here.”
Ciras straightened up. “In a moment.”
“No, I really think you should see this.”
“Borosan, I need to finish my exercises.”
“But I…”
A gold apparition reared up above Borosan. A long-fingered hand closed over the man’s head and shoulders, then tugged him backward. Golden arms closed around Borosan, and metal flesh poured over him. When the apparition opened its mouth, flashing fangs defiantly, Borosan’s scream echoed from its throat.
Ciras sprinted up the hill. Sword in his right hand, he scrabbled with his left for purchase. He tripped only once, but got back up instantly and reached the hillcrest a couple of heartbeats later.
The apparition-flesh flapping as if a golden robe were sheathing its legs and arms-was flowing down toward a large, dark hole which had opened in the heart of the valley floor. Ciras assumed the thanaton had already been sucked down into it. Between him and the apparition, a trio of golden warriors had risen and advanced. One bore a sword like his own. A second had the curved blade of a Turasynd. The third carried no sword, but the golden flesh outlined the form of a Viruk warrior. Its claws and size alone made it lethal.
Though it occurred to him that Borosan was most certainly lost, and that chances of his own survival were negligible, the thought of retreating never came to mind. A friend was in trouble. To know he had abandoned him would have been to live in shame. It would not have been a life worthy of living.
Not a life to be sung of.
Into the valley he leaped, and from the moment his heels touched the golden surface, he realized there were times it was not possible to be heroic. His feet sailed out from under him and he crashed down on his back. Somehow he maintained his grip on his sword, but he’d already begun sliding toward the hole, and his foes flowed toward his path to slash at him as he sped past.
Ciras jammed his heels hard against the slick gold surface. His spurs dug in, ripping through it. Golden fluid welled up to heal the rifts, but he slowed. Smiling, he reversed his blade and tucked it back beneath his right shoulder. Pulling up on the hilt and pushing down with his shoulder, he used his sword like the rudder on a ship. He cut a path through the gold, steering at a large rock.
Braking hard with his heels, he slowed enough that he didn’t slam too heavily into the rock. He scrambled about, steadying himself, and got to his feet. Then he pressed his back to the rock and crouched as the first warrior reached him, swinging its scimitar down.
Ciras shifted his body right and the blade clanged off the stone, ripping away a patch of the golden flesh. Even before the gold could ooze out to close the wound, Ciras whipped his blade around in a forehand slash that took the Turasynd through the neck. Its head popped off, exposing white bone. Gold covered it quickly as the head spun, the masked expression revealing surprise.
But the body did not collapse. Instead, it reached up, caught the head and plunked it right back down on its neck. Lips peeled back in a feral grin and the jaw vibrated as if it were laughing triumphantly.
It was in midlaugh that Ciras’ return stroke caught it again. With both hands on his sword’s hilt, he split the Turasynd from crown to pelvis, crushing each vertebra. The body sagged left and right. Gold tried to cover the bones, but they turned black after only a second or two’s exposure to the air. Their decay tarnished the gold flesh, and it fell from the bones in a spray.
Though he might have acted foolishly leaping into the fight, Ciras Dejote had learned enough not to presume that he knew exactly how things were working-but he had enough information to make some educated guesses. As the second swordsman came toward him, Ciras pushed away from the rock and slid toward it. He dropped to his left knee, controlling his path ever so slightly, ducked a slash, then returned it.
His cut sliced through the gold flesh over the warrior’s left thigh. When he pared it down to the bone, the femur decayed immediately. The warrior flopped over, and with a quick slash Ciras laid its face open. The black rot ate through the skull and the head collapsed like an overripe melon. With that, the gold flowed from the skeleton and the black bones melted.
Ciras stabbed a spur into the gold and kicked back. He slid from beneath the Viruk’s slashing claws. Flipping his sword about, he stabbed it down, anchoring himself. Then using his momentum, he whipped his legs around and snapped a kick through the Viruk’s right leg. Gold splashed as the shin parted.
The Viruk toppled, but bounced up and around onto its belly. As Ciras pulled himself up to one knee and turned to face it, the creature lunged. Ciras dodged, then drew his blade and slashed. He missed the hand, but cut deeply into the gold flesh covering the valley floor. He opened a deep, wide wound, exposing the ground and the thick mat of pale grasses that lay beneath it.
Gold oozed to close the opening, but not before the grasses took on color and sprang up. The wound closed, but a half dozen green leaves poked up through it. Beyond them, the Viruk came up on its knees and slashed with both claws-at the grasses.
Ciras’ eyes narrowed, then he whipped his sword around and cleaved another gap in the gold flesh. More grasses sprang up and a flower with a brilliant red blossom burst through the opening. He bisected that cut with another and the corners of the cross drew back, opening a larger green patch. Another crossing cut and another, and he isolated a patch of gold flesh that quivered and deflated. Spiky grasses thrust up through it, and the earth below drank in the gold.
Rising to his feet on the greensward, Ciras slashed the Viruk’s head off and sent it whirling toward the hole. He began advancing in its wake, crosscutting a green path into the basin.
Before he could get too far, a pair of objects shot from the hole and spun toward him. The thanaton reached the path and immediately sprouted legs, checking its momentum. Borosan, who tumbled after it, rolled a bit more when he hit grass, but came up in a sitting position with his notebook still clutched to his chest.
He coughed, then spat out a lump of golden phlegm. “I think it was alive.”
“I think it still is, Master Borosan. It just discovered you to be about as tasty as a few of the meals we’ve had on the road.”
The gyanridin struggled to his feet and Ciras steadied him. “On my map, I’ll mark this place as very dangerous.”
“Or mark it as a place for farmers.” Ciras cut a furrow through the gold to open a trail back to the hilltop. “As menacing as it found a man with a sword, I think it far more vulnerable to plowshares.”
“You’re probably right.” Borosan smiled. “We should move on. We’ve got a few hours of sunlight left and can be far from here before we camp.”
“No, we’ll stay the night.” Ciras returned his smile. “Knowing how fast it heals is something you’d find useful. The Empress has been waiting a long time. I trust another day will not try her patience.”
Chapter Ten
25th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat