Coming about, I realized none did pursue me, so intent were they on overwhelming those above. I knew I should have felt some relief at that. Moraven would have, but I was not Moraven. I did not feel what he felt.
And what I felt was insulted.
On my return I did not sweep through their line, I strode into it, boldly, head high, defiantly. One blade flicked out, then the other, plucking eyes, opening throats. Double slashes had sufficient force to spin a disemboweled beast so its entrails could snare others. I inflicted cuts here and there, not fatal, but painful-and it took some learning to find something those beasts considered painful-so their wails would inspire fear in their companions.
It seemed, however, they knew no fear, and in that their creator had doomed them. Someone unschooled in the art of war would think the perfect warrior should know no fear, but that is wrong. A fearless warrior continues forward even though death is inescapable. The perfect warrior is not one with no fear, but one who does not allow fear to overwhelm his judgment.
I slashed and cut at them, at once happy that Moraven had taught my body so many new things, but annoyed that he had abandoned the fighting styles I so much enjoyed. Because the creatures kept coming, each so like the last, I was able to practice and regain my skills. I learned to thrust just deep enough to explode hearts and shred lungs, or to open arteries or hole their stomachs. I fought as I had not fought for ages.
The trio from the hilltop descended and joined me, stealing my prey, but I did not mind. They’d already slain many, and so had the knack for it; but they had been running and relished a chance to regain ground they had lost. The woman I knew from Moraven’s mind and the scar on her cheek. She wore no crest, just simple robes long since scavenged, and had the look of having been on the run for weeks. She used her blade well and killed without remorse.
The second swordsman I had not seen. He wore the crest of a leopard hunting, but his robe and overshirt had been a long time without laundering. Neither he nor the woman would have been thought older than their thirties, save for the age that fatigue, blood, and grime put on them.
The boy, however, there was no mistaking. A mail sleeve had been tied onto his withered left arm, and a spike thrust out where his fingers should have been. In his other hand he carried a sword that had been snapped in half, then resharpened. The hardness of his eyes bespoke much of what he’d seen despite his youth. He was just entering his second decade of life, that I remembered from Moraven.
And his name. Dunos.
The beasts-which Dunos had named vhangxi-came until there were no more and out of deference for my companions, I did not go hunting. With Urardsa joining us, we moved into the night and toward the west. They slept for several hours, and then at dawn we pushed on. When we reached a road we joined a flood of refugees. Thus began the long journey to Kelewan and what they hoped would be a stronghold that would not fall.
Chapter Fifteen
29th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Ixyll
It surprised Ciras Dejote to realize he didn’t hate Borosan’s gyanrigot anymore. He respected the gyanridin’s skill at fabricating the machines. During the one day they’d remained in a cavern while a torrential rain fell-which had the added effect of melting a mountain in the distance-Borosan was able to modify one of the skull-sized mousers, create another duplicate of it, and to get the larger Nesrearck working. It resembled the smaller ones in that it had a spherical body atop four spider legs, but boasted more substantial weaponry. Whereas the smaller ones could shoot darts sufficient for impaling vermin, the larger thanaton carried a crossbow and a small sheaf of bolts.
Originally, the magic machines had been nonfunctional in Ixyll, which Ciras didn’t mind at all. The excess of wild magic rendered them unreliable, so Borosan continued to tinker with the devices as they traveled. He eventually figured out that if he sheathed what he called their “difference engines” in the protective cloth men wore in Ixyll, they would be insulated from the wild magic. Another modification let the thaumston recharge overnight, so the gyanrigot functioned better than ever.
With three gyanrigot conducting the survey, they were able to move more quickly. Even Borosan had become anxious to push on, and Ciras found no reason to complain. While he respected Borosan’s decision to collect data for Keles Anturasi, the new mission they’d been given was to find the Empress and bring her home. Both men realized it took precedence over the survey, so they picked up speed.
As much as he came to appreciate the utility of gyanrigot, he still was not comfortable with one aspect of gyanri. The discipline of mechanical magic could impart skills to people. A gyanrigot sword would make a warrior formidable-at least while the thaumston held a charge. Once that wore off, the soldier would likely die.
Ciras had trained daily for years to gain his mastery with a sword. If men were able to get results with no work, then the very discipline of swordsmanship would wither. If success required no work, no one would work and the very means of accessing magic could be lost.
Ciras was fairly certain Borosan couldn’t see any of that. His machines went about their tasks faithfully, pacing off distances to landmarks, scaling cliffs, measuring depth. They did so many things that men could do, but could only do at great risk to themselves, that the benefit of their utility couldn’t be denied. Keles would be overjoyed to have the data they had collected.
But there would come a point where someone who did not have the Anturasi skill at cartography would be able to use gyanrigot to gather data for his own charts. The need for exploration would evaporate because men could soon just dispatch machines. Even if a few of them were eaten by things like the goldwort, losing a machine was better than losing a man.
As long as the machines cannot make judgments, men will always have to explore.
Yet even with his reservations, he became quite glad the gyanrigot existed. As they traveled northwest, they cut across the trail of another party. Ciras recognized the tracks. The men had been part of a bandit group they’d trailed through much of Dolosan. They’d lost track of them when they entered Ixyll, but before that had seen evidence of the men having defiled graves and slaughtering thaumston prospectors.
The tracks revealed that the men were three days ahead. Moving swiftly, they shortened the lead significantly and found them sooner than expected. Had it not been for the bandits lighting a fire, Ciras and Borosan might have ridden into the small valley where they had made camp. Forewarned, they dismounted, approached on foot, and dispatched the gyanrigot to reconnoiter the bandit camp.
While he waited for the devices to return, Ciras crept up to the valley ridge and peered down. He saw only three of the bandits, but a round hole had been pounded into a stone stab, so he assumed Dragright was somewhere in there. Bigfoot, an unkempt giant of a man, rested beside the heavy steel sledge he’d used to make the hole. Tightboots sat on the other side of the hole, a couple of yards from where a bow and quiver lay. Closer to Ciras, with his back to the swordsman and the fire between him and the hole, Slopeheel squatted and held his hands out to the fire. He wore a sword in his sash, but squatted as a peasant would, so Ciras dismissed him as any real threat.
Something crashed from within the hole, jetting out a dusty gust. None of the bandits reacted with anything more than idle curiosity. Then a long, narrow cylinder sailed out. Its lower half split on impact, revealing an aged sword with a stained hilt. The blade rang when it hit the ground, but none of them moved to retrieve it from the dust.