Ciras started to answer, then stopped. All the training in the world might not blunt ambition. In fact, ambition could motivate training. His own ambition to become a hero was what kept him training when he might well have quit. Another’s ambition to become emperor could drive him as I was driven.
“You are correct. Discipline may not counter ambition. But this is no reason to put lethal weapons in the hands of those who have no understanding of what mayhem they will cause.”
“I agree, Master Dejote. Your solution, however, is to label the tool evil.” The elder warrior shrugged simply. “I reserve my judgment for the means in which the tool is employed. You have trained with the sword. Now you will train with this metal horse. Master it. Justice will curb ambition, and, through you, a sword and a mount may serve justice well.”
The Voraxani expedition headed southeast as quickly as possible. Because it was home to the vanyesh, Tolwreen became a target. Empress Cyrsa might not have called them forth to destroy the vanyesh, but allowing them to live would not be serving her.
Ciras had feared the path to Tolwreen would be hidden. He and Borosan assumed the vanyesh would be watching for them, so the expedition remained alert as they approached.
But the way to Tolwreen had neither been hidden, nor had it been guarded. They found the mountain stronghold without difficulty and even spotted their own tracks from three weeks previous. The preservation of the tracks unnerved Ciras. It was as if no time had passed, and he found it easy to imagine he would somehow see himself and Borosan escaping again.
The tunnel at the mountain’s base gaped open like a mouth waiting to swallow them. Borosan sent two of his spider-legged thanatons in, and they returned without incident. One even brought with it a small gyanrigot mouser that was still in full working order.
Borosan held it up. “This was the one you gave to Pravak.”
“Did he abandon it because he knew we used it to track him, or is it bait for a trap?”
Vlay took the mechanical kitten from Borosan. “Pravak was never terribly subtle. If he was present, he’d challenge us immediately. Shall we ride in?”
He kicked his heels back, prompting the mount to trot forward. Ciras fell in line behind him, taking heart from the fact that the giant statues that had guarded the entrance were no longer present. Metallic hoofbeats echoed through the short tunnel, then the riders entered the heart of the mountain and spread out.
“They’ve gone.” Borosan pointed to the remains of the citadel that had once stood tall and proud. “And they’ve taken their weapons with them.”
Ciras nodded. The citadel had been pieced together with swords and shields, armor and spears. It had been a martial masterpiece. Now the wires that once suspended it hung slack and what remained lay scattered like gold coins spilled from a cut purse.
Wildmen emerged from the distant shadows. Some brandished weapons as if they were talismans. A few had pulled on armor. Greaves hung awkwardly from shoulders, and bracers pinched calves too tightly. Helmets had been put on backward, then tipped up to let the wearer see his feet.
Vlay clapped his hands commandingly and the wildmen scattered, hooting and screaming. He turned in his saddle and looked at Ciras. “There is discipline for you.”
“Where have the vanyesh gotten to?”
Borosan pulled a small, boxy device from a saddlebag. “There are several mousers below the Prince’s Hall. Let’s see what they’re doing down there.”
It took some hunting, but they found a series of tunnels that carried them deep beneath the mountain. Using Borosan’s device to guide them, they entered a series of natural caverns that opened into one huge cave that had been extensively altered. At first glance, it reminded Ciras of the workshop where the mounts had been created in Voraxan, only much bigger.
Borosan dismounted immediately. He attached blue gyanrigot lights to his thanatons and explored. The ghostly light revealed massive forges with huge hammers and tongs, supported by geared circles that allowed them to rotate freely. Further a device with smaller hammers could be seen; and beyond it were other machines with arms ending in even smaller hammers for fine work.
Borosan paused near the large device and held up one of the command-slates. “The vanyesh used these forges to create the bodies they wore. I cannot tell what else they might have made, but there is a pile of command-slates here. They probably have mounts just like ours. They might even have created enough for the Turasynd Black Eagles.”
Ciras shivered. “Would they be that insane?”
Borosan shrugged. “You saw them. Most had left humanity behind a long time ago. They were talking to the Turasynd. Why would they hesitate to arm the barbarians?”
“I can’t imagine.” Ciras sighed. “Can you make sense of those slates?”
“Probably. If we fire up the forges again, we can see what they were making. I can make more parts for our horses. I’ve had some ideas since we rode out…”
“Figure out what they were doing first.” Ciras looked at Vlay. “What are your thoughts?”
“The vanyesh clearly believed Nelesquin was calling them to arms. I don’t know why; Nelesquin is dead. His head was struck from his body and both were buried in a tomb built to the Empress’ specifications. The tomb was disturbed, however. We can assume the vanyesh violated it. You said his skeleton is housed in a chamber above us.”
Ciras nodded. “Gilded, every inch of it, save for the skull, which was missing.”
“Show me, please.”
Vlay and a handful of warriors accompanied Ciras up to the Prince’s Hall. Tall, narrow, and deep, the chamber seemed even more forbidding because it lacked the reflected light from the vanyesh ’s golden robes. Tiered seating rose on either side. Entering, the hall appeared as if it had been abandoned for eons.
Three weeks, and already decay has set in.
Hand on sword hilt, Ciras marched beside Vlay. They stopped just shy of the purple strip of carpet leading to a massive stone throne.
Vlay nodded. “It’s the Celestial Throne, the one Nelesquin coveted.”
Ciras drew his sword and pointed at the purple garment discarded across the throne’s arms. “The skeleton had been wearing that robe.”
“It looks like the one we buried Nelesquin in.” The ancient warrior shook his head. “We’d placed his tomb at a crossroads so he’d not know which way was home. That precaution, apparently, was insufficient.”
Chapter Eight
23rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Helosunde
Keles dropped to a knee on the forest trail. He could sense the others behind him, but they had learned to keep quiet when he raised a hand. He pressed his right hand to the damp loam, rubbed a bit between finger and thumb, and concentrated.
The world flowed away from his consciousness. He focused on the cool, wet soil staining his fingers. He caught an immediate sense of decayed leaves and dirt churned by deer hooves. Men had passed this way, too. But that impression was fleeting and unreliable; it could have been yesterday or two hundred years before.
His sense spread out from the soil and sped across the surface of the earth. The world unfolded in his mind, spreading out like thick oil. Awareness surged over hills and down through ravines. It poured over rocks and flowed into streambeds. It grew thin at fords, and eddied where water curled around smooth stones.
Experience helped him read the land. He knew woodlands well. They were heading south across rising land, so the ravines tended to run to the north and east. Their runoff would eventually trickle into the Black River.
He pushed his senses further into the land and felt a tingle at the base of his scalp. There, off to the east, up and around a steep-sided ravine, lay a forest clearing. It was big enough for the refugees to camp. A bit further east was a stream from which they could draw water, and the forest had enough windfall to provide firewood.