“So she sent him out on a mission against Nelesquin that should have killed them both, and when Soshir failed to die…”
“…She had him killed by a man she knew could be trusted.” Vlay shook his head. “Ambition can often counteract ambition, but to be caught in the middle of such a struggle is a lethal proposition.”
“So it appears.”
“Do not dwell on it, Master Dejote.” Vlay smiled and headed off to finish loading the wagons. “Just find a way to avoid it.”
Ciras nodded, but his thoughts were already racing. If his master was indeed Virisken Soshir, then would he be as much of a danger now as he had been? And if he was, could Ciras kill him? He would never strike his master from behind, and he was not sure he could defeat him in an even fight.
More important, his loyalty was for Moraven Tolo, not an Empress he’d never met. He’d known of her as a courtesan. She and his master knew each other, but did Moraven know who she was? Did Moraven know who he was? Was his choice of names a window on his intentions, or a blind meant to hide them?
Many warriors changed their names. Some did so on a whim. Others did so to honor a master or a patron. Often a warrior did so to commemorate a great deed. Ciras had not because he was proud of his name and wished to honor his family.
Moraven Tolo, when written out, could be read one of several ways. Sleeping dragon would be the most common reading. Another would be courage unfolding. The darkest reading, however, was victory of desire, which did not seem in keeping with his master, as it hinted at hidden ambitions.
Ciras growled to himself. “You’re playing children’s games. You know your master. You know his character. His ambition is to keep his sword in the scabbard.”
But his mind would not be turned from consideration so easily. Jogot Yirxan likewise could be read many ways. Steadfastly loyal came easiest, and yet what Vlay had said about Yirxan put the lie to that from the vanyesh point of view. Midnight justice also worked. As Vlay had said, justice can oppose ambition, and Yirxan must have done just that.
Perhaps I can do both things. Ciras rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I am heir to a sword, but not the circumstances that drove it through my master.”
With the last of the wagons loaded and groaning under the weight of Borosan’s loot from Tolwreen, the Voraxan expedition headed out again. And Ciras admitted that the new mounts could appear almost lifelike-but he refrained from calling them beasts or horses. They carried the riders smoothly along, almost as if they were floating on a river.
They passed swiftly through a series of valleys. Ciras recognized none of them. Forests of silver trees sprouted leaves that tarnished into dust before they could spiral to the ground. A carpet of red flowers looked innocent enough, but when one of the thanatons scurried into the valley ahead of the riders, serpentine warriors slithered from the ground, each with red blossoms atop antennae. They sought to wrestle the thanaton to a stop, but the gyanrigot pulled away and Voraxani arrows cut down the pursuit.
They skirted that valley, which made their journey longer. The valley curled around to the south and extended across their line of march. The riders increased their speed because the serpent-men didn’t move very quickly, but in doing so almost raced into disaster.
They crested a line of hills and started down into a wide and dusty bowl. Ciras rode in the lead and found the place refreshingly benign until, up ahead, he saw riders riding hard toward them. Before he could suggest they slow down, he recognized the lead rider as himself, growing larger as if he were riding into a mirror. Uncertain if it was a mirage or something more malevolent, Ciras drew his sword and touched a switch on his mount’s neck, snapping armor and spikes into place.
A heartbeat before the Voraxani ran into the mirror, Turasynd horsemen burst through the illusory curtain. They let fly with a volley of arrows. The missiles sped across the narrowing divide, intended to sweep the Empress’ riders from their mounts.
Arrows bounced from Ciras’ mount. Curved metal plates had slid out to protect his shins and thighs. The mount’s mane stiffened into a coarse line that then split like butterfly wings to either side of the neck. Missiles glanced from the mane or snapped harmlessly against the mount’s broad breast.
Blades and spikes bristled from the mount’s shoulders and flanks. Ciras crashed straight into the Turasynd riders. The shock of the collision shook him, but he remained firmly in the saddle. Blood spattered and horses reared. Crippled horses went down squealing and kicking, crushing hapless riders beneath them.
Ciras lashed out, stroking his sword through an armpit. Dark feathers flew, for these were Black Eagles. Hot red blood splashed against the sword’s guard, then sprayed as he cut at another Black Eagle. The scent of copper filled the air. Guiding his mount with pressure from his knees, Ciras parried, then stabbed and cut. Riders fell, and mechanical mounts stamped the remaining life from them.
He burst through the Turasynd line, and through the magic curtain beyond it. No more Turasynd lurked there, giving him some hope. Reining his mount about, he plunged back into the fray. There were more than enough Turasynd to kill- perhaps even too many.
The Turasynd had attacked in a slender line. Their formation flanked the Voraxani on both sides, reaching as far back as the wagons. The Empress’ warriors fought hard, but the Turasynd outnumbered them four to one. Turasynd cheered triumphantly as one of the wagons tipped, rolling over twice, casting its load all over the battlefield.
Ciras purposefully drove his mount in close grazing runs that carved up Turasynd and horse alike. He hated hurting the animals, but sowing havoc in the Turasynd ranks was more effective than simply killing them. The screams of a dying horse and the pleas of gutted comrades could take the fight out of even the most dedicated warrior.
A huge Turasynd Black Eagle, sunlight flashing silver from the feathers covering his shoulders and arms, engaged Ciras. There was none of the nicety of civilized fighting. No challenges formal or otherwise, just a wild scream and a sword raised in fury.
Ciras parried a blade high, then slashed down. His cut split ring mail and opened the inside of a man’s thigh. Bright blood splashed against the horse’s neck, then another Turasynd was upon him. Ciras leaned away from that cut and felt the sting of a flesh wound, then spitted the man. He ripped his blade free and the dying man spun from the saddle.
One or two Black Eagles gave off traces of jaedun, but their lack of discipline doomed them. Ciras had practiced countering such assaults. Jogot Yirxan’s blade seemed eager to gorge on Turasynd blood, and Ciras allowed it to drink deeply.
Ciras raced along the Turasynd flank toward the overturned wagon. The barbarians had gathered there, intent on plunder despite the battle continuing to rage. A number of the Voraxani put up a spirited defense, but it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.
Borosan pulled another wagon out of line as if to block the Turasynd advance. Wide-eyed, he leaped from the driver’s seat and into the back, quickly taking refuge behind the ancient shields that had been mounted on the wagon’s sides. Arrows rattled off them, and a half dozen Turasynd charged the wagon.
One by one, a handful of the thanatons popped up from behind the shields on their spider legs. Panels slid back and crossbow bolts sped out. The volley swept Turasynd from their saddles, killing several.
A wounded Black Eagle limped behind the overturned wagon. He sought sanctuary, hunkering down amid rectangular metal boxes. Small thanatons — the ones Borosan considered mousers-sprang away in response to the man’s guttural growl. His laughter followed the gyanrigot as they scuttled along the ground, but died abruptly as the first of the metal boxes unfolded itself. Legs unfurled and arms thrust, raising skeletal, gearwork warriors which towered over the Black Eagle. Before his expression could shift from triumph to terror, the nearest gyanrigot brought a clawed hand up. It closed around the man’s throat.