He struggled, tearing at the metal hand, kicking at the body as the machine jerked him upright. He gurgled and his face purpled as booted toes scraped in the dust as the gyanrigot ’s claw shifted and snapped his neck cleanly.
More thanatons ’ missiles dropped riders. Something metallic clicked behind Ciras. One of the mousers had leaped onto his mount’s rump and snapped its legs into little holes astride the tail. The upper half of the mouser’s dome twisted and a small dart shot out, glancing off a Turasynd’s nose guard.
Ciras spun and cut the man from the saddle. Two more of the barbarians charged at him. The mouser shot one in the throat. While hardly lethal, the dart distracted the warrior enough that Ciras dispatched him with ease. The swordsman then turned in the saddle and parried the second man’s slash as they passed.
He turned to engage the man again, but one of Borosan’s gyanrigot warriors had already struck. Barely modified from the blacksmith it had been in Tolwreen, its first hammerblow crushed the horse’s skull. The beast went down, pitching its rider headlong. The barbarian struggled drunkenly to his feet and was knocked aside by another Voraxani.
He went down again, his face slashed open. The gyanrigot blacksmith finished the job, driving most of the man’s helmet deep into his skull. The Turasynd crumpled, blood and brains dripping from his killer’s hammer.
The thanatons moved forward in concert, rolling up the Turasynd flank. Ciras and others ranged wider, cutting off retreat. They killed as many of the Black Eagles as they could.
The rest they drove into the valley of the serpent-men. Whether it was better to die there, or be killed by a gyanrigot, Ciras could not be certain. In the end he decided it didn’t matter. But if forced to, he’d have chosen the serpents.
Chapter Fifteen
32nd 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
Vallitsi, Helosunde
Keles bounced once, then rolled to a stop in the small stone cell. Naked and aching, he braced for what he knew would come next. He pulled his knees up as the bucket of cold water hit him. He coughed and sputtered, refusing to relax until the door to his dungeon closed.
The guardsmen, both wearing circular amulets, spat on him from the doorway. “We know how to deal with your type. We’d have done for you already, but we have orders. That’ll change soon, though. The night’s young, and your fate will be decided well before dawn.”
The two men laughed gruffly, then slammed the door shut and locked it with a grinding click.
Keles remained huddled on the floor, shivering. The cloak of darkness gave him some fleeting pleasure. He couldn’t see the burns and bruises covering him. Every day- twice today — his captors pulled him from his cell. They beat on him with split sticks and knotted cords. They hung him by his wrists until his arms had all but been pulled from their sockets. They hammered his kidneys with heavy fists.
He couldn’t see it, but he had to be pissing blood.
At first he didn’t understand why his captors were abusing him. He was from Nalenyr, and Nalenyr had long been Helosunde’s ally. Princess Jasai’s arrest suggested a shift in politics, but Helosundian politics should have had little bearing on his situation. He was an Anturasi, and that fact alone should have kept him safe.
But Anturasi or not, his captors quickly learned what had happened at Tsatol Pelyn. Keles had worked magic there, and it did not matter that his magic had saved lives. It warped people. It was evil. He was a xingnadin, and perhaps more than just a practitioner of magic. He had to be a master of it-a xingnacai or even jaecaixingna: a Grandmaster. That made him the equal of the vanyesh and everyone knew the horrors that they spawned.
Fear of magic prompted his captors to be creative, lest he strike at them. Because he was an Anturasi, they feared killing him outright; torturing him was simply erring on the side of caution. They also drugged the meager rations they gave him, hoping that between the beatings and narcotics, he would be unable to work his foul arts.
If they only knew.
Lying there on the cold stone floor, Keles drew his consciousness inward. He retreated from the pain and the cold. His teeth chattered. Cold water dripped from his nose. Hunger gnawed at his belly. Gooseflesh covered him, but all these seemed abstractions. They were part of his physical nature, but that was all.
You have figured it out. You must do this now, while you still have some strength.
He focused on the water and sought its true nature. It wanted to flow to the lowest point in the cell. He encouraged it. He gave it a little push, and then another, registering the tingle at the base of his brain. He was touching magic very lightly, but it was enough. The water that had puddled around him slowly flowed away.
He next turned his attention to the stone under his cheek. It was just a slab of stone, hardly remarkable, but he sought inside it. He’d made this journey before and found the path easier with each repetition. He pushed into the stone’s past to a time when it rested in a dry riverbed, soaking up sunlight. Keles caught it at the moment of its greatest heat, and tickled that energy into the present.
The stone warmed beneath his cheek.
He lifted his head and pushed himself back as steam began to rise. The stone began to glow softly. He stared at his battered hands for a moment, then began to laugh.
The laughter came softly. Though not yet that of a madman, it still carried enough menace that rats squealed and sought sanctuary in the walls. If his captors were listening they likely thought him unhinged-and their work completed.
Keles could have healed his hands. It would have been a simple matter of returning them to their true nature. He had enough knowledge of anatomy to know how they should be, but that was not enough for him to invoke magic. To make a change, he needed to know his own true nature. And as much as he tried to identify it, he could not. Perhaps it was because he was changing.
“It’s not healed hands I need.” He levered himself into a sitting position and shifted his shoulders. Stiffness had already begun to set in. Combating that problem didn’t require magic, so he didn’t even consider using it. He focused on the larger problem and sought solutions to win his freedom.
After their capture they’d been transported to Vallitsi to await the pleasure of the Helosundian Council of Ministers. The Desei he’d transformed had willingly set their arms aside, but each morning they rose, clad again in their armor, weapons at hand. The Helosundians didn’t know what to make of that. The Desei weren’t hostile, so the Helosundians decided not to slaughter them.
Tyressa and Rekarafi had remained with the column for three days, then disappeared just as they reached the capital. Neither of them had surrendered their weapons, so Keles had little fear for their safety. Even unarmed, they would be in no danger.
At Vallitsi the beatings had begun, no doubt at the behest of Ieral Scoan. Keles was fairly certain the man was trying to reach an accommodation with Jasai that would give his patron an advantage over the other ministers. He tortured her with the idea that Keles was being beaten and offered to stop the beatings in exchange for her cooperation.
Keles took the beatings simply because he had no realistic alternative. He tried to use magic to escape earlier, but it wasn’t working. When rats refused scraps, he guessed he was being drugged. Once he stopped eating, he could work magic again, and slowly set out to escape.