“Ciras, get away from him.”
“No, Keles, I know this one. Get free.”
Pravak, bootprints still denting his profile, withdrew and settled himself in fourth Scorpion. “You show me no respect, attacking without warning.”
“You deserve none, conspiring with Turasynd and fighting against the Empress.”
“And I thought you truly were Jogot reborn.”
Ciras raised his sword in a salute. “I am, in more ways than you could ever imagine.” He invoked jaedun and set himself. “And I am your better.”
“Don’t do this, Ciras!” Keles screamed at him.
“I have no choice, Keles.”
Pravak launched himself. He came hard, raining blows down on the swordsman. Ciras retreated, step by step, dodging some blows, parrying others. The few he blocked sent shivers down his arm. Ciras’ ripostes would have sliced muscle from arms and legs, crippling a normal foe. Against Pravak the worst of the cuts only curled silver off bone.
Ciras ducked. A wild cut lopped a branch off a tree. Ciras exploded through the shower of leaves and kept low. Pravak’s sword whistled above his head. Ciras cut around, then slashed at the giant’s knee, carving through the silver bands that bound the joint together.
The woven silver band snapped, then jaedun pulsed, and the tiny metal threads wove themselves back together.
Pravak spun and laughed. “I remembered how you defeated me before. I have taken precautions.”
“Ciras, leave him alone!”
The swordsman ignored Keles’ plea. He drove forward, his blade a blur. A cut swept through a knee and even before it had begun to heal, he slashed at the ankle. His sword came up and around, denting the smaller arm bone, then poked a vertebra to the side and chopped through a low rib. He disengaged from every parry, eluded every thrust, and constantly attacked, forcing Pravak to devote time to straightening limbs and repairing joints.
It became a battle of attrition. Pravak became battered; Ciras just became tired. Yet even as his muscles ached and his lungs burned, the magic filled him. He moved more swiftly than ever, reading intention in the slightest movement and countering strategies before they had even begun. Pravak could not defend and repair himself in the same moment. It would be a matter of time before the vanyesh lay scattered over the garden.
Pravak clearly realized this. The swordsman’s blade slashed through the giant’s left knee. The shin fell away and Pravak’s femur jabbed into the ground. Ciras pivoted, bringing his sword back up for a strike at the monster’s head but, as he turned, Pravak’s right fist slammed into his face.
Ciras went down, landing hard on his tailbone, legs tingling hotly.
Pravak’s sword came down. Lacquered leather bracers snapped and ring mail pinged as the sword chopped through it. Blood gushed and bones cracked. Ciras’ sword flew as his hand spasmed, then Pravak bore down, using his weight to take Ciras’ right forearm off.
“Being a vanyesh reborn is still not being a vanyesh, Ciras.”
In shock, Ciras stared at his severed forearm lying two feet away. The hand still moved and clutched, but at nothing and weakly. Blood spurted from his stump, the severed artery pumping his life out with each thundering heartbeat.
I am dead.
Then a vine wrapped itself around his arm at the elbow. It just grew there, up through the ground, and tightened. The bleeding stopped.
Pravak grabbed his lower leg and fixed it back into place. Jaedun flared and the silver bands became whole again. The vanyesh patted the leg lovingly, then stood. “You tried, Ciras, and failed. No loss of honor in that.”
Then the vanyesh turned toward Tyressa, presumably to recover his sword, but he couldn’t lift his right leg. Vines similar to those that had formed the tourniquet had grown up through his feet and wrapped around his ankles. He tried to pull his foot up, but he couldn’t escape the plants’ tenacious grasp.
“What is going on here?”
“You murdered my mother.” Keles Anturasi stood deeper in the garden, his fists clenched, his face closed. “You’ve hurt my friends. You didn’t expect me to let you get away with that?”
Pravak turned, ripping one foot free. “You have no idea whom you are defying.”
“And you have no idea whom you have angered.” The cartographer raised a hand, then brought it down swiftly.
The carpet of tzaden vines fell in a wave from the tower. The green avalanche smashed Pravak to the ground. The sword flew, but vines rose and plucked it from the air. Then the whole plant flowed back up the tower, carrying Pravak’s head high, but leaving his feet on the ground, and spreading the rest of his parts in between.
Keles gathered up a book and stood. He clutched it tightly to his chest with both arms. He closed his eyes.
In garden beds behind him the earth boiled. Plants clawed their way out of the ground. The rootlets formed arms and legs. As tall as a man, they stalked from the beds.
Two of them marched to where Siatsi Anturasi lay and lifted her up. They bore her to the garden and laid her in the hole from which they had emerged. They covered her with dirt. In an instant, fiery red and gold flowers carpeted her grave.
Two more of the plants reached Ciras and helped him up. One recovered his sword, but left his arm on the ground. The other plant ground the nub end of its hand against a paving stone, scraping away purple flesh. Liquid oozed up, and the plant painted both Ciras’ stump and his punctured left hand with sticky darkness. Pain eased.
Ciras found concentrating difficult. “What is this?”
Keles opened his eyes. “ Xunling root. My brother brought it from Ceriskoron. My mother cultivated it-the only bhotridina to succeed this far north. She’d come for some when…”
The last two roots reached Tyressa’s side. They cut themselves on the sword in her belly, letting their sap run down the blade to her wound. They also dripped fluid over her lips.
Keles nodded and plants grew thickly beneath Tyressa. She rose and Pravak’s sword came with her. Turning her on her side, the roots treated the exit wound as best they could.
The two that had buried Siatsi joined the ones tending Tyressa. Rootlets sprang from the ends of their arms and wove together into a thick mat, creating a litter. A few roots grew over to secure her to it, then the four bore her to Keles and Ciras.
“Come, Ciras, we must quit this place.” Keles looked back at the tower and Pravak glittering amid the vines.
Ciras pointed at the winged beast. “What about that?”
“Oh, right.” Keles gestured at the naranji tree. A branch stabbed out, impaling the beast. It flapped its wings, then collapsed. In the tree’s shade, fungus began to consume the creature’s body.
“Thank you for reminding me.” Keles headed down the stone steps toward a garden gate and didn’t look back. “Never again will Anturasikun be my home.”
A captain in the Prince’s Dragons found me on the south side of the bridge. “We have to bring this bridge down now.”
Stonemasons had already been lowered to pound away at keystones on the central arch. Once they were knocked out, the center of the bridge would collapse.
“Look at the people, Captain, they still need to cross.”
“It doesn’t matter; the order has been given.” The captain pulled a folded message from within his breastplate. “Prince Cyron’s seal.”
Muttering prayers and making all haste, people kept crossing. Most of the hale and hearty had already made it, and we were down to the sick, wounded, and lame. Carts lay abandoned, cargoes picked over. Somewhere, a child was crying.
“I’ve got my warriors out there, Captain. You can’t expect me to abandon them.”
“No, but they’re not going to cross the Tiger Bridge. I have my orders.”
I signaled Dunos to back away and the boy resheathed his knife. “What do I tell them?”