The unlikely group moved quickly through the city streets, most of which had been left to the dead. Many of the dead had been looters. The valuables that lay beside them were scattered or smashed, and clearly not worth dying for. One dying thief had crawled to a Cyron shrine, offering loot for mercy.
That prayer had gone unanswered as dogs fought over his corpse.
They came around a corner and saw a lovely young woman sitting in a doorway, playing the necyl. She drew a bow across the five strings, creating a mournful sound that made dogs howl and even seemed to wilt the leaves on the xunling warriors’ heads.
Keles invited her to join them, but she never even acknowledged their presence. They moved on, yet as long as the melancholy notes echoed, they knew the girl still lived.
They reached the expanse of the River Road and stopped. Carts and boxes lay abandoned at the bridge’s approach. People, no more than eighteen of them, huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around their knees, crying. At first Ciras could not figure out why, then he looked beyond them.
The only thing left of the Dog Bridge was four sets of pillars rising from artificial islands in the river. The Bat and Eagle Bridges had been similarly destroyed.
Ciras straightened and flexed his left hand. It felt good. “My sword.”
Keles glanced at him. “There is no need.”
“The kwajiin will find us before we ever reach the Dragon Bridge. We might as well die fighting.”
“No. My mother has died today. I’ll not have you or Tyressa die.” He pointed to one of the xunling roots. “Go.”
The root left Ciras’ side and ran toward the empty bridge footing. At river’s edge, it leaped into the air, stretching its arms out. Even in his addled state, Ciras could see the creature would never make it, then rootlets shot out-slender filaments that reached the pilings ahead and back to the footing. The root thinned and reshaped itself, becoming a web that grew thicker with each heartbeat.
Keles addressed those who had given up hope. “If you wish to live, come now.”
Half of them roused themselves and followed him out onto the root web. At the next pillar another of the xunling leaped and bridged that gap. The first one contracted back into its original form, then created the next section of bridge.
They crossed the fourth section and reached the north bank unmolested. The refugees fell prostrate and thanked Keles. They begged to be of service, but he sent them on their way. Ciras watched them go, then followed Keles and lost himself in what was left of Moriande.
TheNewWorld
Chapter Forty-one
30th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Moriande, Nalenyr
Finding the enemy was not difficult, but convincing them to stay away from the bridge was impossible. Though looting was prevalent, it seemed largely limited to the province of Men, not the kwajiin. The latter seemed more interested in combat than trophies.
The kwajiin leader, rather ironically, fought from within one of the gyanrigot tigers, looking the very incarnation of Chado. I wondered how long it would take for Nelesquin to resent that. The kwajiin deployed his lightly armored skirmishers to fan out through the city ahead of his war machines. They flushed some of our ambushers and exchanged arrows with Deshiel’s men.
When their advance slowed, the war machines came up to break through resistance. More heavily armored foot soldiers followed them up. Their advance north was steady and inexorable. The tigers were definitely the point of the spear, and it was driving straight at the Dragon Bridge.
We did what we could to slow them, but it was like cursing lightning, for all the good it did. Deshiel and his archers could stop the skirmishers, then Ranai or a unit of Mountain Dragons would push forward and try to flank the kwajiin tigers. The war machines would smash their way through a building or two, accidentally starting fires, which conscripts came up and fought with bucket lines. We could have attacked and easily slain them, but they’d been enslaved, and none of us wanted to see the city burn.
Our foot soldiers had to be careful, however, lest the other forces moving through the city flank them. We would hit, then fade back, hit again and fade, always retreating toward the bridge.
Dunos proved most helpful in that regard. He scrambled over rooftops and climbed the highest pinnacles to report on the crowds and how swiftly traffic flowed over the bridge. Many people were making it across, but more showed up. It became clear that many people would be trapped in the south side. There was nothing we could do to prevent it.
So I pulled my people back as well.
I read the dismay and disappointment in Dunos’ eyes. For him and so many others, war is a simple thing: kill or be killed. You have orders and you carry them out, trusting the decisions of your leaders. If an order required you to make the supreme sacrifice, you did so, contented, knowing you would be revered for your bravery.
Dunos had an excuse for believing that-he was but a child of ten years. Adults who believed it had never fought, or had never had to make a life-or-death choice-at least never one that affected them directly. A minister might quarantine a village so some fever would burn itself out, but he did so at a distance, never having to hear the moans of the dying or see the haunted faces of survivors. If you have not seen blood, you do not know war. If you do not know war, you cannot make the right decisions in war.
But then, having seen war was no guarantee you’d make the right decisions either.
We threaded our way through the city. The crowds thickened and we had to force our way to the bridge. I felt trapped by bodies pressing in around me. Any second an arrow would find me. A war machine would pluck me up and crush me like Master Jatan.
And, though I fought it, panic won. I shoved my way through the crowd. I was strong and they were weak. Heedless of protests, I reached the bridge and sent my people across. I ran after them and once safely behind the first line of ballistae, I turned, drawn by the screams rising from the south shore.
The kwajiin skirmishers appeared on the rooftops. They nocked arrows and shot, not even bothering to aim. People wailed and surged toward the Dragon Bridge, but Naleni guards had overturned wagons and set them on fire. Still people tried to climb around, and one man even tossed a young boy through the flames. The child landed, miraculously unburned, but broke a leg. Dunos darted out and dragged the child to safety.
Along the River Road, people scrambled over the wall and leaped into the river. At least one man made the mistake of standing when he topped the wall. Two kwajiin arrows lodged in his chest. Some people hit the water badly and never came up again. Bodies bobbed and floated eastward. Other people struck for the northern bank, swimming furiously. Many exhausted themselves, slowly sliding below the grey water.
Kwajiin archers reached the River Road to the east. They set up in a simple line. If swimmers had made it to the middle of the river, they were safe, but those just setting out had a choice of drowning or dying with arrows in their backs.
Then the gyanrigot arrived. A mantis kicked aside the burning wagons. Two ballistae shot. They were not small machines. They’d been loaded with timbers as thick around as my thigh and capped with triangular steel points half a yard long. The first blew through the mantis’ chest, knocking the gyanrigot back several steps before it exploded like a crushed barrel.