The two of them flew at each other, a golden bear battling a fearsome tiger. Blades blurred, the skirling of parries becoming a constant hiss broken only by the whistle of missed slashes or the clang of sword on sword. Bits of fabric floated free as near misses carved cloth instead of flesh.
Ciras watched slack-jawed. Warriors flowed from Wolf to Dragon, Tiger to Scorpion, Crane to Dog and back again. Blades licked as flame, missing by hair’s-breadths. It seemed impossible that they would miss, but somehow a warrior would flow around a crosscut blow or twist away from a slash. They’d become two beings of energy, mixing, twisting, and flowing around each other.
And then the pattern broke. Moraven spun down on his knees and thrust both swords forward. The blades plunged deep into Nelesquin’s guts and the points emerged from his back.
The Prince roared with fury and brought his sword down twice. The hilt cracked Moraven’s right arm, then his left, breaking his grip. Nelesquin’s sword flicked out once more in a slash that should have taken Moraven’s head off, but the Prince shifted at the last second. Instead it laid open Moraven’s right breast and shoulder.
“You are most tiresome, Virisken!” Nelesquin plucked one sword from his belly and cast it aside. He followed with the second. “That is a fault of your birth. Tainted blood. And you dared think you could be Emperor? You’re a fool. You always have been.”
Moraven raised a broken arm to staunch his bleeding. “I killed you before.”
“Yes, yes. Crow about the last battle. You’ve not won this time.” Nelesquin retreated to his throne and sagged back, leaving Moraven alone in the circle of flame. “I should kill you now, but I want to watch her face when you die. You’ll end up in Hell together, along with your Prince Cyron. Actually, he should be there by now, and the last hope of Moriande goes with him.”
There he stood, Prince Cyron. One-armed though he was, a tower of strength in a hive of chaos. Clerks ran in, ministers, too, bearing reports. The Prince didn’t even deign to look at them. Some he touched, some he just waved at, then issued orders like divine pronouncements. The same clerks turned and fled, hastening to follow orders they couldn’t even be certain they’d heard.
Prince Eiran sat beside Cyron. The Helosundian took the papers, read them quickly, and sorted them into piles. He probably didn’t even recognize it in himself, but he was understanding what each paper said based on Cyron’s understanding. He had truly learned well from the Naleni Prince and was capable of mastering the same art as Cyron.
It really didn’t matter.
Minister Pelut Vniel moved through the chaos unnoticed and unchallenged. He, too, had mastered arts, and one was the art of belonging. No matter where he found himself, he could make others believe he belonged. No one would question him.
No one would stop him.
He reached Cyron’s side. “Highness, do you remember the knife you sent me?”
Cyron’s eyes blinked.
Pelut Vniel drove the knife straight into Cyron’s heart.
And twisted.
The butterfly had led him on a bit of a chase through the tower. It ended in a room that Dunos entered through a four-foot-high passage. The room’s far side had a semicircular lattice of gold bars cutting it roughly in half. Beyond the bars lay many treasures. Chests of spices filled the air with exotic aromas that made it easy to forget about tzaden flowers and sewers. Exotic weapons were stacked here and there amid chests of gold coins. Dunos imagined the butterfly might have brought him there so he could choose a better weapon, but that was a waste of time.
He’d never give up the sword Master Tolo had given him.
The butterfly alighted on the gold bars, but a buzzing sound beyond it focused Dunos on the human skull mounted on a pedestal. The skull had been covered in gold and set with gems. Dunos guessed it might have been pretty. He didn’t like the empty eye sockets, didn’t want anything to do with it, but the skull buzzed.
He came right up to the bars. The buzzing resolved itself into words. “You are most tiresome, Virisken! That is a fault of your birth. Tainted blood. And you dared think you could be Emperor? You’re a fool. You always have been.”
Dunos snarled. “He’s not a fool. My master is not a fool!”
The skull didn’t answer him. It just stared at him, the bared teeth a contemptuous grin.
Anger boiling over, Dunos raised his withered left fist high and brought it down as hard as he could. The skull cracked, then bounced off the pedestal. It spun slowly, the jaw falling free, then hit the floor. It exploded, spilling the black and white stones filling it all over the floor.
Dunos looked around, then nodded. “No more stupid buzzing.” Then he shivered.
There was no more buzzing, but he seemed to remember that, when he hit it, the skull screamed.
TheNewWorld
Chapter Fifty-five
4th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Zhangjian (The Place Between)
The trek across the last of Chong-to was accomplished with a minimum of effort and few losses. Warring bands crippled their enemies, then held them in thrall, enjoying their pain. It was hardly conduct that would win release, but this new consolidation of power occupied the bands enough that they let Jorim’s army travel unmolested.
Jorim passed first through the shimmering veil that separated the First Hell from Zhangjian. The Place Between served as an entryway to the realms of the supernatural. It lay parallel to the physical world, and was everything it was not. Dark and empty, without form or substance, it proved unsettling for everyone. Something supported their feet, but no one could tell what it was. Shimik tried to dig in it but didn’t get very far. Riders had to dismount to lead reluctant beasts, and the Nighfor found it too disorienting even to attempt to fly.
The gateway to the Heavens awaited in the distance and this made Jorim suspicious. “There is no reason for the perception of distance, save that someone wishes us to feel far from our goal.”
Talrisaal nodded. “Nessagafel.”
Pyrust did not let the plane’s featurelessness daunt him. He formed his army up, using the Naleni and Amentzutl troops as his center, with the hart-cavalry split on each wing, and the lizards flanking them. The Nighfor waited in reserve, along with the hammer-headed apes.
Something glimmered ahead in the darkness. Jorim started to run, but reached it in two steps. Crumpled in a bloody robe decorated with bats on the wing, Tsiwen lay largely still. Pinpoint wounds from ant bites covered her visible flesh. Her throat and face had been raked with thorns. Her robe covered her belly, but she’d clearly been disemboweled.
Jorim dropped to a knee and felt her throat for a pulse. The gesture was ridiculous. Tsiwen had no more need for a pulse than she did a physical form. Talrisaal appeared on her other side.
Jorim looked up. “You wanted to know why Nessagafel didn’t know I’d escaped him? She took my place. I can’t imagine…”
“Magic works here. I can help her.”
“Please, do.” Jorim caressed her cheek. “We’d not have gotten even this far save that she fooled him.”
“But not for long enough, Wentoki.”
A young man materialized past Talrisaal. He was the child Nessagafel had been, now grown. He stood naked save for a black ring around his little finger. “You have been quite audacious, my son. I have not had time to fully assess the damage you’ve done. But it matters not, since I will unmake all of this. When I start over, I’ll bring you back and make a special Hell just for you.”
He raised one hand and Tsiwen twitched. Her eyes jerked open. She flew upright, limp as a puppet, her intestines tangling in her legs. With every finger Nessagafel flexed she danced-at times clumsy, others seductively, all the while her head lolling and jaw bouncing open.