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.

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.

TheNewWorld

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.