“Don’t be, Dunos. I met your grandfather, remember? He was worthy of tears. Your father as well-your whole family. You’re right to mourn.”

“I hate the vhangxi.”

“You’re not alone.”

Dunos pressed his lips into a tight line. “Why didn’t I die?”

I shook my head. “I do not know, Dunos. I know you wish your family was alive. Why Grija takes one person and not another is a mystery only the gods can answer.”

“A witch in our village said I was Grija’s pet.” Dunos spat to his left. “I hate him, too.”

I smiled. “I expect you’re his worst nightmare, young man.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re young, you’re brave, you’re certainly not afraid of him, and others can learn from your example.” I narrowed my eyes. “He’s never been my favorite god.”

“Why not?”

“He may be the god of Death, but what does he do? He takes the weak and defenseless. He skulks.” I touched the hunting tiger emblazoned on my robe. “Chado is a true hunter. Wentoki the Dragon is courageous. Even the Virine bear is steadfast and strong, and Kojai is the dog of War. He’s worthy of worship, but not Grija.”

Dunos shivered. “But Grija can trap you in any of the Nine Hells.”

“After what we’ve seen? How scary will that be?” I shrugged. “Besides, we will have other gods to help us into Kianmang. That’s where warriors are supposed to go.”

Dunos smiled. “And I can get in there even with my arm?”

“I will guarantee it.” I winked at him. “I’ll tell the gods you were so great a warrior you only needed one arm.”

He laughed and I joined him. It felt good to be laughing. The sound banished the last lingering bits of malevolence left over from the battle.

“One thing is very important, Dunos.”

The boy nodded. “What, Master?”

“You have to keep hoping. The vhangxi killed your parents, but we don’t know that they got Matut. He may be out there looking for you.”

The boy considered, then nodded. “And that’s why we kill the monsters. To keep him safe.”

“Him and everyone like him.”

Dunos stood and hauled himself up to look over the battlements. “They’ll be coming again, won’t they?”

“And they will be ready to destroy us.”

“Will they?” He lowered himself and stared at me.

“Tsatol Deraelkun was meant to discourage invaders, but no one ever imagined it would stop them. The kwajiin have taken Kelewan and who knows how much more. If they bring their full force to bear, this fortress will fall.”

The boy frowned for a moment, then looked up at me. “Now that you have these swords, you have no use for your others, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll get them. You can start teaching me.” He nodded solemnly. “Teach me well. If I’m going to Kianmang, I’m going as a swordsman.”

TheNewWorld

Chapter Seven

22nd 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

Tolwreen, Ixyll

Ciras Dejote wished he had stuck to his principles and refused to ride one of the gyanrigot mounts. Borosan had been correct. The constructs could go further and faster than horses. A virtue, certainly, but training ate up time that would have better been spent on the road home.

The problem lay in figuring out how the things actually worked. Borosan started from the assumption that they were similar to his thanatons. He created control-slates to command them, which they dutifully obeyed. Still, the devices did nothing to provide for interaction with a rider.

Thus began a second phase of testing and instruction that revealed the variety of hidden abilities the mounts possessed. When a rider swung into the saddle, for example, armored plates fanned out from the mount’s shoulders to protect his legs. This led Borosan to examine the creations even more closely. He modified control-slates so the mounts would respond to pressure on switches: if a rider pressed in with a left knee, the mount would turn right-and the amount of pressure would determine how tight the turn would be.

And they could be quite tight. Ciras shifted his shoulders. The bruising was almost gone, but some of the stiffness remained. He’d decided to see how sharply one of the mounts could turn midgallop. He dug his right knee in hard. The gyanrigot pivoted on its left fore-hoof and came about immediately, launching Ciras into the air. He hit hard on his back and bounced, then found the mount standing there, stock-still.

Borosan had helped him to his feet. “It would seem, Master Dejote, the gyanrigot are capable of things humans cannot withstand. I will make sure that will not happen again.”

“No. Make no changes to hobble the mounts.”

The inventor looked askance at him. “I thought you did not like these things.”

“I do not. But I would not ask a swordsmith to dull a blade because a clumsy student might cut himself.”

So as much as he disliked the metal mounts, he forced himself to master riding one. He pushed himself to become the expert, and then helped instruct others. He even made suggestions to Borosan that further refined the mounts’ capabilities.

He enjoyed training the others; it made him feel worthy. He turned in the saddle as they rode through a glass valley in Ixyll and studied the twisted reflections of the heroes. Three companies of warriors, Mystics all, who had survived the battle with the Turasynd and the Cataclysm. These were people who had been legends in the Empire. They had kept faith with their leader, and over seven hundred years later answered the call to duty once again.

Vlay Laedhze rode up beside him, his shaved head protected by a leather helmet. “You seem amused, Master Dejote.”

Ciras shook his head. “More amazed. I have long dreamed of being a hero. I wanted to be worthy to have served with you. Even so, I cannot imagine doing what you have done.”

“Surviving? Remaining faithful?” The elder warrior shrugged. “These are really little things. Survival, well…is there another choice? Survival depends so much on chance. Why would an arrow take a man standing beside me and not me? Arrows do not target the virtuous or the malign; and those shot in volleys fall without the true intent of the archer.”

The man smiled slightly. “And faith, how difficult is that? You make a decision and you choose not to question it. You honor the wisdom you exhibited when you made the choice.”

“And what if it was a mistake?”

“Then you must honor the wisdom that has shown you the mistake. You rectify it.”

“That is not always easy.”

“Do you think you have made a mistake, Master Dejote?”

Ciras spat disgustedly, then patted the neck of the mount he rode. “I am astride one of these.”

Vlay laughed. “It’s been a long while since I have been in the saddle, but I have no complaints. This is as fine a horse as I have ever ridden.”

“But, Master, it is not a horse. It is a machine. A monster.”

“And you find you like it.”

“Yes.” Ciras shook his head. “These gyanrigot, they are evil, they truly are. They put magic in the hands of those who do not have the discipline to control it. They are a danger.”

“A danger to whom, Ciras?”

“To the world. To peace. Things like this mount, or a gyanrigot sword, or one of Borosan’s thanatons, can convince anyone that he is a warrior. Armies can be raised and equipped and nations can be destroyed.”

“And how is this different from the magic you possess?”

“I have spent years perfecting my skills. I am aware of what I can do, how badly I can hurt others.”

“And have you ever attacked anyone without just cause?”

Ciras shook his head. “Of course not.”

“Then you are a very fortunate man.” Vlay gestured toward the east. “You were raised to see us as heroes, but we were-and still are-humans like you. We have made mistakes. Take the Turasynd war, for example. The Turasynd invaded, but why? Are they just evil, raiding for the sake of plunder?”