The New World

He worked his way across the floor to a small bench. Borosan Gryst sat hunched over a drawing. He waited, hoping Borosan would notice him. When the inventor did not, Ciras remained quiet. He’d seen Borosan concentrate like that before. He had learned to respect it as much as Borosan had respected his training regimen.

The crash of metal from deeper within the factory brought Borosan’s head up. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. “Ciras? Master Dejote?”

Ciras nodded. “I wanted to speak with you. I have wronged you. I accused you of wanting to make me into a monster. Though I am half a man, I thought you wanted to take that away from me.”

“No, Ciras, that was never what I wanted.”

The swordsman raised his left hand. The arrow wound was still healing. “I know.”

Borosan shook his head. “I didn’t think, Ciras. I have become consumed with my machines. I see the elegance and intricacy. When I make something move, it excites me. And your wound grieved me. I wanted to help so I…Well, I disregarded everything you ever said about gyanrigot. I know you hate them. They have no judgment, they can only follow orders.”

Ciras nodded. “And all the command-slates in the world will never equal what a man knows in his heart and head.”

“Well, actually, I am working on some small gyanrigot that can write in very tiny script on command-slates, so there are more orders…but, well, that isn’t really practical right now.”

“And you are correct, Borosan. I hate gyanrigot because they have no judgment. They have not learned the things I have learned. They do not know to make the decisions I know to make. That’s not your fault. It is not a failing of your work; it is just the conditions of the machines.”

Borosan nodded. “Perhaps someday.”

“Perhaps indeed.” Ciras shook his head. “Someday, however, will not come soon enough to stop Nelesquin.”

“You’re right.”

“I know. This is why I’ve come to you.” Ciras threw his cloak back with his half arm. “Make your measurement. I have the judgment your machines lack. Right now, I am half a man. Make me a whole swordsman again, and we’ll live to see your someday.”

TheNewWorld

Chapter Forty-eight

35th 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

Quoraxan (The Fifth Hell)

The demons of the Fifth Hell launched themselves at Jorim and Talrisaal. They filled the bowl and choked the air above the burning lake. All scaly skin and irregular ebon teeth, with blazing black eyes and talons that put a Viruk’s claws to shame, the demons came for the two magicians, undaunted by the sudden appearance of their wings.

Jorim immediately folded his wings and dropped toward the lake like a stone. Claws tore at his clothes but missed the flesh beneath. Part of him wanted to conjure magic armor, but all the armor in the world wouldn’t kill demons, and killing them was the key to getting free.

If, of course, they actually can be killed.

He put the consequences of that idea out of his mind and snapped his wings open barely twenty feet above the burning lake. He swooped back toward the falls, diving through a sheet of flame, then summoned magic and pushed hard. His head came up and he shot skyward.

The demons winging hard after him couldn’t follow that sharp a turn. They plunged straight into the falls. One or two burning bodies rebounded from the cliff and trailed oily black smoke down to the lake. There was no telling if they were dead or not.

Talrisaal opted for armor and found a way to destroy demons. He surrounded himself with a blue sphere upon which the demons descended immediately. Once they’d covered it in a living carpet, blue spikes shot up and out, impaling them. The sphere then tripled in size, becoming a hexagonal lattice spiking at each point. A similar, marginally smaller lattice caged the Viruk.

Demons flung the bodies of their incapacitated comrades away and squeezed through the first lattice and started on the second. Talrisaal gave a wave of his hand and the second lattice started spi

That gave Jorim an idea. He flew up to the mouth of the river and the demons came after him. Just as they reached his altitude, he ripped a hole into Wandao. The river gushed, bringing with it a storm of the copper ants. Wet and angry, they poured over the demons, biting flesh and gnawing through wings. Thousands of demons fell to the fiery lake.

Jorim smiled. “We might get out of here.”

The Viruk shook his head. “This isn’t a lake. It’s a womb.”

Demons crawled from the lake like insects emerging from cocoons. Some now had copper mandibles. Other sported extra pairs of limbs. Some were even wreathed in flame. Whatever had killed them just made them stronger, and they were still intent on ripping the two companions apart.

A new flight of demons launched itself, then something odd happened. A volley of arrows arched up over the basin lip. Some demons, stuck through, spiraled down into the flames. Others fell to the ground and melted away.

More took to the air, but odd, winged creatures-apes of an emerald hue-soared up to engage them. The fleet among them flew high and hurled rocks, while the heavier ones soared up to meet the demons retreating from the stones. Demons and apes both fell, but far more of the demons.

Then below, ten-foot-long lizards poured into the basin. Sharp teeth filled their mouths. One lunged high enough to pluck a demon from the air. The lizards munched and demons screamed.

“If they don’t make it back into the lake, they’re not reborn!”

Jorim nodded to his companion. “That could be, but I’m not eating them.”

“Jorim!”

Jorim’s jaw dropped open, and it wasn’t just the giant hammer-headed ape cresting the basin, or the fact it had a demon clutched in a paw like a snack. The beast had been fitted with a bridle and he knew the driver saddled between its shoulder blades.

He swooped down immediately. “Nirati!” He avoided the ape’s slothful swipe at him, and landed on its spine. “How?”

“I knew you were in trouble. I came to help. Kunjiqui has a gate to the Underworld.” She beamed. “Here we are.”

In the wake of the lizards’ sweep rode a company of the oddest mounted archers Jorim had ever hoped to see. Blue-ski

Jorim looked at the man. “Prince Pyrust?”

The charioteer nodded. “We can’t stay here. They will overwhelm us eventually.”

Nirati pointed off to an odd blue spot. “We came in through there. It will take us back to Kunjiqui.”

Jorim shook his head. “We can’t escape. We have to push on through the last Hells. Nessagafel, the first god, wishes to undo all of creation and remake everything. He’ll succeed unless we stop him.”

Pyrust ran a hand over his jaw. “Fight our way through the Hells so we can assault the Heavens and throw down a god?”

Talrisaal nodded. “As daunting as that sounds…”

Pyrust laughed. “Not daunting, challenging. A worthy fight for a worthy reason. What have we got to lose? We’re already dead, and if we fail, we’ll be unmade with the rest of creation? Lead on.”

TheNewWorld