Two men replied, “Hit, Lord!” Two more declared,
“Standing by to launch, Lord.”
“Did we actual y accomplish anything?”
“The demon is burning, Lord.”
Lord Ssu-ma scooted over while the other targeteer reported, “The animal is going down, Lord, damaged but stil struggling.”
“Launch number four.” This fol ow-up was the shot that would irk the Empress most. He moved in behind the specialist tracking the demon. “That is impressive.” A vast patch of sky had become a thunderhead of hazy, oily fire.
The technician, so excited he failed to maintain his composure, declared, “That is screaming amazing, Lord!
We caught it completely by surprise!”
“Yes. If he sends another, though, expect it to be prepared.” Shih-ka’i was nearly as awed. He had not kil ed a demon before, nor had he watched one die. And this was a major demon. This would get attention across this world and on other planes. Could Old Meddler watch without the Windmjirnerhorn? If not, he would be lost. He had sent a king demon, yet would hear nothing back.
No. Wrong. He would hear, eventual y. The demon’s kin would clue him in when he decided to send another. They would show him, when they refused to be condemned to an identical fate. Maybe they would be intimidated to the point where they would abandon the weakened him altogether.
Compulsion could be counted on only so far.
There would be no powerful demonic urge toward revenge.
Revenge was not, general y, something that drove demonkind. Social y, they interacted more like crocodiles than primates.
Shih-ka’i moved to the man tracking the winged horse in time to catch the second weapon in its final approach.
“Shield eyes!” he barked.
The winged horse was only twenty miles away now, and just two hundred feet up. The flare even generated a mild shock wave.
“Hit again, Lord. It was more ready... Oh! It crashed. I’l zero in when my eyes adjust.”
Shih-ka’i studied the downed horse. Its one wing was partial y crisped and probably broken. Its right foreleg was broken for sure. It tried to walk but could not. Neither could it get airborne. The farseer conveyed no sound so Lord Ssuma could not hear its screams. He observed, “I don’t see the Horn.”
“Underneath it, Lord. And damaged. It started smoldering after the first shaft hit.” The technician backed the viewpoint off. A scatter of debris stretched along the animal’s line of flight for half a mile. It looked like al the goods of a grand bazaar had been spewed across the rocky countryside.
Some scrubby bushes wore tattered silk. The mess would be more striking once the sun rose. “It appears to have puked tons of random stuff.”
Shih-ka’i nodded. “How far? I’d like to go see—if it’s reasonably close.”
“That’s just across the river.” The technician drew the view back. “It’s there. We’re here. Six miles?”
“Fine. Excel ent, in fact. Lord Chu. Let’s go meet a legend face to face.”
“As you command, Lord.” Lo Kuun lacked enthusiasm. He preferred to use another shaft and make absolutely sure.
...
Ragnarson demanded, “If you’ve got weapons that ferociously powerful why use them way out there instead of throwing them at himself? You could…”
“Exactly the sort of point the Tervola would raise to argue that a girl shouldn’t be in charge. Ignoring the practicalities. Like there were only nine shafts available and al of those were on the frontier, whence they would have to be transported close enough to shoot at himself. He took a shortcut getting to Throyes. We can’t shortcut those things.
Normal y, in fact, they’re made where they’re going to be used.”
Ragnarson was not mol ified, nor was he ready to take that at face value. She had known she had those weapons from the start. Had she not? She should have started moving them months ago…
Maybe she had not known. Such weapons might be hoarded jealously by those who control ed them. Plus, there would have been no way to know where they would be needed before the need arose. Right?
He needed to think more before he barked.
...
Old Meddler sensed disaster even before his attempt to conjure another supernatural soldier produced a demon messenger who delivered visual proof.
He watched his hunter burn. He watched his old friend, twice hit, go down so violently that no protective spel was enough.
Nor was the Windmjirnerhorn engineered to survive such punishment. Chunks came off, some aflame. A gout of miscel any, literal y dozens of tons, spewed out, including sparkling new coins, casks of wine, clothing, a carpet fifty feet long and twenty wide. Weapons. Shoes. Several living things. A fine art sculpture the size of an iron statue.
It was his own worst disaster since his condemnation to this horrible plane, happening almost casual y. Absent the Horn…
He had to stop it. Al of it. Now. He had to take time out to reflect seriously, not just about how to survive in times to come but about what this al meant in the grander scheme.
He was not watching a chance encounter go foul. That was an ambush. Tervola had been in place and waiting, armed with the most ferocious weapon in their arsenal. That they had been waiting told a hundred tales— none of them happy for the Star Rider.
The product of the combined equations was that that the Star Rider needed to leave the stage immediately, abandoning the play while it was in progress. Any other course would lead to the end of everything.
They would be waiting at Fangdred, Varthlokkur and the she-Tervola. They had been ahead of him most of the way.
They had immense resources, some of which he had remained unaware.
Al that was obvious. He did not send demons to spy. There was no point. They would be prepared for that, too.
The messenger demon brought word of Varthlokkur’s raid into the Place of the Iron Statues, further proving that the enemy had exceptional resources and impossible knowledge. Varthlokkur might reasonably remember that the Place existed but how could he possibly know how to get past the safeguards to do the damage that he had done? Could it be that the Unborn was that much more powerful than anyone had imagined?
Old Meddler sighed. He slumped. The long struggle might be over— with him as the loser.
Not yet! No. He had options. Again, the best was just to hide til today’s devils died and their knowledge faded.
They always did die. The knowledge always did fade—
though this time could be the exception.
Was there any real point? His enemies had eliminated his last few tools. With no Horn, no horse, and the Place in shambles, he had nothing left but time.
There was one final refuge, beneath the Mountains of the Thousand Sorcerers. He had not gone there since his effort to ready the Disciple for his role. He could head for the Horned Mountain now and let himself be wrapped in the arms of his lover, Time, underneath, til he could emerge and amaze and terrify tomorrow with his return. He would have to do so armed only with Magden Norath’s grim journals, because there were almost no resources cached in that deep labyrinth. He knew not why. Those choices had not been made by him.
But. The Horned Mountain was a long way south, through deserts and mountains, a harsh passage for a man several thousand years old.
Also… Varthlokkur real y had invaded the Place. How much damage had he done? Had he broken any chains? Had he cracked any confining wal s? If he had done more than just finish off already damaged iron statues, things could begin to come apart in a huge way. And the warder in charge, the warder once able to handle it al with ease,
