Authors: Robert J. Crane
He felt a rueful smile creep across his lips as they made their way back to the palace. A river ran beneath them, the sound of running waters a soothing, calming thing after the crash of battle with a god. “Lady Vara … I cannot imagine anyone I would rather be saved by than you.” He saw her cheek redden, but she hurried her pace before he could so much as inquire about it and he was forced to increase his speed to keep up.
“I feel like I’ve been batted about like a cat’s toy,” Cyrus said, tilting his neck left and right as they stepped through the wrecked front doors of the Grand Palace. Wood and stone were broken here, beams split, splinters jutting out. Cyrus could smell destruction all about, the dust in the air from it. He spat blood upon the ground, realizing a moment later it was a gleaming wood floor, shining from a heavy varnish.
“Charming,” Vara pronounced, more neutrally that he would have expected. “You did get thrown through quite a few walls and doors. I was impressed with your aerodynamic capabilities; perhaps you should consider offering yourself as a projectile to Forrestant should the need arise in the future.”
Cyrus heard the crack of something not quite right in his neck as he moved. “Perhaps after I’m healed, and once we’ve won the battle—”
He was cut off by the wooden wall erupting as something slammed through it, shattering it into fine splinters. A dark shape, considerably taller than Cyrus, skidded to a stop in front of him and let out a deep, bellowing roar, animal fury in search of challenge.
“Whoa, rock giant!” Cyrus said, pointing his sword at Fortin as if he were a horse that needed to be calmed. “Whoa!”
Fortin breathed down upon him with dank breath that nearly caused Cyrus to tear up.
He’s been eating his kills, I would wager.
“Warlord. You have settled your business with the God of Darkness?”
Cyrus stood there for a moment then exchanged a look with Vara; her lips twisted slightly higher in one corner. “She did.” He gestured at her with an elbow.
“The blue fleshlings have fled before us,” Fortin said. “They are broken. And they taste like gnomes.” This he delivered with a certain smiling satisfaction.
“Very good,” Cyrus said, not entirely meaning it. “Where is the rest of the army?”
“Cyrus!” Vaste stepped gently out of the wreckage of the wall that Fortin had cleared. “Where have you been?” His eyes fell to Vara. “And you, too.” He grinned. “Snuck off in the middle of the battle to test out one of the Sovereign’s beds?”
“We killed the God of Darkness, you daft prick,” Vara spat at him. “Where were you?”
“I like how you said, ‘we,’” Cyrus said.
Vara sent Cyrus a look of exasperation. “I could not have done it without you distracting him by being flung through half the walls in the mansion. Oh, and lest we forget, your sword was also helpful in striking his head from his body.”
“I’m just glad I could do my part,” Cyrus said seriously, but the smile snuck out nonetheless.
“Cyrus.” Terian emerged from the rubble behind Fortin, drawing the rock giant’s gaze as though he were prey. “Did you do it?”
“It’s done,” Cyrus said, once more getting an acidic look from Vara. “Well, she did it. But it’s still done.”
The dark knight’s armor was stained with blood that nearly matched its shade. “Good. You should go.”
“Go?” Cyrus stared at him blankly. “Go where?”
“Home,” Terian said, stepping under Fortin’s shadow as he moved toward the shattered doors behind Cyrus.
“How do you intend to get the dark elven army out of Reikonos?” Cyrus asked, suspicion descending upon him like a cloud.
“I can’t yet,” Terian said, taking a step back as Cyrus unfolded his hands. Terian held his own up in surrender. “You killed the Sovereign, but he has servants that do his work for him. I can’t control the army until I’ve dealt with them.”
“We can deal with them together, then,” Vara said, watching the dark knight through smoky eyes.
Terian flashed her a pained smile. “You could. You could run through Saekaj, destroying every great house in turn, killing every soldier, inspiring fear and making them flee before you.”
“Sounds like fun,” Fortin said.
“But …” Terian said, looking at each of them, “… afterward there will be little or nothing left, and no one to command the army to return from Reikonos.”
“I had better hear a plan take flight out of your lips swiftly,” Cyrus said, muted fury beginning to bubble up now. “I came here and did your damned bidding—”
“And you did it beautifully,” Terian said. “But the rest of this? It’s not your fight.” His eyes were gentle, conceding. “This battle is mine, now.”
“I want your word, Terian,” Cyrus said, trying to soothe the rising anger. “That you will fix this. That you will deliver what you promised.”
“I will do it or die trying,” Terian said swiftly.
And true
, Cyrus thought by the look in his eyes.
“You will need help, I think.” A figure slipped out of the shadows, wearing a familiar face. Cyrus blinked; it was the J’anda of old, before he had become frail and worn, life burned out of him by time and effort.
“Aye,” Terian said, nodding. “We will.”
Cyrus looked at Terian with reluctance. “Do I even need to say it?”
“If I don’t get those troops out of Reikonos,” Terian said a little warily, “you won’t need to come looking for me. Believe me on that.”
“Because there will be nothing left of you?” Vara asked, and Cyrus knew she’d caught the hint of truth in the dark knight’s words.
“There are still powerful people invested in keeping Saekaj and Sovar under control,” J’anda said. “They will already be moving to exert that control now that he is dead. Fortunately,” he said with a smile, “I have set a few wheels in motion myself.” He looked to Terian. “Which we should now attend to.”
“Fine,” Cyrus said, feeling his anger coil back down into his belly like a snake going to sleep. “We will leave it in your hands.”
“That’s all I ask,” Terian said, but he wore a grimace, “Brother.”
Cyrus stared at him, unblinking. “Brother,” he finally said, and it was an acknowledgment of its own.
Terian began to turn, J’anda at his side, but he paused just for a moment and looked back at Cyrus. “If you’re … spoiling for a fight …”
Cyrus looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”
Terian stared at him, the wreckage of the palace foyer providing a dark background behind him. The dark knight smiled. “There is … one thing you could do on your way out that would be of immeasurable help …”
“Cyrus.” Curatio’s crisp voice drew Cyrus back to the throne room. He climbed the rubble that remained of the broken doors, admiring the place where the God of Darkness had tossed him through the wood. The healer’s hand glowed as Cyrus entered, Vara shoving her way through the rubble behind him. “Are you all right?”
Cyrus felt the healing spell run over him, felt the remaining wounds and pains decrease in their forcefulness. His eyes fell from the healer to the ragged figure at his feet, the goddess who had been near-drained. “I’m fine. Is she all right?”
“She is alive,” Curatio said cautiously.
“Which begs the question,” Vara said, looking to Cyrus, “how are you?”
Cyrus frowned. “He just asked me that. I’m fine.”
“No,” Vara said, shaking her head.
“No, I’m not fine?” Cyrus stared at her. “Pretty sure I’m okay. The pains are gone, except for those little phantom ones that stick around after a heal—”
“No, how are you alive?” Vara asked him crossly. “The blows of gods shatter mortal men into pieces.”
Cyrus stared at her eyes, then looked to Curatio. “This is true. Mortus broke me as I recall; I was only spared by your timely spell.” He glanced at Vara. “How did you survive?”
“He never hit me,” she said, with a cocked eyebrow. “Unlike yourself, I move out of the way of killing blows.”
“How peculiar,” Curatio said, drawing the attention of them both as he knelt next to the throne, his eyes dancing to Cyrus only for a moment. “Is that new chainmail that you wear?”
“Yeah, it’s—” Cyrus paused midsentence. “How the—?”
“I am no blacksmith,” Curatio said, staring at the fallen form of the Goddess of Life, mostly hidden behind the throne, “but I do know quartal when I see it.”
Cyrus’s fingers ran over the smooth links under his gauntleted fingers. “Quartal?”
“Someone must be fond of you,” Curatio said, “that’s a fortune in the metal.”
Cyrus felt his lips open slightly, and he caught the questioning look from Vara. He abruptly cleared his throat and came around the throne to lay eyes upon the fallen goddess. “How is she?”
“Drained,” Curatio said, running his thin fingers through her silver hair. “Though I am at a bit of a loss to explain how exactly this was performed.”
“Using this,” came a voice from behind the throne. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor and rolling, like a rock on stone, the crackle of its surface running toward them. It caught the torchlight as it came to a stop at Curatio’s feet, a ruby the size of a head, gleaming, almost glowing even in the faded light.
“Slattern,” Vara hissed.
Cyrus caught sight of Aisling holding her place against the far wall, standing in a doorway, silhouetted against the darkness behind her. “What are you doing here?”
“Heard the hubbub,” she said, staring at them from a safe distance. Cyrus wondered at the curious way she held her body; not just standoffish but wounded, like she’d had something broken. A thin trickle of dark blue blood ran down the corner of her mouth. “Came running.”
“Were you already here?” Cyrus asked, finding his way to his feet to stand next to Vara. The darkness hung in the throne room, and he cast a glance to his side to see others easing into the doors slowly, Martaina among them. Her bow was unslung, an arrow already nocked and ready to fire. She moved for a better angle; Aisling was not exposed, standing as she was just inside the doorframe.
“Does it matter?” Aisling asked, weary. “Take the Red Destiny. See if you can restore some of the souls to her. It might aid her recovery.”
“Do you think a pretty bauble will make us forget what you’ve done?” Vara bristled.
“Why would you forget it?” Aisling asked through thin, unsmiling lips. “It’s not like I can.”
“Why?” Cyrus asked; he started to reconsider, to ask something else, but he realized that it was the only question that mattered.
“He took someone dear to me,” Aisling said. Her eyes were haunted, still, her catlike motions all gone. The way she stood was like a person broken.
“And you very nearly took one dear to me,” Vara said.
Cyrus looked over at her, blinking. “Did you just say …?”
“Hush.”
Aisling did not smile, and her answer was bitter. “I could apologize, but I’ll be honest—”
“For the first time ever?” Vara asked.
“I didn’t mind beating you for him,” Aisling said. “Of all the things I was told to do, fighting with you over him was the sweetest, because you don’t normally lose.” Her eyes flashed purple in the dark. “How did it feel?”
“How will it feel when I kill you?” Vara shot back.
“Like nothing,” Aisling said quietly, and she started to fade into the shadows.
“Wait,” Cyrus called. “Your … love? Your friend? What happened to them?”
She half-emerged, face still shrouded in shadow. “I don’t know.”
“You can’t think you’re just going to walk out of here—” Vara said.
“Let her go,” Cyrus said.
“You cannot be serious,” Vara hissed at him. “This is the second person who has attempted to kill you that you have let walk away in the last year. Any more and I will start to suspect that you truly do wish to die—”
“You killed the one who tried to kill me,” Cyrus said, peeling his eyes from Aisling to look at Vara. “She was no more than the hand of Yartraak, else she’d have finished the job. She certainly had the chance.”
Aisling watched him from the shadows. “Do you expect me to thank you?”
“I’d say you’ve shown me your gratitude over the last year in every way I could possibly handle,” Cyrus said with a twist of the knife. She did not flinch from his words. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”
She disappeared into the darkness and the door shut behind her. She said something, but he did not catch it.
“Damned right,” Vara muttered, drawing his eyes to her.
“What did she say?” Cyrus asked, frowning.
“I need to get the Goddess of Life back to her realm,” Curatio said from behind them. He had her clutched in strong arms; she was small, thin, waif-like.
Like Aisling
, Cyrus thought, wishing he could drive the thought out a moment after it came to him.
“Can you do that yourself?” Cyrus asked, staring at the healer behind the darkened throne. It sat empty, but it still stole his attention, making him look it over once before his eyes returned to Curatio.
“Of course,” Curatio said.
“It’s a little hostile in there, wouldn’t you say?” Vaste called from his place at the far end of the room. “Angry squirrels and whatnot.”
“With the death of he who I suspect caused the curse,” Curatio said, hefting the goddess in his arms, adjusting as though she were more than the light weight she appeared to be, “I do not think that will be a problem any longer. She draws strength from her realm, and her reappearance will help put it back into order.” He stared at Cyrus. “The question is … what do you mean to do?”
Cyrus stared at him and narrowed his eyes.
Did he hear my conversation with Terian all the way in here?
“One last thing,” he said, “on our way out.” He let his hand drift to Praelior. “One last task left unfinished that we could do to … make Arkaria a better place.”
Curatio nodded once, the hint of a smile at his lips enough of a sign that Cyrus was certain he knew. “Good luck,” the healer said, and disappeared in the twinkle of spell light.
“Where’s the army?” Cyrus asked, not wasting a moment.
Odellan slipped out of the shadows near the door. “We have roughly one thousand with us, Guildmaster. The rest are waiting in the main hall at Sanctuary, ready to be deployed anywhere we can teleport them.” The elven officer stood, stiff, as though waiting for an order. “What are your intentions, Lord Davidon?”