Call of the Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  “Come now, Curatio,” Cyrus said, stepping out from behind the archway, a glint of amusement in his eyes. The sharp intake of breath from the returning members of Sanctuary – and one new arrival, a petite woman with black hair and a brown coat that had the same look about her as Dugras – was worth the wait.

  Except one. Vara evinced no gasp, just a hard look at him, a steely one that reminded him of all the years before they'd gotten together, how she'd looked at him in those days, those difficult days, before—

  And with that, she broke and crossed the distance between them, almost slamming into him as a battering ram into a door. Her arms clutched round him tight, strong, and she actually lifted him off his feet for the briefest of moments, and it was Cyrus's turn to gasp.

  “You see?” Vara asked, when his feet met ground again, and she turned to the others, turned to them but didn't let him go. “I told you he wasn't dead.”

  “How could I be?” Cyrus asked, surveying the others with that same glint of amusement. “After all, to quote a certain rock giant...'Legends never die'.”

  Chapter 12

  “Well, I was going to ask you to prove you weren't Malpravus in disguise,” Vaste said, as Vara finally let go of Cyrus with one arm, leaving the other draped around his waist, “but given the necromancer's inability to come close to matching Longwell's face, I doubt he could even come close to reproducing your arrogant, swollen, misshapen head.”

  “I would have just replied to that request by mentioning your beautiful apple of an arse,” Cyrus said, leaving his own arm draped around his wife's small shoulders.

  “Which would have proven nothing except that you have eyes,” Vaste said, “because the beauty of my arse is obvious to all who witness it.”

  Birissa rolled her eyes at this. “I've told you before, it's all right, but you really need to firm things up back there.”

  “So painful,” Vaste clutched his chest. “Also, my wounds still hurt.”

  “It's good to see you returned to us, brother,” Alaric said, leaving behind the dark-haired woman who had followed in his wake to reach out to Cyrus. He offered a handshake, and Cyrus returned it, pumping the Ghost's arm as he was pulled down into a back-slapping hug. Cyrus felt the clang of the Ghost's gauntlet on his back, some real strength to it, but affection, too, and it took the breath from him for one reason or another. “How did you survive the fall?” he asked, once he'd let Cyrus go.

  “Falcon's Essence on the way down,” Cyrus said. “It was still a little rough. Needed some healing when I got back here, because I bled myself dry of magic trying to fix it en route. And I ran into some Machine troubles after I landed.”

  “Nothing you couldn't handle after falling out of the sky, I trust?” Curatio asked, a small smile of amusement plastered on the elf's wry face. “Your legend seems to be growing for good reason.”

  “I had a little help on that,” Cyrus said, turning to look into the Great Hall, where Guy was frozen over the table, half a leg of mutton hanging out of his mouth. “Vara, Alaric – do you remember Guy?”

  “Isn't that the weasel we interrogated at the coal yard?” Vara asked, finally letting her arm slip from Cyrus's waist. It fell to the hilt of Ferocis on her belt, and the sword was in her hand in an instant.

  “Indeed,” Cyrus said, keeping his arm firmly around her shoulder to keep her from lunging at Guy. “It seems he might be as hated by the Machine as we are at this point.”

  “We can't all be as well-loved as the actual Davidon,” Guy said, giving Cyrus a sour look.

  “Not when you're thieving and working for the Machine, no,” Vara said succinctly.

  “I find myself wondering why you've brought a Machine thug here,” Curatio said, eyebrow quite elevated.

  Cyrus just smiled. “I was trying to be very Alaric about this. Forgiveness and helping-hands-to-those-in-need and whatnot.”

  Alaric's brow was a bedeviled curve as he studied Guy. “When have you ever seen me attempt to convince our enemies to join us?”

  “He hasn't joined us, exactly. He helped me hobble back and now he's helping himself to some food.” Cyrus gave the former Machine thug a sideways look. “Besides, he had nowhere else to go and we're a haven for the helpless, aren't we?”

  “Also, he couldn't walk on your own,” Guy said, irritation causing his voice to rise. “So unless his plan was to crawl back, 'e needed my help.”

  “There was that,” Cyrus said, “and you did a marvelous job, Guy.” It was Cyrus's turn to frown. “How did you get out of the Citadel alive, may I ask? Did you finally kill Malpravus and end our thousand-year nightmare?”

  “Our nightmare with Malpravus is never over,” Vaste said, “and also, I demand that all of you—” He caught a fierce look from Curatio, “with the exception of the murderous, angry elven healer – collect all your gold and bring it to me right now. Come on. I'm waiting.”

  “You'll be waiting quite a while, I expect,” Curatio answered, still sounding quite hacked off in spite of being excluded.

  “There was quite a bit of spellcraft thrown around in the Citadel tower after you left,” Hiressam said, looking over his sword, which he had drawn, the point resting lightly against the floor, his hands on the hilt. He had surprising balance, leaning against it, at the ready. He glanced at Shirri and Pamyra. “Your help would have been well appreciated had you been with us. Curatio made a worthy effort, but—”

  “I was overwhelmed with Malpravus's power,” Curatio said, ire not fading from his last irritable statement. Indeed, it seemed to ramp up a notch. “The only good news is that if he survived, and I suspect he did, he may indeed be depleted enough that he will not be as much of a threat in the short term.”

  “But in the long term...?” Vaste asked.

  “He could annihilate us all,” Curatio said, sighing. “And on that note, I need rest. Let me know if you all decide to do something foolish which will require me to rescue you, for I feel I will be unable to attend any such event for several hours yet.” He walked past them all and threw himself upon one of the sofas in the lounge without a further word. Gentle snores radiated out of the room only seconds later.

  “That was fast,” Guy said.

  “So how did you escape the Citadel?” Cyrus asked, still frowning.

  “Cyrus, allow me to introduce you to Captain Mazirin of the Yuutshee,” Alaric said, indicating the newcomer in the long coat. Her eyes were fiery, probing, and immediately made Cyrus feel more than a little discomfited. “She is Dugras's captain, and brought her airship alongside the Citadel to rescue us—”

  “You flew out of the Citadel in an airship?” Cyrus asked, jaw dropping. “Damn. I miss all the good times.”

  “That does sound a fair sight better than tangling with Machine goombas in an alleyway,” Guy said, then sidled toward Captain Mazirin. “Say, you don't happen to be leaving this port soon with a little room on your ship for a passenger, do you? I travel light.” He waved a hand over himself, shaking his shoulder bag. “This light, for instance.”

  “We do not accept passengers on the Yuutshee,” Mazirin said, looking Guy over with barely disguised distaste. “Especially not ones who have worked with this Machine in the past.”

  “Bloody hell,” Guy said under his breath, then pointed a stubby finger at Cyrus. “You still owe me a flight out of here.”

  Cyrus just stared back at him, unimpressed. “I said I'd help protect you. That doesn't include helping you flee all your problems.”

  “I'd feel pretty protected if I was away from the bloody Machine right now,” Guy muttered, casting surly eyes toward the floor.

  “Well...this is quite the interesting series of reversals,” Shirri said quietly. Every eye turned to her and she blushed just slightly. “Sorry. Was I not supposed to speak?”

  “You are most welcome to speak, Shirri,” Alaric said. “All are welcome to, in fact.”

  “Great,” Vaste said. “So, the gold—”

  “I will kill you wit
h my magic,” Curatio's voice boomed out of the lounge, magically enhanced to be much louder than the norm.

  “We'll talk about this later,” Vaste whispered.

  “He's an elf, he can still hear you,” Hiressam said under his breath.

  “Much later,” Vaste whispered, even lower.

  “He'll outlive you,” Vara said.

  “Much, much later, then,” Vaste said. “Perhaps in the grave.”

  “We seem to find ourselves in a worse position than before,” Alaric said, fidgeting with the helm he had locked beneath his arm. “The revolution we hoped to instigate this morning has been dealt a rather swift setback. One of our oldest enemies still lives—”

  “Gold,” Vaste whispered.

  “Death,” Curatio boomed.

  “—and is ruling this place,” Alaric went on, undeterred. “We have made more trouble for others,” he nodded to Mazirin.

  “You can say that again,” Guy said.

  “Gold,” Vaste whispered.

  “Not that,” Guy said.

  A little flash of red emanated from the lounge, and Vaste shut up, slapping a hand over his mouth.

  “Well, let's not make my mistake and get down about it,” Cyrus said, trying to shrug off that sense of gloom that had pervaded him so recently. “What can we do to rectify these problems? It certainly doesn't seem like storming the Citadel and killing Malpravus are immediate options.”

  Mazirin let out a small laugh, covering her mouth somewhat demurely as she did so.

  Cyrus frowned. “What's that about?”

  Guy answered. “Let me sum this up for those of you afflicted with the disorder of the mind that includes believing this black-suited chum bucket is the actual Cyrus Davidon: talking about overthrowing the Machine and the Lord Protector, whatever 'is name is? It's bloody madness. That's why she's laughing at you.”

  “My apologies,” Mazirin said, though there was a hint of humor in her eyes. “I did not mean to make light of your current predicament.”

  “Why not?” Birissa asked. “From the outside, it all seems rather mad, doesn't it?” She shrugged, then looked to Shirri.

  Shirri just blushed and looked down. “I don't...I mean...uh...”

  “Yes, it's madness,” Pamyra said, a little shrewdly, her deep brown eyes searching each of them in turn. “But it seems to me this group has already done one mad thing in destroying the Machine's headquarters last night. So perhaps a second mad thing is in order?”

  “Nice to find someone with some faith,” Alaric said smoothly. “Though I must agree, at first blush, our current endeavors seem quite mad. Therefore, we must first—”

  A gonging bell in the distance interrupted him. It was not the bells that told time for the city, clanging once upon the half-hour and several in a row to denote the hours. This was different; more frenzied and without the measure of time-keeping.

  “What is that?” Vara asked, cupping a hand to one ear, squinting as though it caused her pain.

  Hiressam seemed no better off. “It's the bells they ring to call out the citizenry for...” He paled, trailing off.

  “For what?” Alaric asked, watching the elf with growing interest.

  “Executions,” Guy answered, only slightly pale himself. “That's what they do to call us all out for a public execution.”

  Chapter 13

  “I hate that you have stirred me out of slumber for this,” Curatio said, grumbling within the depths of his cloak and cowl, as though the white cloth could keep enough sun from his eyes to allow him to sleep while walking. They were all moving at a blistering pace, heads down, disguised as best they could.

  “You heard the Machine traitor,” Alaric said, his own face buried in the shadows of his cowl. “There were no executions scheduled today. We have an incident at the Citadel and suddenly they ring the bells to signal an execution? This is no coincidence.” Alaric shook his head, the wind whipping down the avenue and blowing dust around them. “There is something afoot here. Some tyranny of the Machine or Malpravus or both, and I mean to discern its purpose.”

  “I don't understand why you couldn't just leave me back at your hideout,” Guy said, almost stumbling as Cyrus pushed him along. “There was food, a nice fire, no people to squeal me out to the Machine—”

  “Call me overprotective,” Cyrus said, boots clanking against the cobblestones as he strode with a purpose, giving Guy a leisurely shove every few feet, “but I don't trust you in our home without someone to watch you. I don't have much gold there, but what I do have I intend to keep.”

  “You should keep it beneath your dirty underclothes, then,” Vaste said. He was still hunched over, though he was walking entirely under his own power now. “I know that would dissuade me from collecting that which you owe me. Which is everything.”

  Curatio's low growl sounded almost like a dog.

  “Who could they possibly be executing?” Vara asked. “We're all here, after all.”

  “I don't know,” Alaric said, walking with a purpose. Ahead was a square; not the great square of Reikonos but a smaller one that sat in what had before been part of what Cyrus had known as the farm district. It seemed still a place of greenery, where the faint moos of cattle could be heard over the sound of the gathering crowds streaming toward it. “But knowing now who runs this city, I have no doubt it is an ill thing, and surely corrupt in some manner.”

  “Also, probably a trap,” Vaste said. “I'm guessing. None of you have any gold left with which to bet, but—” A small bolt of lightning hit him squarely in the arse and he yelped, jerking upright and almost shedding his cloak. “Okay, that was just evil, Curatio.”

  “Actually, that was me,” Vara said. “You may assume I, too, have had enough of your beggaring in this.”

  “No one wants to pay an honest wager anymore,” Vaste grumbled. “This time period is shit.”

  “You're such a classical fellow,” Birissa said, soothing him. She, too, was walking hunched over to somewhat disguise her height. It was not working particularly well, judging by the strange looks they were getting. “That never goes out of style with me.”

  “Did you notice I was being more assertive about what I'm due?” Vaste asked. “That's all down to you, my poppet. I'm going to be the change I wish to see in the world. The change, in this case, meaning the copper, silvers, gold—” Another stray bolt the size of a stick hit him and he jumped again. “Fine! Miserly heathens! I'll shut up about it. Are you happy now?”

  “Marginally more so if you hold to that,” Vara said. She strained her neck to look over the crowd. “What are we walking into here?”

  Guy answered, still sounding quite put out. “That's Vara Square. Biggest green in this part of town, used for grazing. Hence the mooing. Also where they do the executions, probably because—”

  “She gets a square named after her?” Vaste stood fully upright. “J'anda had the right idea, I guess. I should have made an effort at getting Cyrus to notice this beautiful plum of an arse. Then maybe we'd have Vaste Square, since apparently sleeping with the legendary Lord of Perdamun is what it takes to get people to know your damned name.”

  “That was never going to happen, my friend,” Cyrus said tightly. “Because if I was going to go that way, I would have been much more interested in J'anda, who had some qualities to recommend him other than a supposedly plum arse that's actually a bit overripe.”

  “I hate you all,” Vaste announced. “For your blindness. For your greedy refusal to pay what is owed. For—” Another small flash of lightning came as Vaste jumped and jerked, almost losing his cloak in the process. “And yes, for that. Would you kindly stop?”

  “It stops when you stop mentioning that gold we don't owe you,” Vara said.

  “This is a strange bunch,” Guy said.

  “They only get stranger the longer you know them,” Shirri muttered.

  “How long have you known them?” Guy asked.

  Shirri had to think about it for a moment. “Tw
o days, perhaps?”

  Guy sagged. “I need to get out of this town.”

  Vara bumped into Cyrus with her pauldron, drawing his attention. Her bright blue eyes stared at him, slightly narrowed. “Whatever happens here, do not go flying out of my sight again.”

  Cyrus blinked. “Do you think I meant to, last time?”

  “I have no idea what you intended,” Vara said. “Merely warning you not to be foolish. Or you shall regret it, later.”

  “Tall order, that,” Vaste interjected. “Taller than him, even.”

  Cyrus met her intense gaze with a frown. “Is there something we need to talk about?”

  Her cheeks were already a slightly heightened shade of blush. “No. I am merely asserting my wifely privilege to caution you against general idiocy that could result in harm to you. Or others. Except Vaste,” she hastened to add. “Harm against him seems acceptable at the moment.”

  The square ahead was pulsing with life. Crowds were flowing into it like water pouring into an ocean from an estuary. Four main avenues dumped into the open space, four roads leading into Vara square. In its center was a circle of open, green grass and land, several hundred feet across. Cows did indeed graze there, though it seemed they were being driven out even now, as the crowds grew, and the space grew scanty.

  Cyrus shot a glance at the buildings that framed in the square. Three and four stories tall each, they perfectly hemmed it in between the roads like great blocks placed to dam up crowd flows. He eyed the exits over the heads of the throng, apprehension rising by the minute. “Four ways in, four ways out, and this crowd is already massive with more coming every second.”

  “Think of the battle that could be had if these people were your army,” Vaste said.

  “These people are not an army,” Cyrus said. “If whatever happens here goes bad, these people are likely to be caught in the mess.” He shook his head. “This is no battlefield. This is the setting of an atrocity if anything goes wrong.”

  “It does look like an atrocity might be starting,” Vaste said. Like Cyrus, his height allowed him to see farther than the others. Cyrus followed his gaze and peered at the green in the middle of the square. Three or four good, tall trees with wide trunks provided shade for a structure right in the middle of it all—