Call of the Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  Now he popped up around the wagon, eyes upon the prize. The wagon crew, idiots all, were looking for him where he no longer was.

  He cured them of that notion, leaping up and striking down two of the four with opening attack. One caught the mace upon the head, the other his sword in their back. There were screams, of course, and he slashed to claim the third enemy—

  And the fourth fired a gun at him, unseen. It was not unheard, though.

  Or unfelt. For it struck him in the side of the neck as he brought his mace around and crushed the man's skull.

  A warm spurt raced out of his neck and Curatio felt curiously light of leg. He took a step back – a stumble, really–

  Saw the other gun had gone silent as well, a horseless carriage crashed into it, men pouring out toward a shop front behind it.

  Then he fell. Slammed into the ground. Breath left him.

  Curatio tasted blood, great gulps of it as it threatened to choke him. His fingers danced, he tried to remember the words, to draw upon the very power of life in his veins–

  He failed.

  Then again.

  By the third time he tried, he was so desperate for air that he forgot what he was doing mid-spell, his descent into the mindless of the air-starved complete. All higher thought forgotten, he settled into senseless fear, choking to death on his own blood.

  Chapter 25

  Cyrus

  There really were hundreds of the damned things coming at him, at Vara. The dark elf had fled, disappeared either in the rubble of the stage or behind some tree. It seemed unlikely he'd cast an invisibility spell, though anything was possible.

  The great rhythmic pulsing of the gatling guns firing had ceased in the distance, though why he did not know. Nor care, presently, given the overwhelming number of metallic machines coming for him.

  “What are these?” he shouted as the first struck at him, sparking as though it had a little lightning bolt contained within it.

  Vara was smashing at one that seemed to be casting a fire spell at her. It was flying, and she knocked it asunder with the flat side of her blade, then brought her weapon around and chewed halfway through another that crawled upon the earth like a spider. “I don't know, just kill them!”

  “That's your answer to everything,” Cyrus muttered, trying to gather his thoughts. He lifted a hand and conjured lightning, and it sparked between six of them.

  They didn't stop, though. Just rattled for a moment, blue lightning flashing between them. Then they came at him, fluttering on metallic wings or clicking along on metallic legs-

  “They're called clockworks,” the dark elf's voice seemed to come out of the air. Cyrus whirled, but he was not present. There was a tree a small distance away. Cyrus was torn; some countless number of mechanical monsters coming at him from one direction or a potentially very dangerous dark elf coming from the other. He could only face one threat...

  Then the clockworks swarmed around him, and suddenly facing the threats was not a viable proposition. “Dammit!” he swore, cleaving two with a swipe. “They come like the bloody scourge!”

  The dark elf chuckled. “Fought the scourge, have you?” Yes, he was behind the nearest tree.

  “I was there when the scourge first showed their ugly faces in the northern mountains of Luukessia,” Cyrus said, performing a whirling spin and clearing the immediate space around him. “I fought them in Pinrade. I fought them on a line north of Filsharron and south to Enrant Monge. I fought them in Caenalys, all over that damned land, and all the way to the bridge.”

  The dark elf's face appeared from behind the tree, strangely faded. “Did you, now?”

  Cyrus locked his gaze on the bastard. “Yes, I did.” He raised a finger and pointed it right at the dark elf's face. “Do you mean to try and ambush me right now, while I'm engaged with these fiends? Because if so, I see you coming.”

  The dark elf stared at him, then chuckled. “Sure you do.”

  Cyrus sparked a blast of lightning at him, and he ducked behind the tree. The lightning curved, sparking against the bark and blackening a hole where it struck. “Indeed, I do.”

  “How?!” the dark elf's shout was near-maniacal, pure disbelief.

  Something bumped against him, and Cyrus whirled.

  Vara's back was to his. “Sorry, just me,” she said, smashing another clockwork. “Figured it would be easier if we fought as a team rather than trying to take this legion of...clockmurks, did he say?”

  “'Works,' I think, and yes, he did,” Cyrus said. “Whoever 'he' is—”

  “My name is Baynvyn,” the dark elf shouted from behind the tree.

  “Okay, Rain-wind,” Cyrus said.

  “Bayn-vyn,” the dark elf shouted back, leaning on the syllables.

  “Whatever you say, champ,” Cyrus said, cleaving another clockwork, this one of the flying variety. It whirled off and struck two others, knocking them momentarily off course. “Any chance you see an end to these things?” This he asked of Vara.

  “There are a fixed number,” she said, voice straining with a swing. “But it is a large number, difficult to count. Swing long enough and I expect we'll finish them, though it will be a lengthy endeavor.”

  “Plus we've got Breakwind over there, malingering behind the tree to cause us problems once we've cleared these up,” Cyrus said.

  “BAYNVYN!”

  “As though I give a peppered turd what your name is,” Cyrus said. “Stop trying to kill me and I'll start trying to care how to say your stupid name, you classically blue stream of night squirts.”

  Baynvyn stuck his head out from behind the tree again, shadows of the boughs above shading him. “Admit it. I intimidate you.”

  Cyrus snorted. “If I were intimidated by you, shouldn't I be the one hiding behind a tree?”

  “I am surely the largest dark elf you've ever seen,” Baynvyn called back.

  “No. That honor goes to Grinnd Urnocht,” Cyrus said, battering five clockworks with a flat-bladed swing. Thankfully that chorus of gunfire in the distance had died down, though he could still hear the odd shot from a rifleman on the rooftops. “He's a lot bigger than you, little man. As am I.”

  “Still, he's not small for a dark elf,” Vara said, glancing over her shoulder. “I mean, height-wise, he's up there. You're right, nowhere near as large as that Grinnd fellow, but still. Easily top three for dark elves we've met.”

  “How do you know the name Grinnd Urnocht?” Baynvyn was out from behind the tree now, still shaded by its boughs as he stood beneath its reach.

  “Uh, because I watched him die to a god-enhanced shark creature in the Realm of Storms,” Cyrus said.

  “Lies,” Baynvyn hissed.

  “No, it's not a lie,” Cyrus said, smashing yet another of the endless clockworks, this one spitting fire at him. It raked his armor ineffectually with the flame, making him sweat all the more than his exertions already were. “I watched the big man throw himself into the jaws of that thing while shouting how he was going out like his friend; figured the least I could do is remember his name—”

  Baynvyn was at him in an instant, driving to Cyrus faster than he could believe possible. He had a blade in one hand, a dagger in the other, and blades hacking furiously–

  Too fast–

  Way too fast–

  Cyrus turned his attacks aside through skill and practice, but the fury of the dark elf's assault did not abate. A clockwork hissed and zapped them both, but Baynvyn only shouted, “Piña! Cease!” and continued his unrelenting attack on Cyrus.

  The blades came at Cyrus so fast that there was no doubt in his mind that one of them was a godly weapon. As they slipped from beneath the eaves of the tree, the shadows that had covered Baynvyn in the fight did not disappear under the cloudy grey sky–

  Cyrus blinked as Baynvyn wound up and struck again. Cyrus turned his sword aside with a gauntlet, easily – not a godly weapon, then turned his attention to the dagger, striking it against Rodanthar's sword guard and pu
shing down, locking it against his body as he stared at the weapon, stuck in place.

  “Epalette,” Cyrus said, looking up to find Baynvyn's shadowed eyes wide in surprise. “The Edge of Atonement. Tell me something, Feign-Win – did you kill Aisling Nightwind to get this weapon? Or–”

  Baynvyn erupted, dragging the dagger up so quickly that Cyrus was forced to throw himself backward lest his armor be ripped in half by the blade. And, presumably, his skin beneath it. He rolled backward and came up, Baynvyn staring at him with intense fury. He had ripped away those dark goggles that shrouded his eyes and–

  Cyrus stared into his eyes.

  They were blue.

  Not the purple or reds of the typical dark elf.

  Blue.

  Like–

  “Who are you?” Cyrus asked, feeling a cold tingle across his skin. It was tough to tell with the haze shadows of Epalette shrouding the man, but his skin looked a shade lighter than your average dark elf–

  And his height was, indeed, greater, his shoulders wider, more muscled than a typical dark elf–

  “I am Baynvyn Davidon,” the dark elf said, cold fury pouring off of him, as he rose to his full height, which was just a head or two less than Cyrus's own. “Sole owner of my family name.” He raised Epalette at Cyrus, pointing the blade at him. “And for the dishonor you do, imposter...your head will be mine.”

  Cyrus just stood there in the quiet, clockworks still whirling around him, but a strange silence between his ears now that the guns had fallen silent.

  But it was broken by a strangled elven curse that made him cringe. “You daft bastard,” Vara said, and she sounded so very displeased, “look what your bloody dark elven sexual adventurism did.”

  Chapter 26

  Vaste

  “You seem to be wearing out, big fellow,” Vaste called, slapping the last of the Machine thugs in the face and then trying to flip the blood off of Letum by waving it. It spattered on the cobblestones, not the first to do so today, probably not the last, either, given the amount of fighting going on around the square. Vaste could see a few civilians clashing with city guards here and there, but mostly, the battlefield had been ceded to the Machine and Sanctuary. And, oh, how they were all going 'round and 'round. “I think she's going to get the better of you.”

  Qualleron smashed through the side wall of the butcher shop as effortlessly as Vaste could cut through pie. Birissa was all over him, giving him scarcely an inch to breathe as she pursued relentlessly, pieces of the walls falling down and coating her in white plaster dust. Qualleron threw himself out onto the street in a tucking roll, surprisingly graceful for such a large creature.

  Also, he came up about five feet from Vaste. With his sword brandished.

  “She seems to be getting close,” Qualleron said in that precise sort of way he had. He loomed over Vaste, and the healer found himself with a suddenly dry mouth and his mind gone blank. “I don't believe she'll stop unless I give her a good reason. Don't you agree?”

  “Uhmm...no?” Vaste felt his eyes widen as Qualleron swung his weapon high, and it began to descend like a shadow crossing the sun over Vaste's face.

  Chapter 27

  Guy

  “What's going on down there?” Guy asked. Hiressam was slowly – painstakingly slowly – picking off the marksmen across the square now. They didn't see it coming any more than the blokes on the opposite roof did, and now all that lot were dead or dying, it was almost quiet on this side of the square. The gatling fire had died as well.

  Which brought Guy's attention to where it was, on the wagons below. The older elf had fallen to a shot. Guy had seen it. Didn't feel much need to call it out to Hiressam, because what was the elf going to do about it? Leap down, he'd be in as big a mess as any of the lads he'd sent over the edge.

  But when the car came through and smashed the other wagon, knocking that knight fellow askew, well. That got a bit interesting. Especially when the Machine boys started pouring out the back with their guns. Guy tucked himself away properly back from the ledge of the building, looking down carefully before calling out that tidbit to the elf. A blast of fire hit at the far end of the square, blooming huge. Seemed someone was having a spot of fun.

  Which was more than Guy could say of that knight bloke. He looked like he was about to get a mess of trouble from...

  Was that Coordinator Stiehle?

  Hiressam pivoted at Guy's words, drawing a bead right on the trouble. Difficulty was, near as Guy could tell, Stiehle had stepped into the wreckage of the shop front there, inside and out of view up to his ankles. If Hiressam tried to shoot at one of those, he'd have a hell of a time hitting it.

  There were a few exposed Machine men, though, rifles on the shoulders of all of them. Hiressam didn't waste much time picking a target; he fired within a second or two, and a black coat fell down, blood gushing out of him as he toppled.

  Guy threw himself flat against the roof as the fire was returned. Predictable. He belly-crawled farther away. After all, he didn't much care for putting his life on the line one inch farther than he had to in order to survive this. Let Hiressam shoot back until he couldn't, then maybe Guy would skedaddle and slip away unnoticed. That beat the hell out of seeing this through to the bloody end because...

  Well, if it turned out like everyone else who'd ever stood up to the Machine? It was going to be a bloody end. And Guy wanted to survive a lot more than he wanted to be involved in any of that.

  Chapter 28

  Alaric

  Blood was trickling down Alaric's cheek as the thunder of a gunshot came from above, then was answered in kind by the Machine thugs that circled him where he lay in the store front. He shifted and glass tinkled and crunched beneath his shoulders.

  Coordinator Stiehle looked down on him, peering out from beneath that shock of yellowed hair, steely eyes beneath it reflecting the man's twisted smile. “Your friends are not entirely dead, I see.”

  “No, and you'll have a hell of time trying to make that stick,” Alaric said. He whispered a healing spell sublingually, in his head, and felt the smallest trace better. Not much, though. Certainly not enough to vault to his feet without Aterum at hand. Much as he hated to admit it, the ravages of age – and years at the hands of Bellarum's torturer – had taken a terrible toll on him. “Perhaps you were not apprised of this in their haste to move you against us, but my friends and I have had some little experience in battle.”

  “Indeed,” Stiehle said, and his hand glowed for a moment, a ripping sensation like a sword thrust into Alaric's chest, spearing him. His breath left him and pain intruded like a violent stab, leaving him gasping for breath when it finally receded, in what felt like years later but had perhaps only been moments. “I am well apprised of who you are, Alaric Garaunt. As well as who your friends are.” Stiehle's cruel smile appeared once more. “In fact, I requested this assignment. You all have such experience, such...treasures.” He kicked Alaric's armor, testing it. “To the victor will go your spoils, you see? And I mean to be victorious with you. The others here? Mercenaries. But I—” He leaned down, pulling Alaric's helm from his head and looking into its depths like it held some great secrets. “I am of the Machine. And a loyal servant of Lord Malpravus.”

  “You know his true name, then,” Alaric said. He did not feel able to move at present, though he had a few ideas brewing about dealing with Stiehle when the opportunity presented itself. He was still rallying himself after that spell, though. Definitely of the dark knight branch of magic. “You know what he truly is.”

  “I have known for a long time who and what he is,” Stiehle said. “It is why I sought him out to learn from.” Stiehle clenched a fist again and Alaric steeled himself, preparing to go insubstantial. He felt the tug of the ether—

  And then was ripped back, the spell shredding his chest as surely as a thousand blades. Alaric lost his breath, lost his lungs, his chest, his everything as the pain, ancestors, the pain—

  Staccato bursts of gunf
ire intruded on Alaric's consciousness as he came back from the abyss. Stiehle was backpedaling, Alaric's helm in his hand, Machine guards falling around him like puppets with their strings cut.

  A six-barreled gun poured shots into the store front, and Stiehle disappeared with a wink and a wave of his hand as a bullet flew through the twinkle of blue light that was his return spell.

  Alaric just lay there like a gored pig, unable to move. He was aware, dimly, that the damnable Stiehle had taken his helm when he'd fled.

  “I don't know why I did that,” Mazirin said, stepping over the corpse of a Machine thug as she crossed into his view. Her braided hair was all asunder, and she surveyed her handiwork of dead thugs with only slightly less disgust than if she'd had dung on her boot, he suspected.

  “Whatever your reason,” Alaric wheezed, for squeezing any syllable out of his aching chest hurt like a demon of old was inflaming him from within, “I thank you nonetheless.”

  Mazirin paused over him, breaking apart her pistol and then refilling it as she stood there. “Damn your thanks. You are accruing a debt so large as to defy repayment in a thousand lifetimes, Alaric Garaunt.”

  He nodded, slowly, tried a healing spell again. It helped a little. “I will do my best to make sure that you aren't left wanting in this regard.”

  “Don't make me a promise you can't keep,” she said, swooping down to give him a hand. She helped him to his feet, then turned her back, watching the square for trouble and apparently with nothing more to say.

  Chapter 29

  Cyrus

  “I took this contract to seek you, imposter,” Baynvyn spat at Cyrus across the small space between them. “And here you are. yet another man playing at pretending to be my father.”